A few minutes later, James arrived at the Bel-Air Country Club.
The towering hedges, pristine walls, and tastefully understated signage marked it as no ordinary place. The very air around the entrance felt polished.
He drove up to the gate and saw a security guard already walking toward his window.
James rolled the window down as he brought the vehicle to a smooth stop.
"Good afternoon, sir. This is a private club. May I ask your name and who you're here to see?" the guard asked, his tone polite but firm, and his professional posture told James that he means business.
"James Zolomon. I have a 2 PM appointment with Mr. Donovan," James replied coolly, maintaining eye contact.
The guard gave a curt nod and glanced down at a tablet in his hand, scrolling briefly.
"Yes, Mr. Zolomon. You're cleared," he said after a second. "Head straight down the drive, the south practice range is at the far end past the clubhouse. Enjoy your visit."
