Chapter 5 Flint
FIVE
FLINT
The manzanita tears at my clothes as we push through the dense scrub, branches scratching across my face and arms with enough force to draw blood.
Carolina moves ahead of me with the confidence of someone who knows this terrain intimately, picking paths that barely exist, reading the landscape in ways that take years to learn.
I keep my focus split between following her and watching our six, hand never far from my Glock, every sense tuned to the possibility of contact.
The fresh break we spotted twenty minutes ago wasn't an accident. Someone came through here recently, moving fast enough to be careless about leaving a sign of their passage behind.
They're either inexperienced or they don't care about being tracked. Neither option is good. Inexperienced means unpredictable, and not caring means confident they won't be caught—or that catching them won't matter because they'll have accomplished their mission first.
We drop into a steep ravine where water has carved a channel through limestone and granite, the walls rising fifteen feet on either side. Carolina navigates it with the ease of a mountain goat, boots finding purchase on wet rock that looks impossible to climb.
I follow more carefully, testing each hold before committing my weight.
The pack on my shoulders shifts as I move, and the paracord bracelet catches on a jutting rock, yanking hard enough to dig into my wrist. I free it without stopping, the familiar bite of pain centering me the way it always does.
Promises I didn't keep. People I failed to save. The bracelet reminds me every day that hesitation kills, that being too late is the same as being wrong, and that I can't afford either one.
Carolina reaches the top of the ravine and extends a hand down to help me up the last few feet.
I take it, her grip strong and calloused, and for a moment we're close enough that I can smell the sweat and pine sap on her skin, see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.
Then she's moving again, releasing my hand and turning to scan the terrain ahead.
"Ranger station is another hour at this pace," she says quietly. "Trail opens up in about ten minutes—we'll be more exposed, but we can move faster."
I check my watch. We've been moving for fifty minutes since breaking her camp, which puts us at roughly eleven hours until Device Three's estimated detonation.
Assuming the estimate is accurate, which it might not be.
Greer could have lied about the timing just to add pressure, or the device could be on a variable timer that adapts based on environmental factors.
Carolina would know, but I'm not going to ask her right now when I need her focused on survival.
"How exposed?" I ask.
"Open slope, scattered oak and pine. Good sight lines in both directions." She meets my eyes. "If someone's watching for us, they'll see us coming."
"Can we avoid it?"
"Not without adding another hour." She pauses. "Your call."
I run the tactical calculation quickly. Another hour means more time for whoever left that broken branch to position themselves or to find Carolina’s vehicle and set up an ambush at the extraction point.
"We move fast through the open ground," I decide. "Spread out, staggered positions, use what cover there is. If we take fire, you get to ground, and I'll suppress. Don't try to be a hero—that's my job."
Her jaw tightens. "I can handle myself."
"I know you can. But I'm better equipped and trained for direct action, and Guardian HRS pays me to take bullets so people like you can do the jobs only you can do." I soften my tone slightly. "I need you alive and functional at that device. That means I take the risks out here."
She looks like she wants to argue, but pragmatism wins. "Fine. But if you get killed being noble, I'm going to be really annoyed."
"Noted." I gesture ahead. "Lead on."
We emerge from the ravine into rolling terrain covered in dry grass and scattered trees. The sun is climbing toward midday, heat building despite the elevation, and the vegetation has that parched quality that comes with California's endless summers.
Every footfall on the dry grass sounds too loud, and the openness makes the back of my neck itch with awareness. This is bad ground for what we're doing—too much exposure, too many angles for an ambush, nowhere to hide if things go sideways.
Carolina moves to the right flank, putting twenty yards between us, and we advance in a leapfrog pattern. She moves forward while I cover, then I advance while she watches.
It's slower than running straight through, but it gives us overlapping fields of fire and makes us harder to pin down. She adapts to the pattern immediately —no instruction needed —and I file that away as more evidence of her competence. Army training, even years removed, leaves its mark.
