Chapter 4 Carolina
FOUR
CAROLINA
He moves forward carefully, reaching into his pack and pulling out a tablet wrapped in a protective case.
When he's fifteen feet away, I stop him again, and he sets it on a flat rock before backing off.
I move forward to collect it, hyperaware of his presence—the way he holds himself, the economy of movement, the fact that he's armed but hasn't touched his weapon once since showing his hands empty.
Professional. Respectful.
But also... I notice details I shouldn't. The breadth of his shoulders under the tactical shirt, the strong lines of his face, the way his eyes track me without being aggressive about it.
I shake off the awareness and focus on the tablet. He's already unlocked it, pulled up files. I scroll through quickly, absorbing information the way I was trained to—fast, thorough, no emotional attachment to what I'm reading.
There are crime scene photos of Device One at the water treatment facility. My breath catches when I see it. That's my design, no question. The housing, the trigger mechanism, and the redundancy protocols I built in to make it challenging but not impossible for advanced students to disarm.
But there are modifications—additional components I don't recognize, bypass systems that look like they're designed to kill anyone using my standard teaching methods.
He's weaponized my training tool. Made it into something that would murder the very people I taught to stay alive.
I scroll to the photos of Device Two, the one that detonated. The aftermath is ugly—twisted metal, scorched earth, and structural damage to the electrical substation. The report says minimal casualties, but minimal doesn't mean none.
Someone died because Greer used my design to kill them.
"There's more," Morrison says quietly. He moved closer without me noticing, standing ten feet away now. "The interrogation transcripts."
He closes the distance to maybe six feet, and I'm suddenly aware of the space between us—or the lack of it. He's taller than I realized, at least eight, maybe ten, inches on me, and the morning sun backlights him, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders.
I catch his scent—sweat and pine and something clean, masculine, that cuts through the mountain air.
When he leans in to point at something on the tablet screen, his shoulder nearly brushes mine, and I feel the heat radiating off him. For a man who just hiked deep into the wilderness to find me, he smells surprisingly good, and I'm annoyed at myself for noticing.
"Here," he says, tapping the screen, and his voice is lower, rougher than before.
Close enough that I feel the vibration of it.
I force myself to focus on the words, not on the man standing so close I could reach out and touch him. Not on the way my body wants to lean into that warmth, that solid presence.
This is tactical information. Lives at stake. Not the time to be distracted by broad shoulders and steady gray eyes.
But my hands aren't entirely steady when I take the tablet from him, and when our fingers brush in the exchange, the contact sends an unexpected jolt through me that has nothing to do with static electricity.
I pull up the file and start reading. Greer's words jump off the screen, smug and cryptic. "The Girl Scout always comes prepared, but did she prepare for this?"
Girl Scout.
That was his nickname for me back at Fort Lee, said with just enough edge to make it an insult disguised as affection. I was always prepared, always had backup plans, always thought three steps ahead. He resented it even as he pretended to admire it.
"Where Girl Scouts earn their badges," I read aloud from another line.
My mind immediately supplies context—Camp Cielo Azul, a wilderness education center in the Los Padres foothills where I used to volunteer teaching orienteering and wilderness survival to youth groups.
I spent dozens of weekends there, and Greer knew about it because he made jokes about me wasting my time with kids when I could be doing something more important.
"You recognize the reference," Morrison says. It's not a question.
"Yeah." My voice is rough. "He's pointing to a location. A place he knows I'd identify." I look up from the tablet to meet his eyes. "This is targeted. Specifically at me. He wants me to come, wants me to try to disarm his devices, probably wants me to fail so he can prove I was always dangerous."
"Or he wants you dead." Morrison's expression is grim. "FBI thinks he might have a partner still active. Someone is placing devices while he's in custody. Someone who might have orders to take you out if you show up."
The morning suddenly feels colder, despite the sun. I hand the tablet back to him, and our fingers brush in the exchange—rough calluses, warm skin, the brief contact sending an unexpected jolt of awareness through me. I pull back quickly, annoyed at myself. Not the time. Not remotely the time.
