Chapter 7 Carolina
SEVEN
CAROLINA
The FBI field office in Lompoc is organized chaos, dozens of people moving through spaces designed for half that number.
I sit in a conference room with laminate tables and fluorescent lights, a cup of terrible coffee cooling in front of me while Special Agent Monica Parker walks me through what they know.
She's mid-forties, sharp-eyed, and moves with the economy of someone who's spent twenty years in federal law enforcement. Her last name makes my chest tighten—same as Private Noah Parker, though she hasn't mentioned any relationship, and I'm not going to ask.
"Marcus Greer has been in our custody for thirty-six hours," Parker says, pulling up photos on the large screen at the front of the room.
Greer's face appears, older than I remember but still recognizable. The same cold eyes, the same arrogant set to his jaw.
"He was caught attempting to place Device One at the Lompoc Water Treatment Facility. Our techs were able to disarm it, but barely. The trigger system was unlike anything they'd encountered."
Because it's mine.
Because I designed it to be adaptive, to think, to counter standard EOD protocols.
I designed it to teach my students to think three steps ahead and never assume they knew everything about a device just because they'd seen one like it before. And now Greer has weaponized that teaching, turned it into something that kills the very people I tried to train to survive.
"Device Two detonated at the San Luis Obispo electrical substation," Parker continues. "One fatality—a security guard who was on patrol when it went off. The detonation was remotely triggered, which tells us Greer has a partner or partners still active."
The guard's photo appears on screen. Michael Reyes, forty-two, married, father of three. I force myself to look at his face, to not turn away from what my design helped accomplish.
He's dead because of me—not directly, but the connection is there, undeniable. My innovation, my cleverness, my need to create something that would save lives has been twisted into something that takes them.
"We've identified Greer's likely targets based on his interrogation and known connections," Parker says, and more photos appear—infrastructure sites, government buildings, places that would cause maximum disruption and casualties.
"But he's talking in riddles, and we believe you're the key to decoding them. "
She pulls up the transcripts I saw on Flint's tablet in the wilderness, and I read through them again with attention to detail I didn't have time for before.
Greer's words are carefully chosen, each phrase loaded with meaning that only someone who knows our shared history would catch.
"The Girl Scout always comes prepared"—he called me that for three years, mocking my thoroughness while simultaneously resenting it.
"Where Girl Scouts earn their badges"—Camp Cielo Azul, where I spent weekends teaching kids skills that might save their lives someday.
"He's pointing to the camp," I say, the certainty settling cold in my gut. "Device Three is at Camp Cielo Azul. It's a wilderness education center about forty miles east of here, in the Los Padres foothills."
Parker's expression sharpens. "You're sure?"
"He knew I volunteered there. Made jokes about it, said I was wasting my time teaching kids when I could be doing real work.
" The bitterness in my voice surprises me.
"He's chosen locations that have personal meaning, places that force me to face what my design can do.
A training facility where I taught. A substation that powers the base where I served.
And now a place where kids learn to survive in the wilderness—using skills I taught them. "
"He's targeting you specifically," Parker says, and it's not a question. "This is personal revenge disguised as domestic terrorism."
"Yes." I meet her eyes. "He wants me to come. Wants me to try to disarm his devices. Either I fail and prove I'm the fraud he always said I was, or I succeed, but more people die because Device Four is still out there. Either way, he wins."
Parker leans back in her chair, processing. "We've already begun evacuating Camp Cielo Azul. There were fifty-two people on site—staff and a youth group from Bakersfield. The evacuation should be complete within the hour."
"What about Device Four?" I ask. "Has he given any indication of where it is?"
"Nothing concrete. More riddles about 'where imports become exports' and 'the Gateway to the Pacific.
' Our analysts think he's referencing a port facility, possibly San Diego or Long Beach.
We're increasing security at both locations, but without more specific intel.
.." She trails off, the implication clear.
We're chasing shadows until we have something concrete.
