He moves forward carefully,reaching into his pack and pulling out a tablet wrapped in a protective case. When he's fifteen feet away, I stop him again, and he sets it on a flat rock before backing off. I move forward to collect it, hyperaware of his presence—the way he holds himself, the economy of movement, the fact that he's armed but hasn't touched his weapon once since showing his hands empty.
Professional. Respectful.
But also... I notice details I shouldn't. The breadth of his shoulders under the tactical shirt, the strong lines of his face, the way his eyes track me without being aggressive about it.
I shake off the awareness and focus on the tablet. He's already unlocked it, pulled up files. I scroll through quickly, absorbing information the way I was trained to—fast, thorough, no emotional attachment to what I'm reading.
There are crime scene photos of Device One at the water treatment facility. My breath catches when I see it. That's my design, no question. The housing, the trigger mechanism, and the redundancy protocols I built in to make it challenging but not impossible for advanced students to disarm.
But there are modifications—additional components I don't recognize, bypass systems that look like they're designed to kill anyone using my standard teaching methods.
He's weaponized my training tool. Made it into something that would murder the very people I taught to stay alive.
I scroll to the photos of Device Two, the one that detonated. The aftermath is ugly—twisted metal, scorched earth, and structural damage to the electrical substation. The report says minimal casualties, but minimal doesn't mean none.
Someone died because Greer used my design to kill them.
"There's more," Morrison says quietly. He moved closer without me noticing, standing ten feet away now. "The interrogation transcripts."
He closes the distance to maybe six feet, and I'm suddenly aware of the space between us—or the lack of it. He's taller than I realized, at least eight, maybe ten, inches on me, and the morning sun backlights him, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders.
I catch his scent—sweat and pine and something clean, masculine, that cuts through the mountain air.
When he leans in to point at something on the tablet screen, his shoulder nearly brushes mine, and I feel the heat radiating off him. For a man who just hiked deep into the wilderness to find me, he smells surprisingly good, and I'm annoyed at myself for noticing.
"Here," he says, tapping the screen, and his voice is lower, rougher than before.
Close enough that I feel the vibration of it.
I force myself to focus on the words, not on the man standing so close I could reach out and touch him. Not on the way my body wants to lean into that warmth, that solid presence.
This is tactical information. Lives at stake. Not the time to be distracted by broad shoulders and steady gray eyes.
But my hands aren't entirely steady when I take the tablet from him, and when our fingers brush in the exchange, the contact sends an unexpected jolt through me that has nothing to do with static electricity.
I pull up the file and start reading. Greer's words jump off the screen, smug and cryptic."The Girl Scout always comes prepared, but did she prepare for this?"
Girl Scout.
That was his nickname for me back at Fort Lee, said with just enough edge to make it an insult disguised as affection. I was always prepared, always had backup plans, always thought three steps ahead. He resented it even as he pretended to admire it.
"Where Girl Scouts earn their badges,"I read aloud from another line. My mind immediately supplies context—Camp Cielo Azul, a wilderness education center in the Los Padres foothills where I used to volunteer teaching orienteering and wilderness survival to youth groups. I spent dozens of weekends there, and Greer knew about it because he made jokes about me wasting my time with kids when I could be doing something more important.
"You recognize the reference," Morrison says. It's not a question.
"Yeah." My voice is rough. "He's pointing to a location. A place he knows I'd identify." I look up from the tablet to meet his eyes. "This is targeted. Specifically at me. He wants me to come, wants me to try to disarm his devices, probably wants me to fail so he can prove I was always dangerous."
"Or he wants you dead." Morrison's expression is grim. "FBI thinks he might have a partner still active. Someone is placing devices while he's in custody. Someone who might have orders to take you out if you show up."
The morning suddenly feels colder, despite the sun. I hand the tablet back to him, and our fingers brush in the exchange—rough calluses, warm skin, the brief contact sending an unexpected jolt of awareness through me. I pull back quickly, annoyed at myself. Not the time. Not remotely the time.
"How did you find me?" I ask, buying myself a moment to think.
"Tracked you. Your company said you were out here somewhere. I started at the trailhead where your Jeep's parked, followed your trail." He slides the tablet back into his pack. "You're good, but I'm better at tracking than most people are at hiding."
There's no arrogance in the statement, just fact. And he's right—I didn't expect to be found. Didn't think anyone would be looking. "Anyone else looking for me?"
His jaw tightens. "Maybe. I found boot prints yesterday that weren't yours and weren't mine. Two people, moving parallel to your route. Could be hikers. Could be something else."