"How did you find me?" I ask, buying myself a moment to think.
"Tracked you. Your company said you were out here somewhere. I started at the trailhead where your Jeep's parked, followed your trail." He slides the tablet back into his pack. "You're good, but I'm better at tracking than most people are at hiding."
There's no arrogance in the statement, just fact. And he's right—I didn't expect to be found. Didn't think anyone would be looking. "Anyone else looking for me?"
His jaw tightens. "Maybe. I found boot prints yesterday that weren't yours and weren't mine. Two people, moving parallel to your route. Could be hikers. Could be something else."
The implications settle cold in my stomach. If Greer told his partner where I might be, they could have been searching while I was processing anniversary guilt up here in the wilderness. They could be close right now.
I look around at my camp, at the peace I've tried to carve out of solitude and distance.
Nine days isn't enough.
Will never be enough.
Because the past doesn't stay buried just because you run from it—it follows you, finds you, demands payment in blood and guilt and the one thing you swore you'd never do again.
But if I don't go, people die. Children, maybe, if Device Three is where I think it is. Innocent people who had nothing to do with my failure three years ago are now caught in the blast radius of Greer’s revenge.
I meet Morrison's eyes. He's watching me, patient but urgent, and there's something in his expression that makes me think he understands the weight of this decision.
The paracord bracelet on his wrist catches the light, and I wonder what promise or failure he's carrying, what ghost drives him the way Noah's drives me.
"How long do I have?" My voice is steadier than I feel.
"Twelve hours. Maybe less." He pauses. "I have a helicopter waiting at the trailhead. We can be at Guardian HQ in two hours, the FBI briefing room an hour after that."
Twelve hours to stop a device I designed from killing people, using knowledge that got someone killed three years ago. Twelve hours to face Marcus Greer's revenge and prove that I'm not the monster he wants me to be—or that I am.
I think of Noah, young and eager and dead, because I thought I could make training realistic without making it lethal. I think of the unknown people who will die if Device Three detonates, their families, their futures erased because I don't have the courage to face my past.
"I need five minutes to break camp." I move toward my bivvy sack, already making decisions about what to pack, what to leave. "We'll move fast getting down. If there are people looking for me, I'd rather not make it easy for them."
Before I can move away, his hand catches my wrist—not restraining, just... connecting. The touch stops me mid-step.
When I look up, his eyes are on mine, storm-gray and intense, and for a breath the mountain falls away. There's heat there, unmistakable, and something else—recognition, maybe, like he's seeing past my walls to the woman underneath.
I should pull away. Should maintain distance, professionalism, all the walls I've built.
But I don't.
For three heartbeats, we stand there, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, can see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes, can feel my pulse kick up in response to whatever this reaction might be.
Then he releases me, stepping back, and the mountain rushes back in around us—cold air, pine scent, the mission waiting below.
"Five minutes," he says, voice rougher than before. "Agreed." Morrison unslings his pack and pulls out a radio. "I'll call for the helicopter, have them ready to go the second we hit the trailhead."
I roll up the bivvy, everything finding its place in my pack through muscle memory that doesn't need conscious thought.
Freeze-dried food, water filtration system, first aid kit, rope, knife, fire starter, and spare clothing.
The Sig goes into a holster that clips to my pack's hip belt for easy access.
Everything else gets left—the fire ring, the memories, the attempt at peace that failed before it started.
Morrison is talking quietly into his radio, confirming extraction and updating someone named CJ on the situation. I catch fragments: "Subject located... cooperative... possible hostile surveillance... ETA two hours."
Subject. That's me.
Back in the world where I'm not Caro, who guides hikers through beautiful country, but Carolina Sutton, who designs devices that kill and might be able to stop someone from doing it again.
I shoulder my pack, the weight familiar and grounding.
Morrison ends his call and turns to me, and for a moment we just look at each other.
Two people shaped by violence and carrying ghosts, about to walk into more violence together.
