Chapter 2 Flint
TWO
FLINT
I'm dressed for speed and flexibility—lightweight hiking boots broken in years ago, cargo pants with reinforced knees, a moisture-wicking shirt under a tactical vest that carries extra magazines and supplies.
The paracord bracelet catches my eye as I adjust my pack straps, and I run my thumb over it once before forcing my attention back to the mission.
The helicopter descends toward a clearing near the Alameda Trailhead, and I can see a small parking area with a handful of vehicles below.
One of them will be hers—the file said a dark green Jeep Wrangler, seven years old, well-maintained.
The kind of vehicle that says she values reliability over flash.
We touch down with barely a bump, and I'm out the door before the skids fully settle, pack on my shoulders, and head down against the rotor wash.
The pilot gives me a thumbs-up through the windscreen, and then the helicopter is lifting away, leaving me in sudden silence broken only by wind through pine trees and the distant call of a hawk.
The parking area is deserted except for the vehicles. I find the Jeep easily—it's the only one that looks like it's been here for days, with a fine layer of dust coating the windshield and pine needles accumulated on the hood.
I peer through the windows without touching anything.
The interior is clean and organized, and a first-aid kit is visible in the back seat, along with a climbing rope and a duffel bag.
Nothing screams distress or hurried departure.
She planned this trip, packed deliberately, and walked into the wilderness with purpose.
I head to the trailhead kiosk where hikers are supposed to sign in, but there's no log entry from her.
Not surprising—she knows this area too well to bother with official channels, and if she wanted privacy, advertising her route would defeat the purpose.
I study the trail map posted behind scratched plexiglass, noting the main arteries that branch into smaller paths, the elevation markers, and the water sources.
If I were her, wanting solitude and processing space, where would I go?
High.
Away from the popular trails. Somewhere with good sight lines and access to water. Defensible if she's thinking tactically, which her training suggests she would be, even subconsciously.
I find the ranger station a quarter mile down the access road, a small wooden building with solar panels on the roof and a weather-beaten sign.
A ranger in his fifties looks up from his desk when I walk in, taking in my appearance with the practiced assessment of someone who deals with all kinds coming through these mountains.
"Help you?" His voice is friendly but cautious.
"I'm looking for someone who might have come through here about eight, nine days ago." I pull out my phone and show him Caro's photo, the one from her guide company website. "Carolina Sutton. She's a wilderness guide, experienced, would have been going solo."
His expression shifts to recognition. "Yeah, I know Caro. Haven't seen her this trip, but she comes through a few times a year. Keeps to herself mostly." His eyes narrow slightly. "She in some kind of trouble?"
"She's needed for an emergency consultation," I say, which is true enough. "Time-sensitive. Her company said she went into the backcountry, but didn't specify where. Any idea where she might head?"
He chews his lip, weighing how much to tell me. "You a friend of hers?"
"No. But she's not in trouble—she's the solution to someone else's trouble. I just need to find her quickly." I meet his eyes, letting him see I'm serious. "People's lives depend on it."
Something in my tone convinces him. He moves to a large topographical map on the wall, studying it for a moment before tapping a section of high country northeast of our location.
"If she wanted real solitude, she'd head up here. Good water from snowmelt, even this time of year, far away from the main trails, plenty of terrain variety. She mentioned once that she likes the ridge systems up there—you can see for miles, watch the sunrise and sunset from the same spot."
I commit the area to memory, noting the elevations and approaches. "How long to get up there?"
"For most people? Ten, twelve hours with a full pack. For Caro?" He shrugs. "She'd do it in eight. And that's assuming she took the standard route. She knows shortcuts most folks don't."
I thank him and head back to the trailhead, using the tablet to pull up detailed topographical maps of the region he indicated.
The terrain is steep, rising from around three thousand feet here to over six thousand in the high country.
I plot the most likely approach routes, taking into account water sources and camping locations.
She's been out here nine days. That's long enough to settle in, to establish patterns.
If I can find her first camp, I can track her movement from there.
I check my watch. The sun is high and hot, and I've got maybe eight hours of good daylight left. I need to move fast but not recklessly. Missing signs because I'm hurrying would cost me more time than I'd save.
I shoulder my pack and start up the trail at a ground-eating pace that I can maintain for hours.
The path is well-worn at first, wide enough for two people, but within a mile it narrows and steepens.
I push through manzanita and oak, watching for anything that doesn't belong—a broken branch, a boot print, a disturbance in the natural pattern of the forest. The temperature drops as I gain elevation, and the vegetation shifts to more pine and fir, the air sharp with resin and the loamy smell of decomposing needles.
After two hours, I find the first sign. A boot print in soft dirt near a creek crossing, partial but clear enough.
Women's size eight or nine, tread pattern from a high-quality hiking boot.
The edges are softened by weather, days old.
I kneel beside it, examining the depth and angle.
She crossed here heading northeast, moving with confidence. No hesitation in the stride length.
I follow the creek upstream, knowing water is the magnet that draws everything in the wilderness.
Another hour and I find her first camp in a small clearing sheltered by granite boulders and overlooking a narrow valley.
The site is clean—she packed out everything she brought in—but the signs are there for someone who knows how to look.
Disturbed pine needles where her tent was pitched, a ring of stones around a long-cold fire pit, a spot where she clearly sat for long periods based on the compressed earth and the way the grass hasn't fully rebounded.
I circle the camp slowly, reading the story it tells.
She stayed here at least two nights, maybe three.
