Page 13 of Keeper of Talon Mountain
He hasn’t moved from beside his SUV, but something about his stillness feels dangerous. Like he's enjoying watching us squirm. Gabe's body is rigid in front of me, every muscle ready for violence, and I can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
"Gabriel," the man calls out again, his voice carrying easily across the snowy yard. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be. We just want to talk."
"Then talk," Gabe responds, his tone flat and dangerous in a way I haven't heard before. "From right there."
The stranger's laugh is sharp. "Not the kind of conversation we should have in front of civilians."
Civilians. The word hits me wrong, clinical and dismissive. This man sees me as collateral damage, something to be managed or removed. I want to punch him in the face.
"She stays," Gabe says, and there's no room for argument in his voice.
"Gabriel...”
"My name is Gabe." The correction is as hard as winter stone. "And whatever you want to discuss, you can say it from right there."
For a long moment, the stranger just stares at us. Then he shrugs, a casual movement that doesn't fool anyone. "Fine. We'll do this the hard way."
He reaches into his jacket, and Gabe moves.
I've never seen anyone move that fast. One second he's standing in front of me, the next he's tackled me to the ground behind the woodpile, his body covering mine as something whistles through the air where my head was moments before. A tranquilizer dart embeds itself in the lodge's wooden siding with a solid thunk.
"Stay down," Gabe breathes against my ear, his weight pressing me into the snow. "Don't move until I tell you."
My heart pounds as I hear footsteps moving through the snow, getting closer. The stranger isn't alone—there are at least two sets of footsteps, maybe three. Gabe's breathing is controlled, measured, like he's done this before. Many times.
"Gabriel!" The stranger's voice is closer now, maybe thirty feet away. "This doesn't have to go badly. Just come with us and the girl won't get hurt."
Gabe's body tenses against mine. When he speaks, his voice is deadly quiet. "Touch her and I'll kill you."
The words should scare me. Instead, something warm and fierce spirals through my chest. He's ready to die for me. The thought hits me like a punch to the gut.
"Move toward the lodge," he whispers, his lips barely moving. "When I say run, get inside and lock the doors. Call Zeke."
"I'm not leaving you...”
"Mara." His eyes find mine, and what I see there stops my protest cold. This isn't the confused, vulnerable man I've been caring for. This is someone else entirely—focused, lethal, completely in control. "Trust me."
Before I can respond, he's rolling away from me in a fluid motion that ends with him behind a different pile of firewood. "Now," he hisses.
I scramble toward the lodge, keeping low, snow soaking through my jeans. Behind me, I hear scuffling, the sound of bodies hitting the ground, a muffled curse. But there's something else—the sounds aren't chaotic like I expected. They're controlled, rhythmic. Purposeful.
I steal a glance over my shoulder as I reach the porch steps. Gabe isn't running or hiding. He's hunting.
The man with the tranquilizer gun is trying to reload when Gabe appears beside him like a shadow. I've never seen anyone move that fast—one moment Gabe is behind the woodpile, the next he's disarming the attacker with movements so smooth they look choreographed. The gun flies through the air and lands in a snowbank twenty feet away.
The attacker swings a fist at Gabe's head. Gabe ducks under it and drives his elbow up into the man's solar plexus. The attacker doubles over, gasping, and Gabe brings his knee up to meet the man's descending face. The crack echoes across the yard like a gunshot.
My hands shake as I fumble with the door lock. This isn't the confused, injured man I've been caring for. This is someone else entirely. Someone lethal.
A second attacker emerges from behind the SUV, moving fast toward Gabe's blind spot. I want to shout a warning, but my throat feels frozen. Gabe doesn't need it. Without even looking, he spins and catches the charging man's wrist, using the attacker's own momentum to flip him over his shoulder. The man hits the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
By the time I reach the back door, my worldview has shifted completely. Gabe isn't the victim here. He never was.
Inside, I grab my phone and dial Zeke's number with trembling fingers. It goes straight to voicemail.
"Zeke, it's Mara. Armed men at the lodge. They're after Gabe. We need help. Now."
Through the kitchen window, I can see the fight continuing. A third man has appeared—bigger than the other two, moving with the confidence of someone who's never lost a fight. He and Gabe circle each other while the other two attackers struggle to get back on their feet.
