Chapter 6 Flint
SIX
FLINT
Movement to my left—the second shooter is trying to use the terrain to flank me. I pivot and engage, two rounds that force him back, but it exposes me to the first shooter.
A round catches my vest high on the right side, just below my shoulder.
The ceramic plate catches most of it, but the kinetic energy is enough to spin me partway around and drive the breath from my lungs.
The impact feels like getting hit with a sledgehammer, pain radiating through my chest and shoulder.
I stay on my feet through sheer stubbornness, returning fire even as my right arm goes partially numb from the impact. The second shooter is moving again, trying to close the distance while I'm hurt.
I track him, squeeze the trigger, and see him go down hard. Not dead—he's moving, trying to crawl to cover—but out of the fight for now.
The first shooter opens up on full auto, hosing my position with rounds that kick up dirt and shred vegetation. I flatten myself against the side of the draw, making myself as small a target as possible, and wait for a reload.
The instant the firing stops, I'm up and moving, running in a low crouch down the draw after Carolina. Pain radiates from my shoulder with every jarring step, but I've been hurt worse and kept moving.
Evac is closing in. The distinctive thump of rotors echoes off the hillsides. It comes in fast and low, heading for the clearing.
More shots from behind me, but they're poorly aimed, desperation fire from a shooter who's lost his tactical advantage. I don't return fire, just keep moving, eating up ground with long strides that send jolts of pain through my bruised ribs and shoulder.
The draw opens up ahead, spilling into flatter ground. The helicopter is touching down.
Carolina is there, fifty yards ahead, running flat out for the aircraft. Her pack bounces on her shoulders, and her braid has come partially loose, dark hair whipping in the rotor wash. She's twenty yards from the helicopter when I see the third shooter.
He comes out of the tree line to her left, rifle shouldered, tracking her movement. Time compresses and expands simultaneously, the way it does in combat when adrenaline kicks perception into overdrive.
He acquires his target. Finger tightens on the trigger. Carolina runs with no idea he's there.
I’m moving before conscious thought kicks in, angling to intercept, weapon coming up, even though I'm too far for an accurate shot at a running sprint.
I fire anyway, three rounds that go wide but close enough to make him flinch.
His rifle swings toward me, tracking the new threat, and in that split second, his attention is off Carolina.
His muzzle flash is bright even in daylight. I feel the impact in my vest again—two rounds center mass that knock me off my feet. The ceramic plates hold, but the force is like getting hit by a truck. I hit the ground hard, air driven from my lungs, vision graying at the edges from the impact.
But I keep firing even as I fall, and my rounds find him this time—I see the impacts stitching across his chest, see him drop.
Suddenly, hands are on me, pulling at my vest. I try to push them away before I realize it's Carolina. She's on her knees beside me, face pale, eyes wide with fear that's for me, not herself. Her hands check for wounds, finding the dented plates in my vest.
"Stay with me." Her words tumble out fast and urgent. "Goddammit. You don't get to do this. You don't get to save me and then die on me. That's not how this works."
"M'okay," I manage, though my chest feels like it's been caved in. "You need to... get to the helicopter."
"Fuck the helicopter." Her voice breaks on the words. "I'm not leaving you."
Guardian HRS personnel are suddenly there, two operators I recognize. One of them—Jenkins—kneels on my other side, combat medic kit already open. The other provides security, weapon up and scanning for threats.
Strong hands pull Carolina back gently but firmly, but she fights them for a second before training or sense kicks in. She lets them work, but stays by my side.
Jenkins cuts away my vest, exposing the massive bruising already forming across my chest and shoulder. His face stays professionally neutral, but I see his jaw tighten fractionally. "Two impacts, plates held. Significant blunt trauma to the thoracic cavity. Possible rib fractures."
He works quickly, checking for internal bleeding, assessing breathing. The pain is intense—every breath feels like knives in my chest—but nothing feels catastrophically wrong. Broken ribs maybe, bruised organs definitely, but I'm not dying.
"We need to move him now," Jenkins says.
They lift me in a practiced carry. The world tilts sickeningly.
Carolina is there beside me, her hand still gripping mine, her face the only thing I can focus on through the pain and gathering darkness.
