Her breath is warm against my ear, and I'm aware of her proximity in ways I shouldn't be during a tactical situation. I force my focus back to the terrain and spot the draw she's referencing—a deep cut in the hillside where runoff has carved a channel. It'll be rough going, but she's right—it offers concealment.
"We're taking an alternate route," I key my comm, reporting in. "Should reach extraction in twenty minutes." I meet Caro's eyes. "You lead. Fast and quiet. If he spots us and opens fire, you keep moving and don't look back."
"Flint—"
"That's an order." The words come out harder than I intended. "You're the mission. Everything else is secondary."
She holds my gaze for a long moment, something complicated moving behind her eyes, then nods once. We move toward the draw in a fast crouch, using every scrap of cover the terrain offers. The grass is dry enough to crackle under our boots, and I'm acutely aware that sound carries in this open country.
Every step feels like shouting our position.
We’re ten yards from the draw when the air splits apart with a rifle’s crack. The round snaps past my head, close enough to shear the breath from my lungs. Instinct takes over. I slam into Carolina, driving her toward the ravine, my body covering hers as dirt and rock explode around us.
We tumble down the embankment, gravity and momentum taking control. Her pack slams into my ribs, a jolt that drives the air from my lungs. My elbow hits rock—pain flares white-hot upmy arm. More shots crack overhead as we slide, stones skittering past in a gritty roar.
We hit the bottom hard, tangled in each other and the mess of gear.
For a heartbeat, everything stops—the gunfire, the tumble, even thought.
She's beneath me, her breath hot against my throat, heartbeat hammering against my chest where we're pressed together. The scent of her—salt, sweat, fear, life—hits me like a punch, overwhelming in its intensity.
One of my thighs is wedged between hers, my hand somehow ended up cradling the back of her head, protecting it from the rocks, and the other is splayed across her ribs, feeling every rapid breath she takes.
Her eyes are wide, hazel gone dark with adrenaline and something else—something that mirrors the heat spiking through my own body.
For a fraction of a second, neither of us moves. We're frozen in this moment, hyperaware of every point of contact: my chest against hers, her legs tangled with mine, the way her hands have fisted in my vest, like she’s holding on or pulling me closer —I can't tell which.
Heat blooms fast and low, primal and immediate—pure biology responding to survival, to proximity, to the feel of her body under mine.
Wrong time, wrong place, but my body doesn't care about tactical situations. It only knows she's soft where I'm hard, alive and warm and right there.
Her lips part, whether to speak or just to breathe, I don't know, and I realize with sudden, unwanted clarity that I want to kiss her. Want it with an intensity that's completely inappropriate given that we're currently being shot at.
Focus, dammit. Focus.
The scent of dust and sweat fills my head, sharp and human and alive. Then training kicks back in. I roll off, my weapon coming up, the world narrowing again to angles, shadows, threat.
"You hit?" I snap, already scanning the rim of the draw for threats.
"No. You?"
"Negative." I key my radio. "Taking fire, one hostile with a rifle, we're in cover but pinned."
More rounds crack overhead, stitching across the rim of the draw, but the shooter doesn't have an angle on us yet. He's firing blind, trying to keep us suppressed while he repositions. I estimate his location based on the sound—still roughly where I first spotted him, which means he hasn't moved to flank us yet. That gives us maybe thirty seconds before this position becomes untenable.
"There's another one," Carolina says, and I follow her gaze to see a second figure moving fast down the slope from a different angle. They're trying to box us in — classic hammer-and-anvil — and they’ve got the angles to make it count. If they coordinate even moderately well, we're in serious trouble.
I decide in a fraction of a second. "Move. Down the draw, fast as you can. I'll slow them down."
"Like hell?—"
"Carolina." I grab her arm, forcing her to look at me. "You die here, those devices go off, and more people die. You're the only one who can stop them. You run to the clearing below—the one with the lone aspen and the flat—get there and stay low. I'm going to make sure you get the chance to do what you do best."
Her jaw tightens. Fear flickers, then something like stubborn resolve settles over her face. "Don't you dare die on me, Morrison."
"Not planning on it." I release her arm and shift position to get a better angle on the approaching shooters. "Now move."
I activate my mike and report in, calm and clipped. “Command, this is Flint. We’re taking hostile contact, two shooters—moving to box. Sending subject to a clearing at the lower draw for immediate extraction. Request QRF and medic to grid point Delta-three, ETA two minutes. I’m engaging to delay.”
