Page 17 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
Every tactical instinct I've spent eleven months honing screams at me to move. Gear up. Intercept. Because whatever's coming, it's not friendly. Not at this hour. Not running without lights. Not deviating from established routes.
This is operational. Deliberate. Targeted.
And she's alone.
I grab my rifle, check the magazine. Full. Spare mags in my vest. Knife secured. Comms off because I can't risk transmission. The shelter's secure—I'll come back for the rest later if there is a later.
Right now, Sierra's about to get a visitor she isn't expecting.
And whoever it is, they're not coming to talk.
I move through the forest fast but controlled. Eleven months out here taught me how to navigate in the dark. Where roots reach across trails. Where ice hides under snow. Where terrain funnels sound and where it swallows it.
The engine sound's getting louder. Closer. Whoever they are, they're pushing hard. Moving with purpose. Not worried about noise anymore because they're close enough it doesn't matter.
Her cabin's two miles west from my location. The route they're taking cuts through rough terrain but it's doable if you know what you're doing. And these people know. They've been operating on this mountain long enough to map every trail, every approach, every blind spot.
The same people who killed my team.
My pace increases. Anger makes me sloppy—adrenaline makes me reckless—but right now, both are fuel. Let them come. Let them make a move. I've been invisible for eleven months, watching, waiting, gathering intel with nowhere to put it.
Maybe it's time to remind them ghosts can still bite.
The cabin comes into view through the trees. Lights on inside. Her shadow moving past the window. Oblivious. Working on her laptop or reviewing files or doing whatever forensic linguists do when they should be paying attention to their perimeter.
And there—fifty yards out—the snowmobile. Single rider. Cutting the engine. Going quiet.
Not Barrett. Not anyone with legitimate business at this hour.
The rider dismounts. Checks the cabin windows. Moves toward the door with practiced silence.
Not on my watch.
5
SIERRA
The power cuts out just as I'm decrypting the third message, and that's when I know I'm not alone.
My laptop screen goes dark. The oil lamp flickers. The low hum of the generator that's been my constant background noise for the past six hours dies into silence so complete my ears ring with it.
Coincidence. Has to be. Generators fail. Fuel runs out. Equipment seizes up in extreme cold. Standard Alaska problems.
Except the fuel gauge read three-quarters full when I checked at sunset.
And the silence outside isn't just quiet—it's watchful.
I sit frozen at the small desk, staring at the blank laptop screen, listening. Wind in the trees. Something small skittering across the roof. My own breathing, too loud in the stillness.
No engine sound. No mechanical whir trying to restart. Just... nothing.
My hand moves to the Glock secured in the shoulder holster under my fleece. Cold metal. Familiar weight. The same weapon I carried in Chicago when things went sideways, which they did.But Chicago had streetlights. Backup. Radio chatter and sirens and the constant pulse of a city that never really slept.
Here, there's only wilderness pressing against the windows and the sudden awareness that I'm miles from the nearest person who knows I exist.
Except Chris is somewhere out there in the dark.
The laptop's battery backup kicks in, screen glowing back to life. The decrypted message fragment stares at me—three lines of text that made my pulse spike before the power died.
