Chapter 8 Carolina
EIGHT
CAROLINA
The drive to Camp Cielo Azul takes ninety minutes, the convoy of FBI and Guardian HRS vehicles winding through hills that turn from coastal scrub to oak woodland to pine forest.
I ride in an FBI suburban, Flint beside me in the back seat, his presence solid and grounding. We don't talk much—both of us are in pre-mission headspace, running through scenarios and contingencies, preparing for what's coming.
But his hand finds mine between the seats, fingers threading through mine, and that simple contact says everything words can't.
The camp is a collection of rustic buildings scattered across a meadow—main lodge, several cabin clusters, a dining hall with a peaked roof, storage buildings, and a covered pavilion for outdoor education.
Under different circumstances, it’s idyllic, the kind of place kids remember forever as summer magic and nature adventures. Now it's a ghost town, evacuated and silent, waiting for the device that will either be disarmed or tear it apart.
The FBI establishes a command post in the parking area, tactical vehicles and equipment staged with military precision. Bomb techs in heavy suits stand by, medical personnel prepping their equipment, Guardian HRS operators establish the perimeter.
It's a massive response, dozens of people, and the weight of their presence reminds me that failure here doesn't just mean my death—it means I fail all of them, fail the people who trusted me to be good enough.
Parker briefs me on the device location. "Staff spotted it in the main lodge. Wires visible behind the industrial refrigerator, timer display showing 4:32. Our techs did a preliminary scan—confirmed it matches the signature from Device One."
"I'll need to see it," I say, already running through approaches in my head. "Full workspace, good lighting, someone who can hand me tools without me having to look away from the device."
"I'll do it," Flint says immediately. "I've cross-trained on basic EOD support. I can hand you tools, hold things steady, whatever you need."
I start to object—he should be staying back, staying safe with those cracked ribs—but the look in his eyes stops me. He's not offering because he's the best person for the job. He's offering because he's not letting me face this alone, and arguing will waste time we don't have.
"Okay," I agree. "But you stay behind me, out of the primary blast radius if this goes wrong."
"Not acceptable."
"Flint—"
"If it goes wrong, we both go together or neither of us goes at all." His voice is gentle but immovable. "I'm not surviving you, Carolina. So you better make sure you get this right."
The words should be morbid, but instead they're oddly comforting. We're in this together. All the way. Whatever happens.
I suit up in minimal EOD gear—the full bomb suit would be too restrictive, too slow, and with Greer's modifications, it probably wouldn't save me anyway if I'm wrong. Just a vest, gloves, and a headlamp.
Flint checks his weapons, moving carefully but well despite the compression wrap around his ribs, and then we're walking toward the main lodge together.
The building is timber and stone, designed to blend with the natural environment, with large windows letting in the golden evening light.
Under different circumstances, I'd admire the architecture.
Now I note the exits, the cover positions, and the structural points where an explosion would do the most damage.
We enter through the main doors, boots echoing on the hardwood floors.
The interior is organized chaos frozen in time—tables set for the next meal that never happened, a whiteboard with the day's activities still listed, backpacks abandoned in cubbies when the evacuation order came.
It feels like walking through a museum of life interrupted, and the wrongness of it makes my skin crawl.
The kitchen is industrial-sized, designed to feed a hundred people at a time. Stainless steel counters, commercial stoves and ovens, and against the back wall, the refrigerator that's been pulled away from the wall to reveal the device.
I see it, and my stomach drops.
It's beautiful in the way that all sophisticated devices are—elegant, purposeful, every component serving a function. The housing is custom-machined aluminum, with a timer display LED that remains bright in dim lighting, and wires color-coded in the system I developed specifically for training.
But there are additions. Greer has made modifications that twist my design into something lethal.
A pressure plate under the primary housing that wasn't in my original design. A trembler switch is wired to the secondary circuit. A third component I don't immediately recognize, connected to what appears to be a cell phone receiver.
