Chapter 9 FLINT
NINE
FLINT
The helicopter cuts through the night at full speed, the lights of Los Angeles sprawling beneath us like a vast constellation of gold and white.
From this altitude, the city looks peaceful, orderly, but I know the reality is chaos barely contained—eight million people going about their lives with no idea that somewhere in the port district, a device is counting down toward catastrophe.
Carolina sits beside me, tablet on her lap, scrolling through satellite imagery of the Port of Los Angeles while conferring over a headset with FBI analysts.
She's been at it for the entire ninety-minute flight, narrowing down possible locations based on Greer's cryptic message and her understanding of his psychology.
Dark circles under her eyes speak to exhaustion that goes beyond just today—this is years of carrying guilt and trauma, now compounded by hours of adrenaline and fear.
I want to tell her to rest, to close her eyes for ten minutes, but I know she won't.
Can't.
Not while the clock is ticking and people's lives depend on her being sharp enough to outthink a man who's had three years to plan his revenge.
My chest is a constant throb of pain despite the cocktail of drugs the medics loaded me with. The compression wrap helps hold everything together, but I can feel the cracked ribs protesting every movement, every breath.
I've been through worse, but those injuries came with the luxury of time to heal afterward. This one I need to function through for at least another eight hours, maybe more.
The paracord bracelet on my wrist catches my attention as I adjust my weapons for the third time.
The weave is blood-stained now, dark patches from where I held Carolina's hand in the helicopter during her extraction from the wilderness, from where I pressed it against wounds in the field.
Another layer of meaning added to a talisman already heavy with failure and regret.
But this time, maybe the blood represents something different.
Not failure.
Not being too late.
But being exactly on time, exactly where I need to be to keep someone alive.
"I think I've got it," Carolina says suddenly, pulling up a specific section of satellite imagery and expanding it.
"Terminal 206, near the bulk cargo storage area.
Look at this—there's a maintenance schedule showing electrical work was done two days ago, but Port Authority has no record of authorizing it.
Someone got access under false pretenses. "
Agent Parker leans in to study the image, her expression sharpening. "That area handles chemical shipments and industrial machinery. A device there could trigger secondary explosions, possibly take out multiple terminals."
"And it fits Greer's profile," Carolina adds. "Maximum disruption, maximum casualties, and it forces me to work near volatile materials. If I make a mistake disarming it, the blast could trigger a chain reaction."
"Can you disarm it without triggering anything?" Parker asks.
Carolina's silence is answer enough.
She doesn't know.
Won't know until she's looking at the device, assessing the threats, making split-second decisions that could save or end hundreds of lives.
"We'll get it done," I say quietly, and her eyes find mine across the cramped helicopter cabin. I see fear there, exhaustion, doubt. But also determination.
She'll face this because she has to, because no one else can, because running from her failures hasn't worked, and maybe confronting them will.
The helicopter begins its descent toward a staging area the FBI has established near the port.
Below, the port sprawls in a maze of steel and light—warehouses crouched low against the water, cranes towering like skeletal giants frozen mid-stride.
Sodium lamps cast the docks in a jaundiced glow, turning the massive container ships into floating silhouettes, their hulls groaning softly with the tide.
The night is alive with the hum of generators and the distant clang of metal on metal.
The Port of Los Angeles handles millions of containers annually, a constant flow of goods moving between ship and shore, the economic lifeblood of the region.
And somewhere in that steel maze, Greer has hidden his final device.
We touch down in a parking lot that's been converted into a command post—FBI vehicles, LAPD bomb squad, Port Authority security, Guardian HRS operators. CJ is there to meet us, his expression grim in the harsh LED work lights.
"Terminal 206 is evacuated," he tells me as soon as I'm off the helicopter. "Port authority shut down operations in a three-terminal radius, but we can't evacuate the entire port without causing panic and gridlock. If this goes wrong, collateral damage will be significant."
"It won't go wrong," I say it with more confidence than I feel, but confidence is part of the job. "Carolina knows what she's doing."
"She's been awake for over twenty hours and working under extreme stress," CJ counters, then looks pointedly at my chest where the compression wrap is visible. "And you're barely functional with those ribs."
I look over to where Carolina is being briefed by Parker and port security, studying a physical map of Terminal 206's layout.
Even exhausted, even scared, she's focused and professional.
This is what she was trained for, what she's spent years mastering.
The fact that Greer corrupted her work doesn't change her fundamental competence.
His eyes drop to my chest, to the way I'm carefully bracing against the injury to my ribs.
"I'm standing. That's enough." I meet his gaze steadily. "She needs someone she trusts beside her while she works. That's me. End of discussion."
CJ studies me for a long moment, seeing what I've been trying not to examine too closely myself. This stopped being just a mission somewhere between tracking her through the wilderness and taking bullets to keep her alive.
"Don't get her killed trying to protect her," he says finally. "And don't get yourself killed because you're too stubborn to admit you're compromised."
"Noted." I move toward where Carolina is waiting, each step a measured exercise in pain management and will.
She looks up when I approach, and something in her expression softens fractionally.
"Terminal 206 handles bulk cargo—industrial chemicals, machinery, raw materials.
The maintenance records show electrical work near the chemical storage area, which is exactly where I'd place a device if I wanted maximum collateral damage.
" She traces a path on the map. "We go in on foot, Guardian HRS establishes perimeter, FBI bomb squad stays back unless I need them.
It's going to be you and me, same as Camp Cielo Azul. "
"Timeline?"
"Sunrise is at 6:52 AM, less than two hours from now. We need to move. Greer's note said 'don't be late,' which could mean anything. The device might be on a fixed timer, or it might have a variable trigger based on conditions we don't know yet."
"So we assume worst case and work fast."
"Yeah." She looks past me to the sprawl of terminals beyond the staging area.