"Yes." I meet her eyes. "He wants me to come. Wants me to try to disarm his devices. Either I fail and prove I'm the fraud he always said I was, or I succeed, but more people die because Device Four is still out there. Either way, he wins."
Parker leans back in her chair, processing. "We've already begun evacuating Camp Cielo Azul. There were fifty-two people on site—staff and a youth group from Bakersfield. The evacuation should be complete within the hour."
"What about Device Four?" I ask. "Has he given any indication of where it is?"
"Nothing concrete. More riddles about 'where imports become exports'and'the Gateway to the Pacific.'Our analysts think he's referencing a port facility, possibly San Diego or Long Beach. We're increasing security at both locations, but without more specific intel..." She trails off, the implication clear.
We're chasing shadows until we have something concrete.
The door opens, and Flint walks in, moving carefully, one hand pressed subtly against his ribs. He's dressed in fresh tactical gear, a compression wrap visible under his shirt, moving with the controlled breathing of someone managing significant pain. But his eyes are clear, alert, tracking every person in the room before settling on me.
The weight of his attention is palpable, protective in a way that should irritate me but instead loosens something in my chest.
He's here. He's alive. He took multiple rounds to the vest for me, and he's still standing, still ready to do it again if necessary.
"Morrison," Parker acknowledges him with a nod. "Guardian HRS confirmed you'll be providing personal security for Ms. Sutton at the device site."
"That's correct." Flint moves to stand beside my chair, and I resist the urge to reach for his hand the way I did in the medical bay.
Professional. We need to stay professional here, even though every instinct I have is screaming to touch him, to confirm he's real and whole and not bleeding out in a helicopter anymore.
Parker walks us through the tactical plan—Guardian HRS will establish a perimeter around the device location, FBI bomb techs will be on standby, but I’ll be the primary. Medical evacuation is staged a mile out. It's thorough and professional and exactly what I'd expect from federal law enforcement, but underneath it all is the awareness that we're racing a clock we can't see and playing a game where Greer wrote all the rules.
"We transport in thirty minutes," Parker says, standing. "Ms. Sutton, you'll ride with our tactical team. Morrison, you'll have separate transport with Guardian HRS personnel."
"Negative," Flint says, voice flat and brooking no argument. "Where she goes, I go. Same vehicle."
Parker's eyes narrow slightly. "That's not standard protocol?—"
"I don't care about standard protocol. Three hours ago, Greer's people tried to kill her in the wilderness. They failed because I was there. She doesn't move without me within arm's reach until this is over." He meets Parker's gaze without blinking. "Non-negotiable."
There's a tension in the room, a contest of wills between federal authority and the kind of certainty that comes from someone who's already bled for their position. Parker looks to me, perhaps expecting me to object to being guarded so closely.
"He stays with me," I say quietly. "He's earned that right."
Parker considers for a moment longer, then nods curtly. "Fine. But you follow FBI protocols on site. We're in command."
"Understood," Flint says, though something in his tone suggests he'll follow those protocols exactly as long as they don't conflict with keeping me alive.
The meeting breaks up, people dispersing to their assigned tasks, and suddenly it's just Flint and me in the conference room. He's standing close enough that I can see the tightness around his eyes, the way he's breathing shallowly to minimize the pain from his ribs, the controlled movements that say the vest impacts were worse than he's letting on.
"You should be resting," I tell him. "Those ribs need?—"
"What they need is to hold together for another twelve hours." He cuts me off gently but firmly. "After that, they can do whatever they want. But right now, I need to be functional."
I stand, closing the space between us until my pulse stumbles. The air thickens, charged with something that feels alive. He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat coming off him, the subtle scent of soap and leather under the sterile tang of the infirmary.
He’s taller than I remember—six-two, maybe six-three. I’m five-six, and to meet his eyes I have to tilt my head back, a movement that makes me acutely aware of everything else: the breadth of his shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt, the corded muscle along his forearm, the faint rasp of stubble shadowing his jaw.
For a heartbeat, I just look at him. The stillness between us hums, my pulse syncing to the slow, controlled rhythm of his breathing. There’s power in the way he holds himself—contained, deliberate, the kind of strength that doesn’t need to announce itself.
Heat curls low in my stomach, sharp and sudden. I take in the scar peeking from beneath his collar, the square line of his throat when he swallows, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. It’s too much and not enough all at once, the space between us a single breath from breaking.
"You took bullets for me."
"Yes." No hesitation, just fact. A flicker of dry amusement tugs at his mouth. "Technically multiple impacts," he adds, the corner of his lip lifting. "You keep rounding down."
The humor is quiet, threaded through the gravel of his voice, but it softens the space between us and turns the moment intimate instead of heavy.
