Not acceptable.
I follow her out to the aircraft, my hand finding the small of her back briefly as she climbs aboard—a touch that's protective and possessive. She settles into a seat, and I take the one beside her, close enough that our shoulders brush.
Close enough that I can move to shield her if needed.
Close enough that I can feel her breathing and know she's alive.
The helicopter lifts off, and through the open door, Guardian HQ falls away beneath us, the California coast stretching endlessly to the west. We're heading inland, toward the mountains, toward the wilderness education center where children learn to tie knots, identify plants, and feel safe in nature.
Toward the place where Greer left a bomb with Carolina’s name written all over it.
I check my weapons one more time, settling into the pre-mission headspace where everything narrows to the objective. Protect Carolina. Keep her alive. Let her do what only she can do.
The bracelet on my wrist catches the light, and I run my thumb over it once—a prayer or a promise or both.
Not too late this time.
Not her.
SEVEN
CAROLINA
The FBI fieldoffice 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 whilesimultaneously 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."
