We drop into a steep ravine where water has carved a channel through limestone and granite, the walls rising fifteenfeet on either side. Carolina navigates it with the ease of a mountain goat, boots finding purchase on wet rock that looks impossible to climb.
I follow more carefully, testing each hold before committing my weight. The pack on my shoulders shifts as I move, and the paracord bracelet catches on a jutting rock, yanking hard enough to dig into my wrist. I free it without stopping, the familiar bite of pain centering me the way it always does.
Promises I didn't keep. People I failed to save. The bracelet reminds me every day that hesitation kills, that being too late is the same as being wrong, and that I can't afford either one.
Carolina reaches the top of the ravine and extends a hand down to help me up the last few feet. I take it, her grip strong and calloused, and for a moment we're close enough that I can smell the sweat and pine sap on her skin, see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. Then she's moving again, releasing my hand and turning to scan the terrain ahead.
"Ranger station is another hour at this pace," she says quietly. "Trail opens up in about ten minutes—we'll be more exposed, but we can move faster."
I check my watch. We've been moving for fifty minutes since breaking her camp, which puts us at roughly eleven hours until Device Three's estimated detonation. Assuming the estimate is accurate, which it might not be. Greer could have lied about the timing just to add pressure, or the device could be on a variable timer that adapts based on environmental factors.
Carolina would know, but I'm not going to ask her right now when I need her focused on survival.
"How exposed?" I ask.
"Open slope, scattered oak and pine. Good sight lines in both directions." She meets my eyes. "If someone's watching for us, they'll see us coming."
"Can we avoid it?"
"Not without adding another hour." She pauses. "Your call."
I run the tactical calculation quickly. Another hour means more time for whoever left that broken branch to position themselves or to find Carolina’s vehicle and set up an ambush at the extraction point.
"We move fast through the open ground," I decide. "Spread out, staggered positions, use what cover there is. If we take fire, you get to ground, and I'll suppress. Don't try to be a hero—that's my job."
Her jaw tightens. "I can handle myself."
"I know you can. But I'm better equipped and trained for direct action, and Guardian HRS pays me to take bullets so people like you can do the jobs only you can do." I soften my tone slightly. "I need you alive and functional at that device. That means I take the risks out here."
She looks like she wants to argue, but pragmatism wins. "Fine. But if you get killed being noble, I'm going to be really annoyed."
"Noted." I gesture ahead. "Lead on."
We emerge from the ravine into rolling terrain covered in dry grass and scattered trees. The sun is climbing toward midday, heat building despite the elevation, and the vegetation has that parched quality that comes with California's endless summers.
Every footfall on the dry grass sounds too loud, and the openness makes the back of my neck itch with awareness. This is bad ground for what we're doing—too much exposure, too many angles for an ambush, nowhere to hide if things go sideways.
Carolina moves to the right flank, putting twenty yards between us, and we advance in a leapfrog pattern. She moves forward while I cover, then I advance while she watches.
It's slower than running straight through, but it gives us overlapping fields of fire and makes us harder to pin down. She adapts to the pattern immediately —no instruction needed —and I file that away as more evidence of her competence. Army training, even years removed, leaves its mark.
We're halfway across the open slope when I catch movement in my peripheral vision. Left side, maybe a hundred yards upslope, something that doesn't match the pattern of swaying grass and shifting branches. I freeze and signal Carolina to stop and get down. She drops immediately behind a fallen oak, Sig appearing in her hand like magic.
I scan the area carefully, looking for whatever triggered my instinct. There—behind a cluster of manzanita, a shape that's too solid, too regular. Human form, staying low, trying for concealment but not quite achieving it. I glass the position with my binoculars, bringing the figure into focus.
Man, mid-thirties, tactical clothing, rifle with scope. He's watching the trail below and hasn't seen us yet because we took the alternate route. But he's positioned exactly where he needs to be to ambush someone coming down from Carolina’s camp on the main trail.
My radio crackles softly on my hip. "Flint, this is Base. Status?"
I key the radio, keeping my voice barely above a whisper. "Contact. Single hostile, armed, appears to be in a surveillance position on the main trail approach. We've bypassed his position, but he's between us and extraction."
"Copy. Helicopter is fifteen minutes out. Can you avoid engagement?"
I study the terrain, calculating angles and distances. We're downslope from the hostile, and if we continue on our current route, we'll pass within fifty yards of his position. That's well within rifle range, and if he's even marginally competent, he'll spot us.
"Negative. We either engage or find another route that adds significant time."
Carolina has moved up beside me in a low crouch. She leans in, her shoulder against mine, and whispers directly in my ear. "There's a draw thirty yards ahead that cuts down toward the ranger station. Steep, but it gives us cover and gets us below his sight line."