We're halfway across the open slope when I catch movement in my peripheral vision.
Left side, maybe a hundred yards upslope, something that doesn't match the pattern of swaying grass and shifting branches.
I freeze and signal Carolina to stop and get down.
She drops immediately behind a fallen oak, Sig appearing in her hand like magic.
I scan the area carefully, looking for whatever triggered my instinct. There—behind a cluster of manzanita, a shape that's too solid, too regular. Human form, staying low, trying for concealment but not quite achieving it. I glass the position with my binoculars, bringing the figure into focus.
Man, mid-thirties, tactical clothing, rifle with scope. He's watching the trail below and hasn't seen us yet because we took the alternate route. But he's positioned exactly where he needs to be to ambush someone coming down from Carolina’s camp on the main trail.
My radio crackles softly on my hip. "Flint, this is Base. Status?"
I key the radio, keeping my voice barely above a whisper. "Contact. Single hostile, armed, appears to be in a surveillance position on the main trail approach. We've bypassed his position, but he's between us and extraction."
"Copy. Helicopter is fifteen minutes out. Can you avoid engagement?"
I study the terrain, calculating angles and distances. We're downslope from the hostile, and if we continue on our current route, we'll pass within fifty yards of his position. That's well within rifle range, and if he's even marginally competent, he'll spot us.
"Negative. We either engage or find another route that adds significant time."
Carolina has moved up beside me in a low crouch. She leans in, her shoulder against mine, and whispers directly in my ear. "There's a draw thirty yards ahead that cuts down toward the ranger station. Steep, but it gives us cover and gets us below his sight line."
Her breath is warm against my ear, and I'm aware of her proximity in ways I shouldn't be during a tactical situation.
I force my focus back to the terrain and spot the draw she's referencing—a deep cut in the hillside where runoff has carved a channel.
It'll be rough going, but she's right—it offers concealment.
"We're taking an alternate route," I key my comm, reporting in. "Should reach extraction in twenty minutes." I meet Caro's eyes. "You lead. Fast and quiet. If he spots us and opens fire, you keep moving and don't look back."
"Flint—"
"That's an order." The words come out harder than I intended. "You're the mission. Everything else is secondary."
She holds my gaze for a long moment, something complicated moving behind her eyes, then nods once.
We move toward the draw in a fast crouch, using every scrap of cover the terrain offers.
The grass is dry enough to crackle under our boots, and I'm acutely aware that sound carries in this open country.
Every step feels like shouting our position.
We’re ten yards from the draw when the air splits apart with a rifle’s crack. The round snaps past my head, close enough to shear the breath from my lungs. Instinct takes over. I slam into Carolina, driving her toward the ravine, my body covering hers as dirt and rock explode around us.
We tumble down the embankment, gravity and momentum taking control. Her pack slams into my ribs, a jolt that drives the air from my lungs. My elbow hits rock—pain flares white-hot up my arm. More shots crack overhead as we slide, stones skittering past in a gritty roar.
We hit the bottom hard, tangled in each other and the mess of gear.
For a heartbeat, everything stops—the gunfire, the tumble, even thought.
She's beneath me, her breath hot against my throat, heartbeat hammering against my chest where we're pressed together. The scent of her—salt, sweat, fear, life—hits me like a punch, overwhelming in its intensity.
One of my thighs is wedged between hers, my hand somehow ended up cradling the back of her head, protecting it from the rocks, and the other is splayed across her ribs, feeling every rapid breath she takes.
Her eyes are wide, hazel gone dark with adrenaline and something else—something that mirrors the heat spiking through my own body.
For a fraction of a second, neither of us moves. We're frozen in this moment, hyperaware of every point of contact: my chest against hers, her legs tangled with mine, the way her hands have fisted in my vest, like she’s holding on or pulling me closer —I can't tell which.