There's an understanding in his eyes that I wasn't expecting, something that says he knows the cost of what he's asking and respects that I'm paying it anyway.
"Ready?" he asks.
No. I'll never be ready. But being ready doesn't matter when the clock is ticking.
"Yeah." I do a final scan of the camp, making sure I haven't left anything that matters. The raven is back in its tree, watching us with those intelligent eyes. "Let's move. Stay sharp—if Greer knows where I go, his people might have found my camp the same way you did."
Morrison's expression sharpens, hand dropping casually closer to his weapon. "You take point. You know this terrain better than I do. I'll watch our six."
It's the right call, trusting my expertise in my domain, and I respect him for making it without ego.
I start down the trail at a pace that's fast but sustainable, picking the route that gives us cover and good sight lines.
Behind me, Morrison moves quietly for someone his size, and I can feel his presence like a physical thing—protective without being oppressive, alert without radiating paranoia.
The sun climbs higher as we descend, heat building despite the elevation.
Sweat soaks into my shirt, and my legs settle into the rhythm of long-distance hiking that I can maintain for hours.
My mind tries to wander toward what's waiting at the bottom of this mountain—FBI briefings, device schematics, Greer's smug face in some interrogation room—but I force it back to the present.
Watch the trail. Check the surroundings. Stay alive long enough to deal with the rest.
We're maybe forty minutes into the descent when Morrison's voice comes low from behind me. "Stop."
I freeze mid-step, hand moving toward the Sig. "What?"
"Broken branch at ten o'clock. Fresh. Not from wildlife." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Someone came through here recently. Moving fast."
I see it now—the branch dangling by threads of bark, the white wood of the break still pale and moist. He's right. That's hours old, maybe less. My pulse kicks up a notch.
"Could be hikers," I say, but I don't believe it.
"Could be." Morrison moves up beside me, scanning the terrain ahead. "Let's assume it's not. Different route down?"
I consider the options, mapping the terrain in my head. "There's a steeper path to the east. More exposure, harder going, but it comes out near the ranger station instead of the main trailhead."
"Your call."
I look at him, this Guardian operative who tracked me through miles of wilderness and is now deferring to my judgment about our escape route.
There's trust in that, and competence, and something else that makes my chest feel tight.
When was the last time someone looked at me like I was capable instead of broken?
"East path," I decide. "If they're watching the main trail, we'll bypass them."
We cut through dense manzanita that tears at our clothes and skin, dropping into a ravine that requires careful footing.
Morrison stays close, moving with the kind of awareness that says he's done this before in worse places.
Once I lose my footing on loose scree, his hand shoots out to steady me, fingers firm around my upper arm.
The touch lasts barely a second, but I feel the warmth of it, the strength, and then it's gone.
The ravine narrows ahead, water-smoothed rock slick with moisture. I test the first foothold, but my boot slips. Before I can catch myself, Flint's there—hands on my waist, steadying me, his chest against my back.
"Easy," he murmurs, voice low near my ear. "Let me help."
His hands don't leave as I find purchase, fingers splayed across my hips, thumbs pressing just above my belt. The touch is professional—practical—but heat blooms where he's holding me anyway, spreading through my body in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.
I make it across, but when I turn back, his eyes are dark with something that isn't tactical awareness.
Our hands meet as he crosses—his reaching, mine extended to help—and our fingers thread together naturally, palm to palm, calluses matching.
The contact holds longer than necessary. Long enough that I feel his pulse against mine, strong and steady. Long enough that the air between us thickens with awareness we're both pretending not to feel.
"Thanks," I manage.
"Anytime." His thumb brushes across my knuckles once before he releases me. "That's what Guardians do."
The words sound like a promise, and something in my chest loosens fractionally. Maybe I'm not alone in this after all. Maybe walking back into my nightmare doesn't mean walking back into it by myself.
We push on, and the mountain slowly releases us toward the world below, where explosive devices tick down to detonation and Marcus Greer waits to see if I'm brave enough or stupid enough to try stopping them.
I don't know which I am. But I'm about to find out.