Chapter 6 Flint #2
I close my eyes and focus on breathing through the pain, building a wall between the agony in my chest and the clarity I'll need to function.
I've operated through worse—a compound fracture in Mosul, shrapnel in my back in Kandahar, and three broken ribs in Syria.
Pain is just information, and information can be managed, compartmentalized, and filed away until the mission's done.
The door opens again. I expect a medic. Instead it's Carolina.
She's cleaned up since the extraction—fresh clothes that someone must have provided, her hair braided neatly again, the blood and dirt washed away. But her eyes are red-rimmed, and she moves to my bedside with an urgency that says she ran here the moment they let her.
"Hey," I say, inadequate but all I've got.
"You're an idiot." Her voice shakes. "A noble, stupid, heroic idiot."
"Probably."
She pulls a chair close to the bed and sits heavily, like her legs won't hold her anymore.
For a long moment, she looks at me, processing everything—the ambush, the impacts to my vest, how close it came to going completely sideways.
Then her hand reaches out and finds mine, fingers threading through mine, and the touch grounds something in me I didn't realize was floating.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For what you did. For getting me out."
"That's what—"
"If you say 'that's what Guardians do' one more time, I'm going to hit you.
" But there's no heat in it, just exhaustion and relief and something else I can't quite name.
"You took bullets for me. Multiple impacts that could have killed you.
That's not just doing your job—that's... that's something else."
"You're worth it. The mission is worth it. I'd do it again." I turn my hand in hers so I can squeeze gently.
"I know." Her thumb brushes across my knuckles. "That's what scares me."
We sit in silence for a moment, her hand in mine, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between us. I'm aware of the clock ticking down, of the device waiting at Camp Cielo Azul, of the fact that in a few hours she'll be the one in danger while I try to keep her alive.
But right now, in this quiet moment, there's just this—her hand in mine, both of us breathing, both of us alive when we came too close to the alternative.
"I'm coming with you," I say finally. "To the device site. CJ tried to bench me, but I shut that down."
"Morrison, your ribs—"
"Will hold together long enough. I've operated through worse." I meet her eyes. "You're going to be vulnerable while you work on that device. Greer's people already tried to kill you once. I'm not letting you face the next attempt without me there."
She looks like she wants to argue, but something in my expression stops her. Instead, she leans forward, resting her forehead against our joined hands, and I feel her shoulders shake with a breath that might be a laugh or a sob.
"Okay," she whispers. "Okay. We do this together."
"Together," I agree, and ignore the way my chest tightens at the word—emotional, not physical.
Doc Summers arrives eventually, brisk and compact, brown hair twisted into a knot that looks as if it’s been redone three times today already. She waves Carolina toward the door with that deceptively gentle tone that always means now, not later.
Carolina hesitates, but one sharp look from the Doc sends her out.
I'm propped against the table, shirt off, chest a masterpiece of purple and black bruising. Summers doesn't bother with preliminaries—she's already pulling gloves on.
"You Guardians," she mutters, probing my ribs with practiced efficiency that still makes me wince, "one of these days I'm putting a revolving door on the trauma bay. You think Kevlar makes you immortal."
"Just durable," I answer, trying for humor.
She snorts. "Durable doesn't mean bulletproof.
You've got three cracked ribs and bruising that goes down to the bone.
" Her fingers find a particularly tender spot, and I can't suppress a grunt.
"Multiple impacts like that could have caused cardiac contusion, pneumothorax, all sorts of fun complications. You're lucky."
"Nothing I haven't worked through before."
"Don't give me that Guardian stoicism." She starts wrapping my ribs with compression bandages, the support immediately helping with the pain. "You people act like pain's a personality trait."
I let her finish the wrapping, saying nothing. When she steps back, she folds her arms, measuring me. "Regulations say you're off active duty until those ribs heal."
“Regulations also give you discretion for field necessity,” I remind her.
“Field necessity,” she repeats, exasperation thick. “You mean you’re short-staffed and too stubborn to sit down for three days.”
I lift a brow. “You said it, not me.”
For a long moment, she studies me, weighing risk against reality. Finally, she sighs, pulling off her gloves. "Fine. You're cleared for limited field ops. No hand-to-hand combat, no jumping out of helicopters, and if you puncture a lung being heroic, you crawl back here on it. Understood?"
“Yes, ma’am.”
She shakes her head, but there’s the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. “You Guardians never learn. Try not to die before I get a coffee break.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She's halfway out the door when she calls back, "Tell Carolina she owes me a new roll of bandages. She was pacing a groove in the floor with worry."
I can't help the slight grin that follows. The compression wrap helps stabilize everything, and with the pain medication kicking in, I can move without feeling like my chest is caving in. Ugly, painful—but functional. Good enough for now.
Good enough.
CJ comes back with my gear—fresh clothes, a new vest since mine took too many rounds, weapons cleaned and reloaded. He watches me dress with the critical eye of someone assessing whether I'm fit for duty, but whatever he sees must satisfy him because he doesn't object.
"Transport leaves in twenty minutes," he says. "FBI has the site secured. Sutton will have full support—bomb techs standing by, medical on standby, Guardian HRS team for security. Your job is to keep her breathing while she works."
"That's the plan."
"Flint." He waits until I meet his eyes. "She's going to be focused on that device. Tunnel vision. She won't be watching for threats. That's on you, injured or not."
"I know."
"And if you go down, there's no one else who can protect her the way you will."
"Then I won't go down." I check my Glock, chamber a round, and holster it. "Anything else?"
He shakes his head slowly. "Don’t come back in a body bag."
It's as close to sentiment as CJ ever gets, and I nod once in acknowledgment. Then I'm moving toward the transport area where Carolina and the rest of the team are waiting.
Carolina looks up when I enter the staging area. She doesn't say anything, just moves to my side like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like we're already a team, already partners in whatever comes next.
The helicopter is warming up outside, rotors beginning their familiar beat. Ten hours. Maybe less. And at the end of them, either Carolina disarms a device that's designed to kill her, or people die, and Greer wins.
Not acceptable.
I follow her out to the aircraft, my hand finding the small of her back briefly as she climbs aboard—a touch that's protective and possessive. She settles into a seat, and I take the one beside her, close enough that our shoulders brush.
Close enough that I can move to shield her if needed.
Close enough that I can feel her breathing and know she's alive.
The helicopter lifts off, and through the open door, Guardian HQ falls away beneath us, the California coast stretching endlessly to the west. We're heading inland, toward the mountains, toward the wilderness education center where children learn to tie knots, identify plants, and feel safe in nature.
Toward the place where Greer left a bomb with Carolina’s name written all over it.
I check my weapons one more time, settling into the pre-mission headspace where everything narrows to the objective. Protect Carolina. Keep her alive. Let her do what only she can do.
The bracelet on my wrist catches the light, and I run my thumb over it once—a prayer or a promise or both.
Not too late this time.
Not her.