I close the distance between us, rising on my toes to meet him. The kiss is soft at first, tentative, just a brush of lips that sends electricity racing down my spine. Then his other arm comes around my waist, pulling me closer, and the kiss deepens.
He tastes like copper and antiseptic and something uniquely him. The kiss is slow, thorough, like he's memorizing me. His mouth moves against mine with the same confidence he brings to everything else—sure, steady, devastating in its gentleness.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his hand still tangled in my hair, thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear.
"After this is over," he murmurs against my lips, "we're definitely figuring this out."
"Definitely," I agree, and kiss him again—briefer this time, but no less intense.
“But first,” he says, voice low, practical again, “we get through this.”
“Agreed, survive this first,” I agree, though even as I say it, part of me is already wondering what surviving might mean for us.
EIGHT
CAROLINA
The driveto Camp Cielo Azul takes ninety minutes, the convoy of FBI and Guardian HRS vehicles winding through hills that turn from coastal scrub to oak woodland to pine forest.
I ride in an FBI suburban, Flint beside me in the back seat, his presence solid and grounding. We don't talk much—both of us are in pre-mission headspace, running through scenarios and contingencies, preparing for what's coming.
But his hand finds mine between the seats, fingers threading through mine, and that simple contact says everything words can't.
The camp is a collection of rustic buildings scattered across a meadow—main lodge, several cabin clusters, a dining hall with a peaked roof, storage buildings, and a covered pavilion for outdoor education.
Under different circumstances, it’s idyllic, the kind of place kids remember forever as summer magic and nature adventures. Now it's a ghost town, evacuated and silent, waiting for the device that will either be disarmed or tear it apart.
The FBI establishes a command post in the parking area, tactical vehicles and equipment staged with military precision.Bomb techs in heavy suits stand by, medical personnel prepping their equipment, Guardian HRS operators establish the perimeter.
It's a massive response, dozens of people, and the weight of their presence reminds me that failure here doesn't just mean my death—it means I fail all of them, fail the people who trusted me to be good enough.
Parker briefs me on the device location. "Staff spotted it in the main lodge. Wires visible behind the industrial refrigerator, timer display showing 4:32. Our techs did a preliminary scan—confirmed it matches the signature from Device One."
"I'll need to see it," I say, already running through approaches in my head. "Full workspace, good lighting, someone who can hand me tools without me having to look away from the device."
"I'll do it," Flint says immediately. "I've cross-trained on basic EOD support. I can hand you tools, hold things steady, whatever you need."
I start to object—he should be staying back, staying safe with those cracked ribs—but the look in his eyes stops me. He's not offering because he's the best person for the job. He's offering because he's not letting me face this alone, and arguing will waste time we don't have.
"Okay," I agree. "But you stay behind me, out of the primary blast radius if this goes wrong."
"Not acceptable."
"Flint—"
"If it goes wrong, we both go together or neither of us goes at all." His voice is gentle but immovable. "I'm not surviving you, Carolina. So you better make sure you get this right."
The words should be morbid, but instead they're oddly comforting. We're in this together. All the way. Whatever happens.
I suit up in minimal EOD gear—the full bomb suit would be too restrictive, too slow, and with Greer's modifications, it probably wouldn't save me anyway if I'm wrong. Just a vest, gloves, and a headlamp.
Flint checks his weapons, moving carefully but well despite the compression wrap around his ribs, and then we're walking toward the main lodge together.
The building is timber and stone, designed to blend with the natural environment, with large windows letting in the golden evening light. Under different circumstances, I'd admire the architecture. Now I note the exits, the cover positions, and the structural points where an explosion would do the most damage.
We enter through the main doors, boots echoing on the hardwood floors. The interior is organized chaos frozen in time—tables set for the next meal that never happened, a whiteboard with the day's activities still listed, backpacks abandoned in cubbies when the evacuation order came. It feels like walking through a museum of life interrupted, and the wrongness of it makes my skin crawl.
The kitchen is industrial-sized, designed to feed a hundred people at a time. Stainless steel counters, commercial stoves and ovens, and against the back wall, the refrigerator that's been pulled away from the wall to reveal the device.
