Page 15 of Keeper of Talon Mountain
"Anyone hurt?" he asks, holstering his weapon as Nate and Caleb begin checking on the downed men.
"Just bruises," Gabe answers, though the cut on his cheek looks deeper than he's letting on.
"Good." Zeke approaches the nearest attacker and starts going through his pockets. "We were at Nate's place when I got your voicemail. Lucky thing, or I'd have been handling this alone." He pulls out a wallet, flips it open, and his expression hardens. "Federal IDs. These guys are government."
My blood runs cold. "Government?"
"Defense contractors, looks like." Zeke shows me the ID—official-looking, with seals I don't recognize. "Which means Gabe's situation just got a whole lot more complicated."
I look at Gabe, who's gone very still. His face is pale beneath the bruising, and I can see him processing the implications. If the government is after him, it means his past isn't just dangerous—it could be classified.
"Zeke," I say carefully, "what does that mean for him?"
The sheriff looks between us, and I can see him weighing his words. "It means we're all in over our heads. And it means Gabe's going to have to start remembering things real fast, because whatever he's forgotten, people with serious resources want him back."
The sound of more vehicles approaching echoes through the mountains. More contractors, probably, coming to clean up whatever mess this has become. In a few minutes, my quiet bed and breakfast will be overrun with whoever these men work for, all of them asking questions I don't have answers to.
But as I watch Gabe stand there, bloody but unbroken, facing down whatever storm is coming with that quiet determination I'm starting to recognize, I realize something important: I don't care who these people are or what they want. Gabe chose to protect me, and I'm going to do the same for him.
The approaching vehicles grow louder, and I reach for Gabe's hand. His fingers are warm despite the cold, and when he squeezes back, I feel something settle into place between us. I care about him. More than I should, probably, but I don't regret it.
"Ready?" I ask quietly.
He looks at me, and for the first time since I found him in the snow, he smiles. It's small and a little sad, but it's real. "Yeah."
The convoy rounds the final bend, and I squeeze Gabe's hand tighter. I know what it's like to face the worst alone. He won't have to.
6
GABE
The convoy brings more contractors, not answers.
Three black SUVs pull into the yard, and men in tactical gear pour out like ants from a disturbed hill. They're efficient, professional—securing the scene, checking on their downed colleagues, speaking in clipped tones that suggest military training. One of them, a man with graying hair and cold eyes, approaches Zeke with credentials that get him immediate deference.
I keep Mara behind me the entire time, hyperaware of every weapon, every position, every potential threat. My body won't relax despite the ache in my ribs and the exhaustion pulling at my limbs. These men move the way I do—trained killers pretending to be civilized.
The gray-haired man studies me from a distance, makes notes on a tablet, but doesn't approach. Doesn't ask questions. Just watches with the kind of assessment that makes my skin crawl. He's evaluating me, cataloging my capabilities, measuring me against some standard I can't remember.
After what feels like hours but is probably only forty minutes, they load their three downed operatives into one of the SUVs. The big man with the injured arm glares at me as they help him into the vehicle, hatred clear in his eyes. I stare back until he looks away first.
The gray-haired man finally approaches, stopping a careful ten feet away. "Andrews."
"Who are you?" My voice comes out harder than I intend.
"Someone who will be in touch." He hands Zeke a business card. "When his memory returns, call that number. It's in everyone's best interest that we have a conversation."
"And if I don't want to talk?" I ask.
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Then we'll have a different kind of conversation. One you won't enjoy."
Mara's hand finds mine, squeezes once. The gray-haired man notices, his gaze flicking between us. Something shifts in his expression—calculation, maybe, or recognition that I have something to lose now.
"Take care of yourself, Andrews," he says, and it sounds like a threat.
Then they're gone, loading into their vehicles and disappearing down the mountain road in a small convoy. The whole operation takes less than an hour—efficient, professional, leaving no trace except tire tracks in the snow and the lingering sense that this isn't over.
Zeke stays behind with the two men who came with him who he introduces as Nate and Caleb. While Zeke asks questions I can't answer and takes notes I know won't help, the other two check the perimeter and make sure the property is secure. After about an hour, they're ready to leave.
