Page 47 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
One hundred yards.
Seventy-five.
I can see their faces now through the scopes and tactical gear. Hard men doing a hard job for money and orders.
Fifty yards.
Chris's rifle cracks. The lead operator drops, crumples like a puppet with cut strings.
Then all hell breaks loose.
The mountain erupts in gunfire. Muzzle flashes strobe across the slope like deadly lightning. The sound is deafening—sharp cracks from rifles mixing with the deeper boom of Chris's M4. Rounds impact the rocks around us, send stone chips flying. One catches my cheek, draws blood. I ignore it.
I lean out from cover, sight on a figure moving up the left flank. Squeeze the trigger. The Glock kicks. The figure staggers, collapses behind a boulder. Can't tell if I hit him or if he's taking cover.
Chris fires in controlled bursts. Each shot deliberate. Each one finding a target or forcing them to stay pinned. He's not trying to kill them all—just slow their advance, make them work for every yard.
"Reload!" he shouts.
I drop the empty magazine, slam in a fresh one. My hands are steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. Despite the cordite smell burning my nostrils and the ringing in my ears and the knowledge that we're outnumbered three to one.
An operator breaks from cover, sprinting toward better position. I track him, lead the shot, fire twice. The second round catches him mid-stride. He pitches forward into the snow.
"Good shot!" Chris's voice carries over the chaos.
But there are too many. They're not amateur thugs or desperate traffickers. These are professionals. Former military or law enforcement contractors who've done this before. They use fire and movement tactics, suppressing us while others advance. Flanking us, using superior numbers to surround our position.
A burst of automatic fire stitches across the rock to my right. Fragments spray into my face. I duck, taste blood and dust. My wounded shoulder screams as I shift position. The bandage is soaked through—fresh blood seeping through the gauze. Can't think about that now.
"Sierra!" Chris shouts over the gunfire. "North side!"
I pivot, see two operators climbing the ridge on our blind side. Moving fast, using the terrain. Smart. They're trying to get above us, take the high ground.
My first two shots go wide—they're moving too fast, too erratic. The third catches one in the chest. He tumbles backward, crashes down the slope in a spray of snow and rock.
The second operator keeps coming. Raises his rifle. I see the muzzle swing toward me in what feels like slow motion.
Chris's rifle booms. The operator's head snaps back. He drops.
"Stay sharp!" Chris barks.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Breath coming in quick gasps. The cold air burns my lungs. My fingers are going numb despite the gloves. I flex them, keep the blood moving. Can't afford to lose dexterity now.
The assault is relentless. Coordinated. They're not rushing us—they're methodical, patient, using cover and suppression toadvance incrementally. Wearing us down. Waiting for us to run out of ammunition. A grenade would end this. One explosive device and we're done. But they're not using grenades. They want us alive. They want and need to know what we've sent and to whom.
Something burns across my left arm. I hiss through my teeth but don't stop firing. No time to check the damage.
I empty my magazine into a cluster of operators trying to advance behind a fallen log. They scatter, dive for different cover. Chris picks off one who moved too slow.
Reload. My next to last magazine. Thirty-six rounds left.
"Running low!" I shout.
"Same!" Chris returns fire, drops an operator who got too brave. "Make them count!"
Minutes stretch into eternity. Every second is a lifetime. Every shot matters. My shoulder is on fire, arm slick with blood from the graze. Sweat stings my eyes despite the cold. The Glock is hot in my hands, barrel radiating heat through my gloves.
And then the shooting stops.
