The helicopter begins its descent toward a staging area the FBI has established near the port.
Below, the port sprawls in a maze of steel and light—warehouses crouched low against the water, cranes towering like skeletal giants frozen mid-stride. Sodium lamps cast the docks in a jaundiced glow, turning the massive container ships into floating silhouettes, their hulls groaning softly with the tide.
The night is alive with the hum of generators and the distant clang of metal on metal. The Port of Los Angeles handles millions of containers annually, a constant flow of goods moving between ship and shore, the economic lifeblood of the region. And somewhere in that steel maze, Greer has hidden his final device.
We touch down in a parking lot that's been converted into a command post—FBI vehicles, LAPD bomb squad, PortAuthority security, Guardian HRS operators. CJ is there to meet us, his expression grim in the harsh LED work lights.
"Terminal 206 is evacuated," he tells me as soon as I'm off the helicopter. "Port authority shut down operations in a three-terminal radius, but we can't evacuate the entire port without causing panic and gridlock. If this goes wrong, collateral damage will be significant."
"It won't go wrong," I say it with more confidence than I feel, but confidence is part of the job. "Carolina knows what she's doing."
"She's been awake for over twenty hours and working under extreme stress," CJ counters, then looks pointedly at my chest where the compression wrap is visible. "And you're barely functional with those ribs."
I look over to where Carolina is being briefed by Parker and port security, studying a physical map of Terminal 206's layout. Even exhausted, even scared, she's focused and professional. This is what she was trained for, what she's spent years mastering. The fact that Greer corrupted her work doesn't change her fundamental competence.
His eyes drop to my chest, to the way I'm carefully bracing against the injury to my ribs.
"I'm standing. That's enough." I meet his gaze steadily. "She needs someone she trusts beside her while she works. That's me. End of discussion."
CJ studies me for a long moment, seeing what I've been trying not to examine too closely myself. This stopped being just a mission somewhere between tracking her through the wilderness and taking bullets to keep her alive.
"Don't get her killed trying to protect her," he says finally. "And don't get yourself killed because you're too stubborn to admit you're compromised."
"Noted." I move toward where Carolina is waiting, each step a measured exercise in pain management and will.
She looks up when I approach, and something in her expression softens fractionally.
"Terminal 206 handles bulk cargo—industrial chemicals, machinery, raw materials. The maintenance records show electrical work near the chemical storage area, which is exactly where I'd place a device if I wanted maximum collateral damage." She traces a path on the map. "We go in on foot, Guardian HRS establishes perimeter, FBI bomb squad stays back unless I need them. It's going to be you and me, same as Camp Cielo Azul."
"Timeline?"
"Sunrise is at 6:52 AM, less than two hours from now. We need to move. Greer's note said 'don't be late,' which could mean anything. The device might be on a fixed timer, or it might have a variable trigger based on conditions we don't know yet."
"So we assume worst case and work fast."
"Yeah." She looks past me to the sprawl of terminals beyond the staging area.
TEN
FLINT
Carolina holds my gaze,the war playing out behind her eyes—the desire to protect me clashing with the need for someone she trusts beside her, fear of being responsible for another death tangled with the hard truth that she can’t do this alone.
Finally, she nods once, accepting the terms I've laid out.
"Okay. Together."
"Together."
We gear up in silence, both of us falling into the rhythms of pre-mission preparation. I check my Glock, load fresh magazines, and ensure my radio is functioning.
Carolina assembles her tools, double-checking that everything she might need is accessible and organized. Around us, Guardian HRS operators and FBI agents move with purpose, everyone aware that the next few hours will determine whether this ends in success or catastrophe.
The drive to Terminal 206 takes fifteen minutes through deserted port roads, our convoy moving in darkness, sirens off. No point in advertising our presence to anyone who might be watching.
The terminal looms ahead, a massive warehouse structure surrounded by shipping containers stacked like building blocks, cranes frozen in position above. Floodlights cast harsh shadows, and the smell of diesel fuel and ocean salt is thick in the air.
Carolina sits beside me in the FBI suburban, close enough that our thighs press together with every turn. She's been quiet for most of the drive, reviewing device schematics on her tablet, but I've felt her awareness of me the whole time—the way her eyes track to me when she thinks I'm not looking, the way her hand keeps drifting toward mine before she pulls it back.
