Page 30 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"What's it say?"
"Delivery confirmed. Next drop—" She pauses, squints at the coordinates. "These numbers. That's near my cabin."
Cold settles in my gut. "You're sure?"
"Yes." She pulls out her phone, opens a map app. Her finger hovers over a location less than half a mile from her property. "Right there. I think that’s the clearing where I thought I saw lights the first night."
I take the phone, memorize the coordinates. Then I photograph the entire notebook, every page. Evidence. Proof that this network isn't just operating on the mountain—they're escalating. Planning something bigger.
"We need to find that site," Sierra says.
"Not today. We're exposed out here, and now they’ll know someone's been through their cache." I replace everything exactly as it was, seal the bark panel. "We map the other drops, then we plan our next move."
We're halfway through the ravine when I spot it.
Tripwire.
Fresh installation, nearly invisible against the snow. But the angle is wrong for an animal trap. Too high. Too precise.
I freeze, raise my fist. Sierra stops immediately, doesn't question it. Good.
The wire runs from a tree trunk to a metal stake fifteen yards away. Following the line, I spot the camera rig—small, weatherproof, mounted in the branches above. Motion-activated, probably broadcasting to a remote receiver.
Someone's watching this route.
I signal Sierra to stay put, then low-crawl toward the setup. The wire is connected to a simple pressure trigger. Professionalwork but not sophisticated enough to avoid detection. These people are skilled, but they're not military.
It takes me three minutes to disarm the trigger without tripping it. But the camera's already active. The moment we entered its range, it started recording.
Whoever set this up will know it's been compromised.
"Time to move," I say, returning to Sierra. "Fast."
"What did you find?"
"Surveillance. We're blown." I grab her arm, pull her into a crouch. "We're taking the high route back. Stay low, stay quiet."
We move upslope, using the terrain for cover. The forest is too quiet now. Birds have gone silent. The kind of stillness that comes before violence.
I've felt it before. Iraq. Afghanistan, Right before the attack on my team. The seconds before an ambush when the world holds its breath.
The crack of the rifle shot echoes off the rock face.
Bark explodes from a pine trunk six inches from my head.
"Down!" I tackle Sierra behind a boulder, cover her body with mine. Another shot shatters stone above us, sends fragments raining down.
Two hundred yards. Ridge line. I spotted the muzzle flash from the corner of my eye.
"Stay here," I order, and unsling my rifle.
"Chris—"
"Stay. Here."
I pop up, sight through the scope. The shooter's repositioning, moving along the ridge. I send three rounds toward his last position—not trying to hit him, just force him to keep his head down.
It works. He ducks behind cover.
