Page 32 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"Welcome to my world." But my voice comes out wrong. Too rough. Too raw. Like something's clawing its way up my throat.
I wrap the bandage tight, secure it with medical tape. Check for seepage. The white gauze is already staining red at the edges, but the bleeding's slowing. She needs proper medical attention. Antibiotics. Maybe stitches.
But even without them, she'll live.
My hand lingers on her shoulder—the uninjured one—longer than it should. Feeling the rise and fall of her breathing. Solid. Real.
She covers my hand with hers. Her fingers are cold, shaking slightly from shock and adrenaline. "Chris."
I meet her eyes. See my own fear reflected back at me.
"You're going to be sore as hell tomorrow," I manage.
"Tomorrow." She laughs, brittle and sharp. "Assuming we survive today."
"We will."
I scan the ridge through my scope. No movement. The shooter's either repositioned or retreated. Either way, we can't stay here. This position is defensible but it's also a trap. One way in, one way out.
"Can you move?" I ask.
"Yes."
I help her to her feet. She sways slightly, catches herself against the rock. Blood seeps through the bandage, dark stain spreading.
"We need to get you to a hospital."
"No." Her hand grips my arm, fierce despite the pain. "No hospitals. No police. Not yet."
"Sierra—"
"They'll ask questions. File reports. And whoever just shot at us will know exactly where to find me." She meets my eyes, andthe fear is there, raw and honest. But underneath it, something harder. Determination. "We can't run from this."
The words hang between us in the cold mountain air.
She's right. Running means living in fear, always looking over our shoulder. These people already know where she lives. Already know we're onto them. Running just delays the inevitable.
"No," I say slowly. "We can't."
For the first time in a year, the weight of that acceptance settles over me. Not burden. Purpose.
I managed to crawl away from the fight once, but the fight followed me here. The difference is, this time, I'm not alone.
Sierra leans against me, blood warm where it soaks through her jacket. Her breath comes in quick puffs of vapor in the freezing air. She's trembling—delayed shock, adrenaline crash—but she hasn't broken. Hasn't crumbled.
"We need a plan," she says.
"First we get off this mountain." I keep my rifle ready, eyes scanning for movement. "Then we regroup."
"And then?"
"Then we take these bastards down."
Her fingers dig into my jacket. She should be terrified. Should be demanding I take her to the hospital, call the police, let someone else handle this.
Instead, she straightens, pulls away from my support. Tests her weight on both feet.
"I can move," she says.