Did minimal cooking, kept the fire small and controlled.
There's a spot where she must have sat watching the sunset, the western view open and spectacular from this vantage.
I can picture her there, knees drawn up, processing whatever demons drove her into these mountains.
But she didn't stay. Something made her move deeper, higher, farther from the world.
I find the direction she left, heading northeast again toward even more remote country.
The trail she followed—if you can call it a trail—is barely visible, more of a game path than anything humans made. She's not just hiking. She's hiding.
That realization shifts something in my chest. I scan the surrounding terrain more carefully, looking for signs of anyone else passing through.
The ranger mentioned she comes here regularly.
If Greer or his people know her patterns, they could have found her vehicle the same way I did. They could be ahead of me right now.
I pick up my pace, following her track through increasingly rugged country. She's good—better than good.
Twice, I lose the trail and have to backtrack, casting in widening circles until I find the next sign.
A scuff mark on a rock face where she climbed.
A bent twig that's trying to spring back but hasn't quite.
She's covering her tracks without making it obvious, the kind of tradecraft that comes from military training and paranoia earned the hard way.
The sun is sinking toward the western ridges when I find evidence that confirms my suspicion.
Boot prints that aren't hers, fresher than her trail, moving parallel to her direction.
Men's size eleven, two different individuals based on the tread patterns.
They're tracking her, and they're twelve hours behind where she is now, but only a few hours ahead of me.
My hand drops to my Glock, thumb checking the retention strap. The mission just shifted from search and rescue to something more complicated. I need to find her before they do, and I need to do it without tipping them off that I'm here.
I move faster, taking calculated risks to make up time.
The terrain is steep and unforgiving, loose scree that wants to slide underfoot, granite faces that require scrambling, dense patches of manzanita that tear at clothing and skin.
My legs burn with the sustained effort, and sweat soaks through my shirt despite the cooling air.
The paracord bracelet chafes against my wrist where my pack strap rubs it, a constant reminder of what failure costs.
Not this time. Not her.
The sun is still high but beginning its descent toward the western ridges, the light turning golden when I crest a ridge.
I pull out binoculars and scan carefully, looking for movement, and finally catch a glimpse of her. She's sitting on a rock outcropping, silhouetted against the dying light, and even from this distance, I can see the weapon held in lap. She's watching the approaches, alert despite days of solitude.
Professional. Capable. Exactly what her file suggested she'd be.
I adjust the binoculars, bringing her into sharper focus, and something in my chest tightens.
Even from this distance, something is compelling about the way she holds herself—spine straight, shoulders back. I track the line of her throat, the way her braid falls over one shoulder.
This is a problem.
I'm supposed to be assessing her as a tactical asset —a subject who needs extraction —not noticing the graceful curve of her neck or the way the fading light turns her profile into something almost artistic.
I lower the binoculars and scrub a hand over my face, forcing myself to refocus.
Mission first. Always mission first. The unwanted awareness of her as a woman—as someone attractive—is just biology, adrenaline, the isolation of being alone in the wilderness. It doesn't mean anything. It won't affect my performance.
I raise the binoculars again, and immediately my eyes find her. Yeah. This might be more complicated than I anticipated.
I keep thinking about the way she held herself, rifle across her lap, watching the approaches with the kind of alertness that comes from training and experience. Professional, capable, and completely unaware of being observed.
I wonder what she's thinking right now, alone in her bivvy. Whether she's processing the anniversary that drove her out here, or if she's finally finding some peace. Whether she's as ready to face what's waiting below as she needs to be.
The paracord bracelet on my wrist catches moonlight, and I run my thumb over it absently.
Tomorrow I'll walk into her camp and ask her to face her worst nightmare.
Ask her to trust me—a stranger—to keep her alive while she disarms devices designed specifically to kill her.
It's a lot to ask of anyone, let alone someone who's spent nine days in isolation trying to escape her demons.
But watching her earlier, seeing the competence and strength in every movement, I think she can handle it. More than that—I think she needs to handle it. Needs to prove to herself that she's more than her failures, more than her guilt.
I just have to make sure she survives long enough to realize it.
My mind drifts, unbidden, to the photo in her file.
Those hazel eyes, that strong jaw, the confidence in her expression.
She's even more compelling in person—real and three-dimensional in a way no photograph can capture.
The way she moves, the intelligence behind her eyes when she assessed the threat I represented, the controlled tension in her body language that speaks to someone who's always ready, always aware.
I shake my head, annoyed at myself. This is tactical assessment, nothing more. Doesn't matter that she's attractive or that something about her presence has been pulling at me since I first saw her through the binoculars.
I’m here on a mission to extract her, keep her safe, until she can do her job. Simple. Professional.
I consider my approach. She'll hear me coming, and I'll have a weapon pointed at me before I can explain. Better to come in with my hands visible and hope she's willing to listen before she shoots.
I'll use her name, identify Guardian HRS, and show her credentials before I get too close. The photo of Greer and the device schematics should be enough to get her attention, and then I have to convince her that people need her more than she needs this isolation.
Simple.
Except nothing about this is simple. She's out here because she couldn't face what her design did in the wrong hands the first time. Now I'm going to ask her to face it again, under even higher stakes, with even less time to prepare.
I touch the bracelet on my wrist, feeling the familiar texture of the weave.
I know what it's like to carry guilt that won't let go.
I know what it's like to question every decision you've ever made because one of them got someone killed.
And I know what it's like when the world demands you step back into the fire anyway because you're the only one who can.