I look at the photo again, at those hazel eyes that have seen too much. She went into the wilderness to process her guilt, and now the past is coming for her whether she's ready or not. The irony would be bitter if it weren't so damn predictable. You can't outrun what haunts you. I learned that the hard way.
"Timeline?" I ask, already running calculations in my head. Los Padres is big, thousands of acres of rugged terrain. If she's been off-grid for nine days and her boss doesn't know her exact location, finding her is going to take skill and time we might not have.
"Device three is estimated to activate in approximately twenty-two hours based on Greer's pattern. Could be less. FBI's working on narrowing down the location from his clues, but they need Sutton's expertise to disarm it." CJ stands, moving to the map of California mounted on his wall. He taps the area around Los Padres National Forest. "Her company says she usually works in this region. Her vehicle's been parked at the Alameda Trailhead for eight days. Rangers confirm they haven't seen her, but that's not unusual—she knows the backcountry and tends to avoid the main trails."
I study the map, the vast green expanse that could hide someone who doesn't want to be found. Eight days is a long time to be alone out there. She'll have established a pattern, foundwater sources, and set up camps in defensible positions if she's got any tactical sense. And based on her file, she's got plenty.
"You want me to find her and bring her in." It's not a question.
"You've got SERE training, you've tracked HVTs through worse terrain than this, and you're the best tracker on the team." CJ turns from the map. "I need her found fast, Flint. And I need her willing to help. She's been out of the game for three years, probably dealing with PTSD from the training incident. You're going to have to convince her to face the exact thing she's been running from."
I think about the bracelet on my wrist, about the weight of guilt and how it shapes everything you do afterward. About how hard it is to trust yourself again when you've failed someone who counted on you. I might be the right person for this job, but not for the reasons CJ thinks.
"I'll find her," I say, standing. "Twenty-two hours gives me time if I move fast."
"Helicopter's being prepped now. You'll have a satellite phone, an emergency beacon, and full briefing materials on Greer and the devices." CJ hands me the file folder from his desk. "Read this on the flight. And Flint—she's going to be resistant. She left this world behind for a reason."
I tuck the folder under my arm and head for the door, but his voice stops me before I clear the threshold.
"One more thing. The FBI has reason to believe Greer had help with the devices. At least one partner, possibly more. If he knows where Sutton is—and he might, given how obsessed he seems to be—they could already be looking for her."
The implications settle into my gut like lead. I'm not just tracking her. I might be racing someone else to find her first, and that someone wants her dead or captured for leverage. The timeline just got tighter.
"Understood," I say, and let the door close behind me.
Twenty minutes later, I'm in a helicopter, pack secured between my boots and the file folder open on my lap. The pilot lifts us into the air, and the facility drops away beneath us as we bank toward the mountains. I can see the coastline from here, the Pacific stretching endlessly blue, and inland the green-brown expanse of Los Padres rising into ridges and canyons that could swallow a person whole.
I open the folder and start reading, committing details to memory the way I've done a hundred times before on mission prep. Marcus Greer, thirty-four, a former Army EOD specialist, was dishonorably discharged after the training incident that killed Private Noah Parker.
Greer blamed Sutton for designing a device that was too realistic, too dangerous for training purposes. She blamed him for arrogance and failure to follow protocol. The investigation sided with her, but Greer's career was over either way. He went dark after discharge, dropped off the radar for two years, and resurfaced six months ago in Los Angeles, working construction. FBI thinks he spent the missing time radicalizing, building connections, and planning this.
The device schematics are complex, elegant in a way that makes it clear Sutton knows her craft. The trigger system is adaptive—it learns from disarmament attempts and adjusts its parameters to counter them.
It's brilliant and terrifying, the kind of innovation that saves lives when used for training but becomes a nightmare in the wrong hands. Reading her design notes, I can see the mind behind it: precise, creative, always three steps ahead. She thought through every angle, anticipated every approach. That same mind is now the only thing standing between Greer's devices and mass casualties.
There are photos of her in the file beyond the personnel shot. One from Afghanistan, standing with her unit in dusty fatigues, that slight smile playing at her mouth. One from her teaching days, demonstrating something to a group of students, her hands moving as she explains. One more recent, maybe a year old, from the wilderness guide company's website. She's in hiking gear, standing on a ridge with mountains behind her, and the smile is gone. Her eyes look distant, haunted by things she can't leave behind.
I close the folder and look out the window at the terrain passing beneath us. The helicopter follows Highway 101 north before cutting inland toward the mountains. The landscape shifts from coastal scrub to oak woodland to the denser vegetation of the higher elevations. Los Padres is a patchwork of ecosystems, from chaparral-covered hills to pine forests to rocky canyons where water carves through limestone and sandstone. Good country for someone who wants to disappear.
The pilot's voice crackles through my headset. "Five minutes to LZ."
TWO
FLINT
I checkmy gear one more time, running through the mental list. Glock 19 on my hip, Ka-Bar knife strapped to my thigh, satellite phone and emergency beacon in waterproof pouches, first aid kit, water filtration system, three days of rations, bivvy sack, and the portable tablet with her file loaded.
I'm dressed for speed and flexibility—lightweight hiking boots broken in years ago, cargo pants with reinforced knees, a moisture-wicking shirt under a tactical vest that carries extra magazines and supplies. The paracord bracelet catches my eye as I adjust my pack straps, and I run my thumb over it once before forcing my attention back to the mission.
The helicopter descends toward a clearing near the Alameda Trailhead, and I can see a small parking area with a handful of vehicles below. One of them will be hers—the file said a dark green Jeep Wrangler, seven years old, well-maintained. The kind of vehicle that says she values reliability over flash.
We touch down with barely a bump, and I'm out the door before the skids fully settle, pack on my shoulders, and head down against the rotor wash. The pilot gives me a thumbs-up through the windscreen, and then the helicopter is lifting away,leaving me in sudden silence broken only by wind through pine trees and the distant call of a hawk.
The parking area is deserted except for the vehicles. I find the Jeep easily—it's the only one that looks like it's been here for days, with a fine layer of dust coating the windshield and pine needles accumulated on the hood.
I peer through the windows without touching anything. The interior is clean and organized, and a first-aid kit is visible in the back seat, along with a climbing rope and a duffel bag. Nothing screams distress or hurried departure. She planned this trip, packed deliberately, and walked into the wilderness with purpose.
I head to the trailhead kiosk where hikers are supposed to sign in, but there's no log entry from her. Not surprising—she knows this area too well to bother with official channels, and if she wanted privacy, advertising her route would defeat the purpose. I study the trail map posted behind scratched plexiglass, noting the main arteries that branch into smaller paths, the elevation markers, and the water sources.