The door opens, and Flint walks in, moving carefully, one hand pressed subtly against his ribs.
He's dressed in fresh tactical gear, a compression wrap visible under his shirt, moving with the controlled breathing of someone managing significant pain.
But his eyes are clear, alert, tracking every person in the room before settling on me.
The weight of his attention is palpable, protective in a way that should irritate me but instead loosens something in my chest.
He's here. He's alive. He took multiple rounds to the vest for me, and he's still standing, still ready to do it again if necessary.
"Morrison," Parker acknowledges him with a nod. "Guardian HRS confirmed you'll be providing personal security for Ms. Sutton at the device site."
"That's correct." Flint moves to stand beside my chair, and I resist the urge to reach for his hand the way I did in the medical bay.
Professional. We need to stay professional here, even though every instinct I have is screaming to touch him, to confirm he's real and whole and not bleeding out in a helicopter anymore.
Parker walks us through the tactical plan—Guardian HRS will establish a perimeter around the device location, FBI bomb techs will be on standby, but I’ll be the primary.
Medical evacuation is staged a mile out.
It's thorough and professional and exactly what I'd expect from federal law enforcement, but underneath it all is the awareness that we're racing a clock we can't see and playing a game where Greer wrote all the rules.
"We transport in thirty minutes," Parker says, standing. "Ms. Sutton, you'll ride with our tactical team. Morrison, you'll have separate transport with Guardian HRS personnel."
"Negative," Flint says, voice flat and brooking no argument. "Where she goes, I go. Same vehicle."
Parker's eyes narrow slightly. "That's not standard protocol—"
"I don't care about standard protocol. Three hours ago, Greer's people tried to kill her in the wilderness. They failed because I was there. She doesn't move without me within arm's reach until this is over." He meets Parker's gaze without blinking. "Non-negotiable."
There's a tension in the room, a contest of wills between federal authority and the kind of certainty that comes from someone who's already bled for their position. Parker looks to me, perhaps expecting me to object to being guarded so closely.
"He stays with me," I say quietly. "He's earned that right."
Parker considers for a moment longer, then nods curtly. "Fine. But you follow FBI protocols on site. We're in command."
"Understood," Flint says, though something in his tone suggests he'll follow those protocols exactly as long as they don't conflict with keeping me alive.
The meeting breaks up, people dispersing to their assigned tasks, and suddenly it's just Flint and me in the conference room.
He's standing close enough that I can see the tightness around his eyes, the way he's breathing shallowly to minimize the pain from his ribs, the controlled movements that say the vest impacts were worse than he's letting on.
"You should be resting," I tell him. "Those ribs need—"
"What they need is to hold together for another twelve hours." He cuts me off gently but firmly. "After that, they can do whatever they want. But right now, I need to be functional."
I stand, closing the space between us until my pulse stumbles. The air thickens, charged with something that feels alive. He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat coming off him, the subtle scent of soap and leather under the sterile tang of the infirmary.
He’s taller than I remember—six-two, maybe six-three.
I’m five-six, and to meet his eyes I have to tilt my head back, a movement that makes me acutely aware of everything else: the breadth of his shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt, the corded muscle along his forearm, the faint rasp of stubble shadowing his jaw.
For a heartbeat, I just look at him. The stillness between us hums, my pulse syncing to the slow, controlled rhythm of his breathing. There’s power in the way he holds himself—contained, deliberate, the kind of strength that doesn’t need to announce itself.
Heat curls low in my stomach, sharp and sudden. I take in the scar peeking from beneath his collar, the square line of his throat when he swallows, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. It’s too much and not enough all at once, the space between us a single breath from breaking.
"You took bullets for me."
"Yes." No hesitation, just fact. A flicker of dry amusement tugs at his mouth. "Technically multiple impacts," he adds, the corner of his lip lifting. "You keep rounding down."
