Something steady.
Something that catches me off-guard.
He's handsome in a way that's all angles and rough edges, nothing soft or pretty about it. Square jaw dark with stubble, straight nose that looks like it's been broken at least once, mouth set in a firm line that somehow still manages to look... appealing.
The tactical gear emphasizes broad shoulders and a trim waist, the kind of build that comes from functional strength rather than vanity.
My pulse kicks up, and I tell myself it's just adrenaline, just the surprise of being found after nine days alone. It has nothing to do with the way he holds himself—controlled power, competence written into every line of his body—or the steady intelligence in his eyes as he assesses the situation without a hint of panic.
I tighten my grip on the Sig, annoyed at myself. This is not the time to notice that a man is attractive.
This is the time to figure out if he's a threat and what he wants.
Focus, Sutton.
"Carolina Sutton?" His voice is calm, pitched to carry without shouting. No panic, no aggression. Just steady, like his eyes.
The fact that he knows my name makes my finger move fractionally closer to the trigger. "Who's asking?"
"My name is Flint Morrison. I'm with Guardian HRS." He moves one hand very slowly toward his vest, two fingers only. "I'm reaching for credentials. Don't shoot me."
Guardian HRS. The name triggers recognition—private security, former military operators, the kind of people who get called when situations are too sensitive or too complicated for standard law enforcement.
I don't lower the weapon, but I don't tell him to stop either. He pulls out a slim wallet and holds it up, letting me see the ID and badge before tossing it gently toward me. It lands in the dirt ten feet away.
"Stay there," I tell him, and move to retrieve it without taking my eyes or the gun off him. I crouch, pick up the wallet one-handed, and flip it open. The ID looks legitimate—his photo, the Guardian HRS logo. Could be fake, but it would be a good fake.
I toss it back to him. "Guardian HRS doesn't make social calls. What do you want?"
"I need you to come with me. There's a situation that requires your expertise." He hasn't moved from where I stopped him, hands still visible, body language open. "Time-sensitive. Lives at stake."
"I'm on leave." I adjust my stance slightly, keeping the rock outcropping between us. "Whatever it is, FBI or ATF or Army EOD can handle it. I'm not in that world anymore."
"It's not that simple." He takes a slow breath, deciding how much to tell me. "Marcus Greer is in FBI custody. He's been placing explosive devices across California using a trigger system you designed. One's already detonated. At least two more are active. FBI's techs can't disarm them. They need you."
The name hits me like a fist to the solar plexus. Marcus Greer. The last person I want to think about, connected to the last thing I want to touch. My hand doesn't waver on the gun, but something in my chest clenches tight.
"Greer?" My voice sounds flat even to my own ears. Dishonorable discharge. He blamed me for his failure.
Morrison's eyes are sharp on mine, reading my reaction. "He spent the last three years planning this. The devices use your adaptive trigger design. He's modified them, made them more lethal. And he's talking in riddles during interrogation, dropping hints about the next target that only someone who knows himwould understand." He pauses. "They think this is about you, Ms. Sutton. He's trying to prove something, or draw you out, or both."
I want to tell him he's wrong. I want to send him back down the mountain and pretend this conversation never happened. But the tactical part of my brain—the part that kept me alive through two deployments and three years teaching people how not to die—is already processing the information, and it makes too much sense.
Greer always was obsessed with proving himself, with being the best, with showing everyone who doubted him that he was smarter than they gave him credit for. And he blamed me for ruining his career, even though he ruined it himself by being arrogant and careless.
"If he's in custody, why do you need me?" I'm stalling, and we both know it.
"Because he's not giving up the locations easily, and even if he did, the FBI can't disarm devices built using your design. You invented it. You know how it thinks, how it adapts." Morrison takes a small step forward, testing my boundaries. "Every minute we waste is a minute closer to people dying."
The sun is slipping down toward the horizon, but is still warm on my shoulders. There's something in his expression beyond the professional urgency—concern, maybe, or recognition. Like he knows what he's asking of me, knows how much I don't want to do this, and understands why.
His right wrist has a paracord bracelet wrapped around it, worn and faded, the kind of thing soldiers make or carry for luck or memory. There's a story there, probably one as ugly as mine.
I lower the Sig slightly, safety back on, and tuck it into the holster at my hip. "Show me what you have."
FOUR
CAROLINA