Three separate trigger mechanisms, each capable of detonating independently.
Disable one wrong, and the others fire. It's diabolically clever, with Greer's grubby fingerprints all over it—his understanding of my teaching methods used against me, his modifications specifically designed to kill someone using my own protocols.
"Talk to me," Flint says quietly from behind me. "What are we looking at?"
"A nightmare." I pull out my tablet and snap photos from multiple angles.
"Three trigger systems. The primary is my design—an adaptive trigger that learns and counters disarmament attempts.
The pressure plate means I can't move it.
The trembler means I can't let my hands shake.
And the cell phone receiver means Greer or his partner can detonate remotely if they realize I'm here. "
"Can you disarm it?"
"I don't know." The honest answer, the one that makes my hands want to shake and my breathing want to speed up.
"I designed the primary system to be difficult but not impossible.
But with these modifications... Greer knows how I think.
He's anticipated my approaches. This thing is built specifically to kill me if I try. "
Flint moves beside me, careful not to disturb anything, his presence warm and solid despite the obvious pain in his breathing. "But you're going to try anyway."
"I don't have a choice. This detonates, the building comes down, possibly triggering a wildfire in the surrounding forest. And Device Four is still out there." I force myself to breathe slowly, to center the panic before it can take root. "So yes. I'm going to try."
"Then tell me what you need."
I pull out my tool kit, laying out wire cutters, circuit testers, magnification goggles, everything I might need.
"First, I need to identify which trigger is primary—which one controls the main charge.
Then I need to bypass or disable the secondary triggers without activating the primary.
Finally, I need to disarm the primary without triggering the fail-safes Greer built in. "
"And if you're wrong about any of those steps?"
"Then we die instantly and won't know we made a mistake." I meet his eyes, seeing my own fear reflected there but also his steady confidence. "You should leave. Go back to the command post. Let me do this alone."
"Not happening."
"Flint—"
"Carolina." He takes my hand and squeezes it gently, though I can see the movement causes him pain. "I'm staying. Let me anchor you. You'll work better with me close. So use me. And trust that whatever happens, we face it together."
I want to argue.
I want to save him from what might be the last few minutes of his life. But the truth is, he's right. His presence grounds me, reminds me I'm not alone in this, and gives me something to fight for beyond just not failing again.
"Okay," I whisper. "Stay behind me. If I tell you to run, you run."
"If you tell me to run, we both run." He squeezes my hand once more, then releases it. "Now show me what you need me to do."
I position him behind and to the left, where he can hand me tools without being directly in line with the device. Then I kneel in front of the bomb, my headlamp illuminating the components in harsh LED white, and let my training take over.
First, assess. I use the circuit tester to trace the power flow, identifying which components are active, which are redundant, which are the actual threats, and which are designed to confuse.
The pressure plate is exactly what it looks like—a contact switch that closes the circuit when the device is lifted or moved. Simple, effective, and I'll have to work around it.
The trembler is more sophisticated —a mercury switch that detects vibration or sudden movement. I'll need to keep my hands steady, my breathing controlled, and no sudden motions.
That one I can manage if I focus.
The cell phone receiver is the wild card.
If Greer or his partner is monitoring, if they realize I'm here working on the device, they could trigger it remotely at any time.
I can't disable that one first because it's integrated into the primary trigger—cutting it would probably detonate the whole assembly.
"I need to start with the pressure plate," I say, narrating for Flint's benefit and my own. "It's the most straightforward. I'm going to shunt the contacts so it thinks it's still under load even after I disable it."
"What do you need?"
"Wire cutters, then the bypass bridge—it's the small metal clip in the red pouch."
His hands appear in my peripheral vision, offering the tools. I take them, position the bypass carefully across the contact points, then use the cutters to sever the connection to the primary circuit.
The device doesn't explode, which is always a good sign.
"Pressure plate neutralized," I say, allowing myself one slow breath of relief. "Next is the trembler."
This one is more delicate.