Heat blooms fast and low, primal and immediate—pure biology responding to survival, to proximity, to the feel of her body under mine.
Wrong time, wrong place, but my body doesn't care about tactical situations. It only knows she's soft where I'm hard, alive and warm and right there.
Her lips part, whether to speak or just to breathe, I don't know, and I realize with sudden, unwanted clarity that I want to kiss her. Want it with an intensity that's completely inappropriate given that we're currently being shot at.
Focus, dammit. Focus.
The scent of dust and sweat fills my head, sharp and human and alive. Then training kicks back in. I roll off, my weapon coming up, the world narrowing again to angles, shadows, threat.
"You hit?" I snap, already scanning the rim of the draw for threats.
"No. You?"
"Negative." I key my radio. "Taking fire, one hostile with a rifle, we're in cover but pinned."
More rounds crack overhead, stitching across the rim of the draw, but the shooter doesn't have an angle on us yet.
He's firing blind, trying to keep us suppressed while he repositions.
I estimate his location based on the sound—still roughly where I first spotted him, which means he hasn't moved to flank us yet.
That gives us maybe thirty seconds before this position becomes untenable.
"There's another one," Carolina says, and I follow her gaze to see a second figure moving fast down the slope from a different angle.
They're trying to box us in — classic hammer-and-anvil — and they’ve got the angles to make it count.
If they coordinate even moderately well, we're in serious trouble.
I decide in a fraction of a second. "Move. Down the draw, fast as you can. I'll slow them down."
"Like hell—"
"Carolina." I grab her arm, forcing her to look at me.
"You die here, those devices go off, and more people die.
You're the only one who can stop them. You run to the clearing below—the one with the lone aspen and the flat—get there and stay low.
I'm going to make sure you get the chance to do what you do best."
Her jaw tightens. Fear flickers, then something like stubborn resolve settles over her face. "Don't you dare die on me, Morrison."
"Not planning on it." I release her arm and shift position to get a better angle on the approaching shooters. "Now move."
I activate my mike and report in, calm and clipped. “Command, this is Flint. We’re taking hostile contact, two shooters—moving to box. Sending subject to a clearing at the lower draw for immediate extraction. Request QRF and medic to grid point Delta-three, ETA two minutes. I’m engaging to delay.”
Static answers, then the terse acknowledgment I need. “Copy, Flint. QRF en route.”
I shove Carolina toward the path. She moves like a machine, boots finding purchase in loose dirt, pack thumping against her back. I angle myself between her and the shooters, weapon up, eyes slicing the slope for movement.
The sound draws fire from the first shooter, rounds kicking up dirt twenty yards from her position. I return fire, three controlled pairs at the muzzle flash, and have the satisfaction of seeing the shooter duck back into cover.
The second shooter is closer now, maybe forty yards and closing fast. I shift aim and engage, forcing him to dive behind a boulder. My magazine runs dry, and I drop it, slamming a fresh one home without taking my eyes off the threats.
The drill is so ingrained it's automatic—muscle memory built through thousands of repetitions until it's faster than thought.
Carolina is ten yards, and then five, from the clearing. She hits it and drops into the scrub, flattening herself the way we train—small, controlled, ready for pickup.
"Flint, we have visual on your position," the radio crackles. "Helicopter inbound, sixty seconds."
I key the mic while tracking the second shooter. "Subject is in place. I'm holding position to cover her movement."
"Negative. Break contact and extract."
"Not leaving her exposed." I fire again as the first shooter tries to advance. The round catches him somewhere center mass—he staggers—but he's wearing body armor and stays on his feet. Damn it. "Get the subject out. I'll be right behind her."
That's a lie. If these two are competent, they'll keep me pinned here while Carolina extracts, and that's fine.
My job is to get her out, not to make it home myself.
The bracelet on my wrist digs into my skin as I brace my shooting position, and I think about the promises I didn't keep three years ago, the people I was too slow to save.
Not this time. Not her.