Page 60 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"Jesus Christ. This is—" He cuts off. "I'm forwarding this to DOJ now. Homeland is already calling me. FBI wants in. This is massive."
Another phone buzzes. Sierra checks the screen. "It's DOJ. They're confirming receipt."
Then another. "Homeland."
Then another. "FBI."
The phones keep buzzing, keep lighting up with incoming calls from federal agencies across the country. Everyone wants to know what just hit their servers. Everyone wants their piece of the case.
It's over. Finally over.
I look at Sierra across the wreckage of the command room. We're both bleeding, exhausted, smoke-stained. She has a cut above her eyebrow, her shoulder bandage is soaked through. I probably look worse.
But we're alive. And we won.
"You did it," I say.
She moves to stand beside me, her fingers lacing through mine. "We did it."
The word hits different after a year of isolation. A year of survival on my own, trusting no one, letting no one close.
But standing here with Sierra, looking at Healy unconscious on the floor and the evidence uploading to every agency that can use it, I realize something.
Alone kept me alive. But it wasn't living.
This—fighting beside someone, trusting someone, building something with someone—this is living.
Sirens echo in the distance, growing louder. Backup is finally here. The cavalry arriving after the battle's already won, like always.
But this time it's different. This time, I'm not disappearing into the mountains afterward. This time, I'm staying.
I look at Sierra. "I need to call my sister."
Her smile is tired but genuine. "Yeah. You do."
The sirens get closer. Multiple vehicles, at least four or five from the sound. Barrett must have brought everyone.
I pull out the sat phone, stare at it. My thumb hovers over Bryn's number, the one I've had memorized for a year but never called.
What do I even say? Hey, surprise, I'm not dead? Sorry for letting you grieve? Sorry for abandoning you when you needed me?
Sierra squeezes my hand. "She'll understand. She loves you."
"She thinks I'm dead."
"Then give her the best surprise of her life."
I dial before I can talk myself out of it. The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.
Then her voice, cautious and professional: "Hello?"
"Bryn." My throat tightens around her name. "It's me. It's Chris."
Silence. Long enough that I think the call dropped.
Then: "Who is this?" Her voice turns sharp. Angry. "This isn't funny. Whoever you are?—"
"It's really me. I know you thought I was dead. I know I let you think that. But I'm alive, Bryn."
