The implications settle cold in my stomach. If Greer told his partner where I might be, they could have been searching while I was processing anniversary guilt up here in the wilderness. They could be close right now.
I look around at my camp, at the peace I've tried to carve out of solitude and distance.
Nine days isn't enough.
Will never be enough.
Because the past doesn't stay buried just because you run from it—it follows you, finds you, demands payment in blood and guilt and the one thing you swore you'd never do again.
But if I don't go, people die. Children, maybe, if Device Three is where I think it is. Innocent people who had nothing to do with my failure three years ago are now caught in the blast radius of Greer’s revenge.
I meet Morrison's eyes. He's watching me, patient but urgent, and there's something in his expression that makes methink he understands the weight of this decision. The paracord bracelet on his wrist catches the light, and I wonder what promise or failure he's carrying, what ghost drives him the way Noah's drives me.
"How long do I have?" My voice is steadier than I feel.
"Twelve hours. Maybe less." He pauses. "I have a helicopter waiting at the trailhead. We can be at Guardian HQ in two hours, the FBI briefing room an hour after that."
Twelve hours to stop a device I designed from killing people, using knowledge that got someone killed three years ago. Twelve hours to face Marcus Greer's revenge and prove that I'm not the monster he wants me to be—or that I am.
I think of Noah, young and eager and dead, because I thought I could make training realistic without making it lethal. I think of the unknown people who will die if Device Three detonates, their families, their futures erased because I don't have the courage to face my past.
"I need five minutes to break camp." I move toward my bivvy sack, already making decisions about what to pack, what to leave. "We'll move fast getting down. If there are people looking for me, I'd rather not make it easy for them."
Before I can move away, his hand catches my wrist—not restraining, just... connecting. The touch stops me mid-step.
When I look up, his eyes are on mine, storm-gray and intense, and for a breath the mountain falls away. There's heat there, unmistakable, and something else—recognition, maybe, like he's seeing past my walls to the woman underneath.
I should pull away. Should maintain distance, professionalism, all the walls I've built.
But I don't.
For three heartbeats, we stand there, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, can see the flecks of darkergray in his eyes, can feel my pulse kick up in response to whatever this reaction might be.
Then he releases me, stepping back, and the mountain rushes back in around us—cold air, pine scent, the mission waiting below.
"Five minutes," he says, voice rougher than before. "Agreed." Morrison unslings his pack and pulls out a radio. "I'll call for the helicopter, have them ready to go the second we hit the trailhead."
I roll up the bivvy, everything finding its place in my pack through muscle memory that doesn't need conscious thought. Freeze-dried food, water filtration system, first aid kit, rope, knife, fire starter, and spare clothing. The Sig goes into a holster that clips to my pack's hip belt for easy access. Everything else gets left—the fire ring, the memories, the attempt at peace that failed before it started.
Morrison is talking quietly into his radio, confirming extraction and updating someone named CJ on the situation. I catch fragments: "Subject located... cooperative... possible hostile surveillance... ETA two hours."
Subject. That's me.
Back in the world where I'm not Caro, who guides hikers through beautiful country, but Carolina Sutton, who designs devices that kill and might be able to stop someone from doing it again.
I shoulder my pack, the weight familiar and grounding. Morrison ends his call and turns to me, and for a moment we just look at each other. Two people shaped by violence and carrying ghosts, about to walk into more violence together. There's an understanding in his eyes that I wasn't expecting, something that says he knows the cost of what he's asking and respects that I'm paying it anyway.
"Ready?" he asks.
No. I'll never be ready. But being ready doesn't matter when the clock is ticking.
"Yeah." I do a final scan of the camp, making sure I haven't left anything that matters. The raven is back in its tree, watching us with those intelligent eyes. "Let's move. Stay sharp—if Greer knows where I go, his people might have found my camp the same way you did."
Morrison's expression sharpens, hand dropping casually closer to his weapon. "You take point. You know this terrain better than I do. I'll watch our six."
It's the right call, trusting my expertise in my domain, and I respect him for making it without ego. I start down the trail at a pace that's fast but sustainable, picking the route that gives us cover and good sight lines. Behind me, Morrison moves quietly for someone his size, and I can feel his presence like a physical thing—protective without being oppressive, alert without radiating paranoia.
The sun climbs higher as we descend, heat building despite the elevation. Sweat soaks into my shirt, and my legs settle into the rhythm of long-distance hiking that I can maintain for hours. My mind tries to wander toward what's waiting at the bottom of this mountain—FBI briefings, device schematics, Greer's smug face in some interrogation room—but I force it back to the present.
