Page 29 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
I dig through the gear cache, pull out a pair of Salomon trail runners—size seven, women's. Found them on the side of a trail months ago after a group passed through. Told myself it was strategic planning. Extra gear for emergencies, which is ridiculous because they’d never fit me.
Sierra takes them, surprise flickering across her face. "These are?—"
"Close to your size. Yeah." I turn away, check my rifle to avoid whatever question is forming on her face. "Put them on."
She sits on my sleeping platform, laces them up. Her fingers move quickly, efficiently. When she stands, she tests her weight, bounces slightly on the balls of her feet.
"They fit perfectly," she says quietly.
I don't answer. I shoulder my pack, adjust the rifle sling. "Ground rules. You follow my lead. You stay quiet unless I tell you otherwise. You see something, you signal me—no shouting, no sudden movements. If I tell you to run, you run. Understood?"
"Understood."
"And if shooting starts, you get down and stay down. I'll handle it."
Her jaw tightens. "I was a cop in Chicago. I'm not helpless."
"Didn't say you were. But you're not trained for combat, and I am. So when the bad guys show up, you let me do my job."
She holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods. "Okay."
Good enough.
We head out just after dawn. The sky is clear, brilliant blue stretching from horizon to horizon. The storm left two feet of fresh powder that whispers and shifts under our boots. Beautiful and deadly—the kind of conditions that kill unprepared hikers every season.
But Sierra keeps pace. I set a moderate speed, watching her from the corner of my eye. She's breathing hard by the first mile, but she doesn't complain. Doesn't ask for breaks. Just puts one foot in front of the other, following the path I cut through the snow.
At the ridgeline, I stop. Let her catch her breath while I glass the valley below. No movement. No tracks except deer and elk. The mountain looks pristine, untouched.
It's a lie.
"How much farther?" Sierra asks, voice strong despite the altitude and exertion.
"Another mile. We drop down into that drainage, follow it north." I point toward a narrow ravine cutting through the forest. "The first dead drop is in a cluster of aspens. Old growth, hollow trunk."
She studies the terrain, committing it to memory. "How many dead drops total?"
"Three that I've mapped. Could be more." I lower the binoculars, meet her eyes. "These people are careful. They rotate locations, use encrypted communications. But they're not perfect. They leave traces."
"Everyone does," she says softly.
We descend into the drainage. The forest closes in around us, aspen and pine blocking the sky. Shadows stretch long and cold. I move slowly now, watching for signs—broken branches, disturbed snow, anything out of place.
Sierra stays close, matching my pace. She's learning to read terrain, to step where I step, to avoid the noisy patches of ice-crusted snow. Adapts fast. Better than I expected.
The dead drop sits in a hollow at the base of an ancient aspen. Someone carved out the rot, created a hidden compartment behind a section of loose bark. From ten feet away, it's invisible. But I've been watching this site for three months.
I signal Sierra to hang back, then approach the tree. Gloved hands pull away the bark panel.
The cache is active. Fresh supplies—energy bars, chemical hand warmers, a satellite phone in a waterproof case. And underneath, wrapped in plastic, a notebook.
"Sierra," I call quietly. "Get over here."
She kneels beside me, camera already in hand. Photographs the cache from multiple angles while I flip through the notebook. It's a logbook—dates, coordinates, coded messages in tight handwriting. Cyrillic letters mixed with English.
"Can you read this?" I ask.
She leans in, studies the text. Her finger traces a line of writing. "It's Russian. But the syntax is off. Like someone learned it as a second language."