The humor is quiet, threaded through the gravel of his voice, but it softens the space between us and turns the moment intimate instead of heavy.
“You could have died.”
“But I didn’t.”
His voice is low, steady, the kind of calm that belongs to men who’ve faced death often enough to stop fearing it. His hand rises halfway, stopping just short of my cheek. The distance between his fingers and my skin might as well be a live wire.
“You’re alive,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “The mission’s still viable. That’s what matters.”
The words are professional; the tone isn’t.
There’s a rasp beneath them, a restrained warmth that hits harder than the confession itself.
My breath catches, and I don’t know if it’s from gratitude or something far more dangerous.
The heat from his body brushes against me, close enough that I can feel the thrum of his pulse in the air between us.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. His hand lingers, the shadow of touch trembling on the edge of becoming real.
The noise of the medical bay fades until there’s only the sound of breath—his and mine—intertwined, unspoken.
Then he drops his hand, the spell breaking, professionalism snapping back into place.
“Get some rest, Carolina,” he murmurs.
No one else says it like that—each syllable precise, deliberate, as if the name itself belongs to him. Everyone else calls me Caro, quick and casual, but from his mouth it sounds different.
Intimate. Possessive.
The air holds the echo of it, and the room feels warmer for it.
"You matter," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than intended. "What happens to you matters, Flint. You're not just... you're not just a tool to complete the mission. You're a person, and you nearly died, and I—" I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence.
I what?
Care about him?
Feel something for this man I met less than twelve hours ago?
I’m terrified by how much his survival means to me.
His hand completes its journey, cupping my cheek, thumb brushing along my cheekbone. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, and I lean into it before I can think better of it. Heat flickers between us—real, undeniable.
“I know,” he says quietly, eyes steady on mine. “I feel it too.”
“We just met.” The protest comes out softer than I intend, more breath than sound. I don’t move away.
“Doesn’t matter.” His thumb traces one more slow arc over my skin, grounding and electric all at once.
“Combat warps time. A day out there feels like a lifetime. I’ve seen who you are when it counts—your courage, your instincts, your strength.
And then…” His voice drops, roughening. “I almost watched you die. That changes things.”
I draw in a shaky breath, the air between us thick with everything we aren’t saying. The spark we’ve both tried to ignore hums like a live wire, impossible to untangle from the adrenaline still in our veins.
I could argue.
I could point out that adrenaline, proximity, and trauma are creating a false sense of connection.
I could be rational.
I could build the same walls I’ve lived behind for years, keep everything neat and safe and distant.
But I’m tired of being safe. Tired of being alone with ghosts that never stop whispering. Whatever this pull is between us, it feels too real to dismiss, like recognizing someone I’ve known in another life.
“After this is over,” I say, the words surprising me even as I speak them, “we figure out what this is. If it’s real, or just adrenaline and proximity messing with our heads.”
His eyes hold mine, steady and unreadable, but something warmer sparks underneath.
“Deal.” His thumb moves once more along my cheek, the faintest touch.
I think that will be the end of this moment, but his hand doesn't drop away. Instead, his fingers slide into my hair, cradling my head, and his eyes search mine—asking permission, giving me space to refuse.
I don't.
I close the distance between us, rising on my toes to meet him. The kiss is soft at first, tentative, just a brush of lips that sends electricity racing down my spine. Then his other arm comes around my waist, pulling me closer, and the kiss deepens.
He tastes like copper and antiseptic and something uniquely him. The kiss is slow, thorough, like he's memorizing me. His mouth moves against mine with the same confidence he brings to everything else—sure, steady, devastating in its gentleness.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his hand still tangled in my hair, thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear.
"After this is over," he murmurs against my lips, "we're definitely figuring this out."
"Definitely," I agree, and kiss him again—briefer this time, but no less intense.
“But first,” he says, voice low, practical again, “we get through this.”
“Agreed, survive this first,” I agree, though even as I say it, part of me is already wondering what surviving might mean for us.