"Flint." Her voice is quiet, meant only for me despite the other occupants in the vehicle. "If something goes wrong in there?—"
"Nothing's going wrong." I shift so I can look at her directly, our faces close in the dim interior. "You're going to disarm it, I'm going to keep you safe, and then we're both going home."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me." I take her hand, threading our fingers together, and bring our joined hands to rest on my thigh. The contact grounds us both. "We've survived everything Greer threw at us so far. We're not stopping now."
She squeezes my hand hard enough to hurt, and I squeeze back. Her eyes are luminous in the darkness, reflecting the passing streetlights, and I can see fear there—but also determination. Trust. Something that looks like the beginning of love, though it's too soon for either of us to say it.
The vehicle slows as it approaches the terminal, and I have to release her hand. But the warmth of her fingers lingers on mine, and when we exit the vehicle, she stays close—close enough that I can feel her presence, close enough that I could reach for her in a heartbeat if needed.
Guardian HRS establishes a perimeter, operators fanning out to cover approaches and create a secure zone. FBI and portsecurity set up a secondary perimeter farther out. If this goes wrong, they'll need to contain the blast and prevent secondary casualties. If it goes very wrong, nothing they do will matter—the chain reaction will devastate this part of the port.
Carolina and I approach the terminal building together, my hand never far from my weapon, her tool kit slung across her shoulders. The main entrance is secured with heavy locks, but port security has provided access.
We step inside a cavernous space filled with pallets of industrial materials, forklifts frozen in place, and the particular stillness that comes when a busy place suddenly goes silent.
"The electrical maintenance was logged for the northwest corner," Carolina says, consulting her tablet. "Near the chemical storage cages."
We move deeper into the terminal, our footsteps echoing on concrete floors, headlamps cutting beams through the darkness beyond the emergency lighting.
My instincts are on high alert, scanning for threats that might not be just electronic. Greer's people tried to kill Carolina. There's no reason to think he's abandoned that approach now.
The northwest corner houses a series of chain-link cages containing drums of industrial chemicals—acids, solvents, oxidizers, the kinds of materials that are individually inert, but catastrophic if mixed. A device here wouldn't just explode—it could trigger a toxic cloud, a firestorm, a chemical disaster that would make the blast radius secondary to the contamination zone.
And there, behind the cages, visible through the mesh, is the device.
It's larger than the one at Camp Cielo Azul, more sophisticated, clearly designed to be Greer's masterpiece. The housing is custom-machined steel, and the timer display LED is bright, showing 6:53.
But it's the additional components that make my stomach drop—what looks like shaped charges positioned to rupture specific chemical drums, a ventilation override that would spread toxic gases through the terminal's duct system, and what might be a radio-frequency trigger that could detonate the device remotely.
"Jesus," Carolina breathes, taking in the complexity. "He's trying to create a disaster that will be remembered for decades."
"Can you stop it?"
She's silent for a long moment, studying the device from multiple angles. "I think so. But it's going to take time, and I'll need absolute focus. Any distraction, any sudden threat, and I might make a mistake."
"Then I'll make sure there are no distractions." I key my radio, ignoring how the movement pulls at my damaged ribs. "I need complete security on this position. Nobody gets within fifty yards of this terminal. If anyone approaches who isn't an FBI agent or Port Authority employee with confirmed credentials, stop them. Use of force authorized."
Acknowledgments come back from the perimeter team. I turn to Carolina, seeing the fear and determination warring in her expression. "I'll be right here. Watching your back. Keeping you safe. You worry about the device."
She nods, setting down her tool kit and pulling out the equipment she'll need. I take up a position behind and to her left, weapon in hand, where I can see the approaches but won't interfere with her work. The position also keeps me out of the primary blast radius if things go wrong, though at this range, wrong means both of us die regardless of where I'm standing.
Carolina kneels in front of the device, her headlamp illuminating the components in harsh white light. She's silent for several minutes, just studying, assessing, building a mental mapof how Greer constructed this and what approach she'll need to take.
I watch her work, seeing the competence and intelligence that first drew my attention in her file photo, seeing the courage it takes to face something specifically designed to kill her.
"Okay," she says finally, her voice steady. "Primary trigger is similar to Device Three but more sophisticated. He's added multiple fail-safes, redundant circuits, and what looks like a dead-man switch. I disable one component wrong and everything else fires simultaneously."
"What's your approach?"
"Systematic. Start with the components I'm most certain about, work toward the ones he's hidden or disguised. And pray I'm reading his psychology correctly, because this whole thing is designed to punish mistakes."
She reaches for her first tool, and her hand shakes slightly before she steadies it with visible effort. The tremor isn't exactly fear—it’s exhaustion, an adrenaline crash, the accumulated stress of the last twenty-four hours. But she locks it down, forcing steadiness through sheer will, and begins.
The work is painstaking, each cut and disconnection requiring absolute precision. She narrates some of it for my benefit, though mostly she's talking herself through the steps, maintaining focus through verbalization. I listen with half my attention, the other half scanning our surroundings for threats. The terminal is quiet except for her voice and the distant hum of ventilation systems, but quiet doesn't mean safe.
Thirty minutes pass. Then an hour.
