Page 42 of Keeper of Talon Mountain
We exit into the cold. The temperature hits immediately—sharp and clean, the kind of cold that steals breath and makes skin ache. My breath fogs in the morning air, small clouds that dissipate instantly. Everything feels hyperreal—the crunch of snow under boots, the rifle's weight against my shoulder, the way sound carries differently in thin mountain air. I can hear my own heartbeat loud and fast.
Crane waits by the falls, standing exactly where visibility is best. Even from here I can read his body language—confident, relaxed, a man who believes he controls this situation completely. Gray hair perfectly styled despite the cold. Expensive cold-weather gear that costs more than my truck. The bearing of a man who's spent decades making people disappear and never faced consequences. Two operatives flank him, weapons visible but not raised. Professional. Controlled. Waiting.
Gabe walks forward with measured steps, his hands loose at his sides. I move left as planned, using the boulder formations for cover. The granite is ancient, weathered, solid. Real. I press against it, feeling the cold seep through my jacket. Sarah ghosts right, disappearing into the tree line with barely a sound, invisible within seconds.
The tactical triangle forms naturally—three points of coverage, overlapping fields of fire. I understand the theory even if I don't have their training.
"Gabriel." Crane's voice carries across the frozen landscape, conversational and pleasant. "And you brought your sister. How touching. Family reunions in such dramatic settings."
"I brought the evidence." Gabe stops twenty feet away, far enough to maintain distance, close enough to be heard clearly. "USB drive. Everything you're looking for."
"Show me."
Gabe pulls the drive from his pocket, holds it up. Small. Insignificant looking. Impossible to believe it contains information worth killing for. "Safe house in Billings. You destroyed it, but the drive survived. All your operations, all your crimes."
"That's not the real drive." Crane's voice doesn't change, still pleasant, almost amused. "You're smarter than that, Gabriel. You wouldn't risk the actual evidence on a meet like this. That's a decoy, probably blank or loaded with garbage data."
My grip tightens on the rifle. He knows. Somehow, impossibly, he knows.
"The real evidence is in three locations," Crane continues, his tone that of a professor explaining something obvious to a slow student. "Grotto Falls, which is why we're here. Anchorage, First National Bank—where your sister's team is currently breaking several federal laws. And Seattle, a Greyhound station locker that I emptied two weeks ago. Did I miss anything?"
Sarah's voice crackles through the earpiece, tight with tension. "Rhett, sitrep."
Static, then Rhett's voice, clipped and urgent: "Bank's locked down. Federal agents everywhere. It's a trap. We're pulling back now."
My stomach drops. The cold suddenly has nothing to do with the weather.
"Your friends are about to be arrested," Crane says, watching Gabe's face for reaction. "We've arranged quite the scenario—warrants for three murders in Billings, a staged federal agent killing in Montana. Body placed yesterday, forensics doctored to show Nate Barrett's gun as the murder weapon. Very thorough work. The moment your friends presented that bank key, they became accessories to multiple felonies."
Gabe's voice stays level but I can hear the strain underneath. "You're bluffing."
"Check the news in about thirty minutes. You'll find our work quite thorough. We even have witness statements, security footage, a very compelling narrative about rogue operators going vigilante." Crane pulls out his phone, the screen bright in the dim morning light. "I make one call, your friends go to prison. Your sister loses everything—security clearance, career, freedom. Sheriff MacAllister gets investigated for harboring a fugitive. This charming town becomes a federal crime scene with reporters and investigators crawling over every detail."
"Or?" Gabe asks, though we all know what's coming.
"Or you disappear. Permanently. New name, new face, new continent. South America is lovely this time of year. Everyone else walks free, goes back to their lives, never hears from you or Chimera again."
Wind whistles through the frozen falls, a lonely sound that echoes off the granite walls.
"Why not just kill us?" Gabe asks. "Simpler. More permanent."
"Congressional hearings in six weeks. If those files surface during a murder investigation, questions get asked that I can't answer. Bodies get exhumed. Timelines get checked. Your death creates complications. Your disappearance solves them cleanly."
"He's lying," Sarah says through the earpiece, her voice hard. "The moment you're out of sight, we're all dead. This is theater."
Through my scope, I track one of Crane's men. He's drifted closer to where Sarah disappeared, moving with practiced stealth. Hunting. They know she's out there somewhere, invisible but dangerous.
"Alex," I breathe into my mic, keeping my voice barely audible. "Hostile moving on Sarah's position. Your two o'clock, maybe thirty meters into the tree line."
"Acquired. Tracking."
Gabe's phone buzzes. He glances at it, and something changes in his face—tension releasing, replaced by grim satisfaction. "It's done."
"What's done?" Crane's pleasant mask slips slightly.
"The upload. Tommy Walsh has been monitoring this conversation from Montana. The moment you showed up, he started copying the evidence to every major news outlet, three congressional offices, and the FBI's public corruption task force. Thirty minutes of continuous upload. The files are already received and being opened."
Crane's mask cracks completely, control fracturing. "You're bluffing."
