Professional. Capable. Exactly what her file suggested she'd be.
I adjust the binoculars, bringing her into sharper focus, and something in my chest tightens.
Even from this distance, something is compelling about the way she holds herself—spine straight, shoulders back. I track the line of her throat, the way her braid falls over one shoulder.
This is a problem.
I'm supposed to be assessing her as a tactical asset —a subject who needs extraction —not noticing the graceful curveof her neck or the way the fading light turns her profile into something almost artistic.
I lower the binoculars and scrub a hand over my face, forcing myself to refocus.
Mission first. Always mission first. The unwanted awareness of her as a woman—as someone attractive—is just biology, adrenaline, the isolation of being alone in the wilderness. It doesn't mean anything. It won't affect my performance.
I raise the binoculars again, and immediately my eyes find her. Yeah. This might be more complicated than I anticipated.
I keep thinking about the way she held herself, rifle across her lap, watching the approaches with the kind of alertness that comes from training and experience. Professional, capable, and completely unaware of being observed.
I wonder what she's thinking right now, alone in her bivvy. Whether she's processing the anniversary that drove her out here, or if she's finally finding some peace. Whether she's as ready to face what's waiting below as she needs to be.
The paracord bracelet on my wrist catches moonlight, and I run my thumb over it absently. Tomorrow I'll walk into her camp and ask her to face her worst nightmare. Ask her to trust me—a stranger—to keep her alive while she disarms devices designed specifically to kill her. It's a lot to ask of anyone, let alone someone who's spent nine days in isolation trying to escape her demons.
But watching her earlier, seeing the competence and strength in every movement, I think she can handle it. More than that—I think she needs to handle it. Needs to prove to herself that she's more than her failures, more than her guilt.
I just have to make sure she survives long enough to realize it.
My mind drifts, unbidden, to the photo in her file. Those hazel eyes, that strong jaw, the confidence in her expression.She's even more compelling in person—real and three-dimensional in a way no photograph can capture. The way she moves, the intelligence behind her eyes when she assessed the threat I represented, the controlled tension in her body language that speaks to someone who's always ready, always aware.
I shake my head, annoyed at myself. This is tactical assessment, nothing more. Doesn't matter that she's attractive or that something about her presence has been pulling at me since I first saw her through the binoculars.
I’m here on a mission to extract her, keep her safe, until she can do her job. Simple. Professional.
I consider my approach. She'll hear me coming, and I'll have a weapon pointed at me before I can explain. Better to come in with my hands visible and hope she's willing to listen before she shoots.
I'll use her name, identify Guardian HRS, and show her credentials before I get too close. The photo of Greer and the device schematics should be enough to get her attention, and then I have to convince her that people need her more than she needs this isolation.
Simple.
Except nothing about this is simple. She's out here because she couldn't face what her design did in the wrong hands the first time. Now I'm going to ask her to face it again, under even higher stakes, with even less time to prepare.
I touch the bracelet on my wrist, feeling the familiar texture of the weave. I know what it's like to carry guilt that won't let go. I know what it's like to question every decision you've ever made because one of them got someone killed. And I know what it's like when the world demands you step back into the fire anyway because you're the only one who can.
THREE
CAROLINA
The afternoon shadowslengthen across the canyon as I sit on my favorite rock outcropping, rifle across my lap, watching the approaches the way I have every day since arriving.
Nine days. I've been out here nine days, and it still doesn't feel like enough distance from the date circled in red on every calendar I've ever owned since it happened.
Three years ago today, Private Noah Parker bled out on a training field at Fort Lee while I screamed at the medics to work faster and Marcus Greer stood with his hands shaking and his face white with shock. Three years, and I can still smell the copper tang of blood mixing with Virginia clay, still hear the wet sound of Noah trying to breathe around the shrapnel that had torn through his chest because Greer got cocky.
I stand before the memories drag me deeper. Movement helps. Action helps. Sitting still lets the past catch up, and I didn't come out here to drown in it—I came to make peace with it, or at least to stop fighting the parts I can't change.
The air is that thin mountain cold that comes with elevation and clear skies. The sun sets and the golden hour begins, promising a spectacular sunset.
I left my tent behind this time, bringing only the lightweight bivvy sack that keeps the dew off and weighs almost nothing. The less I carry, the farther I can go, and I need to go far this year.
Need to find a place where even the echoes of civilization can't reach me.
