Page 27 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
Then… movement. She stiffens a split second before I register it too. A glint at the edge of the break in the rocks. Not large. Not quick. But wrong. The motion is deliberate, precise, measured. It doesn’t belong to the natural cadence of the woods. Not a fox. Not the wind. Not bending branches. Not even the restless shadows of snowfall. It’s the rhythm of intent, the cadence of something human threading through terrain that doesn’t want it.
My skin tightens. This isn't nature. It's intent.
I angle my rifle, zeroing in. She's already ahead of me—binoculars raised, elbows locked tight against her sides, breath suspended in a practiced stillness. Her entire body is a coiled line of focus, like she’s reading the terrain in ways my scope can’t.
"Single shape," she whispers. "Low profile. Might be crawling."
I adjust the scope, pulse ticking higher as I register a distortion—something darker than shadow, barely moving. Then a glint. Not moonlight. Not ice. Glass. Scope. Some idiot trying to play sniper. Amateur, but still deadly if we underestimate him.
"Got him," I say. "Southwest rise, eleven o’clock."
"Backup?"
"No eyes on secondary."
We wait.
He moves again. A faint crackle from the underbrush, just beyond the bluff. The snow muffles the sound, but not completely. Something about the cadence—the pause, the weight of it—triggers instinct. Not random. Not natural. It’s the deliberate step of someone hunting, not wandering.
I hold fire. I want him closer. I want to see how far he’ll go.
He crosses the narrow chute. Bad angle. If I were posted there, he’d be dead already. That confirms it—he’s not Tier One. Not even close. Mercenary, maybe, but doubtful. More likely a hired amateur, not professional. A probe, not a hit. Someone expendable, but still dangerous.
Wren breathes out—a small, steady exhale that seems to pull the strain from the air itself. I don’t need to look to know she’s easing off the wire. Her body language adjusts with subtle relief, the kind you only allow when you’ve been proven right. She tracked him longer than I did. She read the terrain, the cadence, the wrongness—she knew before I did, and now I know it too.
"You good with taking lead if this turns quick?" I ask.
She glances at me, surprise dawning across her face before resolve settles in. Her nod is steady, grounded—not bravado, just absolute readiness. A shared recognition of what's coming next.
"Good. We let him pass. I want him alive." The suppressor on his rifle looked new, not pawn-shop steel. Someone with real cash is paying for hardware, not favors.
He’s close now. Forty yards. I tighten my grip, slow my breath, forcing each muscle into stillness. Every nerve hones in, tuned to the snow-muted rustle of movement just beyond the bluff. The skin across my cheekbones tingles as if the air itself wants to remind me we're exposed—if not to our adversaries, then to the elements. I steady my stance, pulse heavy in my ears, the weight of the moment stretching long and taut. No flinch. No doubt. Just the quiet click of instinct sliding into place.
The wind carries the brittle snap of ice crust breaking under his weight, too deliberate to be wildlife. He's heading straight for the bluff, unaware he’s stepping into a trap we built from silence and patience. Too close to miss if this goes loud. My finger rests near the trigger, but I’m already planning the tackle.
Wren stiffens, the faintest shift of weight that pulls my attention like a tripwire snapped. Her fingers tense around the stock of her rifle, breath catching—not in fear, but in signal. Something in the periphery catches her eye, and then mine. The figure turns, not toward us, but toward the decoy, his movement deliberate and assessing, as if he's scented something off but can't quite name it.
I exhale through my teeth. "Now."
We spring. She moves like fire—low and fast, looping wide to cut him off. I take the direct path. Twenty yards. Ten.
I hit him hard, shoulder spearing into his ribs, full weight driving him down until snow bursts upward in a spray that steals his breath with mine. He wheezes, tries to kick, claw, scramble for purchase, but I’ve already locked him down. My knee digs into his spine, my hand torques his wrist until the joint pops like overstressed rope. His grunt is muffled by snow and my weight, the sound of someone realizing he’s already lost.
"You scream, I break it," I growl.
He gulps back his scream and quiets immediately, going limp in surrender.
Wren slides in, rifle trained. Her breathing’s elevated but controlled, a steady rhythm that mirrors my own heightened state. I can see the slight rise and fall of her shoulders, every muscle drawn taut like a fault line ready to rupture under pressure, like she's holding more than air in her lungs—like she’s holding the line between action and restraint. The heat in her eyes isn’t fear. It’s calculation.
"He’s alone," she confirms. "Trail’s clean."
I pat him down. Basic gear. No insignia. Burner phone. Radio.
I lift the mic. "Tell them you saw nothing. Or you’ll never speak again."
He hesitates, uncertainty wavering in his eyes. I adjust my weight and twist his wrist with calculated pressure, just enough to remind him this isn’t a negotiation.
He whimpers, then clicks the button. "Negative contact. Ridge clear."
