Page 14 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
He looks away. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. "What do you want from me?"
"Help me." The words are out before I can stop them. "Help me break this network. You know things I don't. You've been watching them for almost a year. Together, we can...”
"Together?" He laughs, bitter and sharp. "I work alone."
"You worked with a team before. Joel and Tate. They trusted you. You trusted them."
"And they're dead because of it."
"They're dead because someone betrayed you. Not because you weren't good enough. Not because trust is weakness." I hold his gaze. "I'm not asking you to come back. I'm not asking youto expose yourself. I'm just asking you to do what you've been doing. But with backup this time. With someone who can help."
He stares at me for a long moment. I can see the war behind his eyes. The part that wants to say yes. The part that's terrified of what yes might cost. Finally, he shakes his head. "You should go back to your cabin." Not a no. Not quite.
"Will you think about it?" I press.
He doesn't answer. Just turns and starts walking into the trees. But before he disappears completely, he stops and looks back over his shoulder. "Stay off the trails at night. The network runs drops after dark. You don't want to stumble into that." Then he's gone, swallowed by shadow and snow.
I stand there in growing light, heart pounding, breath misting in cold air. He warned me, which means he's still protecting people, even if he won't admit it. Which means there's hope.
I watch him as he walks away. Chris Calder isn't just a witness or a victim. He's a weapon. Aimed at the network that killed his team. And I just figured out how to point him in the right direction.
4
CHRIS
The woman is still standing there when I look back, and that's the problem—I have a sneaky suspicion she doesn't just quit.
Most people would've taken the hint. The warning. The explicit threat when I told her to stay away. They would've gone back to their cabin, locked the door, maybe radioed Barrett with information. Smart people know when to back down.
But I don’t think she’s most people.
Even from a hundred yards out, I can see her silhouette against snow. Arms crossed. Feet planted like she's claiming ground instead of standing on borrowed time. The stubborn set of her shoulders tells me everything I need to know about how this is going to go.
Badly. For both of us.
I should've let the bear have her.
The thought comes unbidden and immediately makes me feel like the bastard I've probably become. But it's true, isn't it? One mauling, one tragic accident, one more statistic about city transplants who don't respect the wilderness. Problem solved. Sierra Vale becomes another cautionary tale, and I stay dead.
Instead, I saved her life. Showed her my face. Let her say my name out loud for the first time in eleven months. Might as well have lit a flare and sent up coordinates to everyone who wants me buried for real.
Stupid. Reckless. Joel would've torn into me for breaking protocol like this. Except Joel's dead, and I'm the one who got him killed.
I turn away from her silhouette and push deeper into the trees. My shelter's another two miles northeast, tucked into terrain that doesn't show up on any map Barrett would have. Remote enough that even experienced hikers miss it. Fortified enough that I'll have warning if anyone comes looking.
The hike back follows paths worn into muscle memory. Eleven months of walking the same routes in darkness. Left at the split pine. Over the creek where ice is thickest. Through the gully that funnels wind like a natural alarm system. Every step calculated. Every landmark memorized.
Staying alive out here isn't romantic. It's repetition and paranoia in equal measure.
The shelter appears exactly where I left it, which means no one's found it yet. Good. The structure is basic—reinforced lean-to built into a rock outcropping, camouflaged with deadfall and snow. From the air, it looks like natural terrain. From the ground, you'd walk past it unless you knew exactly what to look for.
This isn't a home. It's a hide. And I'm getting real tired of hiding.
The anger hits without warning, hot and caustic in my throat. Fury at the situation. At the mole who set us up. At the system that's supposed to protect people like me but leaves its own compromised. At myself for being too much of a coward to do anything but survive.
"You're a coward hiding in the woods."
Her words cut through the space between my ears, sharp as the cold. She doesn't understand. Can't understand. This isn't about fear—it's about strategy. You don't win a war by charging straight at superior forces. You survive. You observe. You wait for the right moment.