She says something, but the helicopter noise is too loud and my hearing seems muffled, like I'm underwater.
We reach the aircraft. Hands pull me inside, laying me on the deck. Jenkins works on me, setting up an IV, monitoring vitals. Carolina climbs in and refuses to be moved from beside me, her hand back in mine, her face close enough that I can see the tears she's fighting.
"You saved my life," she says, and I can read her lips even though I can barely hear her over the rotors. "You took bullets for me."
"That's what Guardians do," I try to say, not sure if the words make it out of my mouth.
Her other hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone, and the touch is gentle in a way that makes my chest ache beyond the physical pain. "You're not allowed to die, you hear me? We have a deal."
I want to tell her that I'll be fine, that I've been through worse, that chest impacts aren't going to keep me down. But the pain medication Jenkins pushed is hitting hard, gray turning to black at the edges of my vision, and it's taking all my energy just to stay conscious.
Her face is the last thing I see before everything fades—hazel eyes fierce with determination and fear, jaw set in that stubborn line I'm already learning to recognize, beautiful and strong and alive because I got to her in time.
I check my watch through the blood and adrenaline haze. 8:15 PM. We've been moving for over four hours since leaving Carolina's camp. The mission clock is ticking—nineteen hours until Device 3, maybe less.
The thought follows me down into darkness.
I surface to fluorescent lights and an antiseptic smell, the distinctive atmosphere of medical facilities everywhere.
My chest is screaming at me, a deep throbbing ache that radiates from sternum to spine, and my right shoulder feels like it's been through a meat grinder.
I try to sit, but a hand presses firmly against my sternum, keeping me flat.
"Easy." CJ's voice is calm and authoritative. "You've got three cracked ribs and extensive soft tissue damage. You're not going anywhere fast."
I force my eyes to focus on him. He's standing beside the bed in what looks like Guardian HRS's medical facility, arms crossed, expression caught between concern and annoyance. Behind him, there’s monitoring equipment, IV stands, the clean efficiency of a well-equipped trauma bay.
"Carolina?" My voice comes out rough, throat dry as sand.
"She's fine. No injuries beyond some scrapes and bruises." CJ's expression softens fractionally. "She's being briefed by the FBI now. You got her out clean, Flint. The mission is still viable."
I try to process that through the fog of pain and whatever drugs they've given me. "Timeline?"
"Ten hours until Device Three's estimated detonation. Sutton identified the location—Camp Cielo Azul, wilderness education center in the Los Padres foothills. FBI is evacuating the area now." He pauses. "She wants to see you before they transport her to the site."
"The hostiles?"
"Two dead, one critical. They were Greer's people. Former military, dishonorable discharges, history of anti-government extremism. Greer has more resources than the FBI initially thought." CJ's jaw tightens. "You stopped an assassination."
I process that, thinking about the moment when the third shooter had Carolina in his sights. Another second and she'd be dead. Another second, and the only person who can stop Greer's devices would be gone. The bracelet on my wrist—somehow still there despite everything—feels heavier.
"I need to be there," I say, trying to sit up again. "At the device site. She'll need protection."
"You can barely breathe without wincing. You have multiple rib fractures and—"
"I can stand. I can shoot. That's all I need." I override his objection with the flat certainty of someone who's made the decision and won't be swayed. "She goes into that situation, and I go with her. Non-negotiable."
CJ studies me for a long moment, and I can see him reading things in my face I didn't mean to show. "You're compromised," he says finally.
I don't deny it. Can't deny it, not after taking multiple rounds to keep her alive, not after seeing her face in those last seconds before I blacked out. "I'll die before I let something happen to her."
"Doc Summers has to clear you. You've got two hours before transport.
Hope you heal fast." CJ sighs, recognizing a lost argument when he sees one.
"The medic will fit you with a compression wrap for your ribs, load you up with enough painkillers to function.
But if you can't perform—if Doc Summers doesn't clear you—I'm pulling you. Understood?"
"Understood."
He heads for the door, then pauses. "Caro stayed with you the whole flight back. Wouldn't let go of your hand. Fought the medics when they tried to move her aside." His expression is unreadable. "Thought you should know."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with the pain and the drugs and the memory of Carolina’s hand in mine, her voice fierce and desperate: You don't get to die on me.