Page 35 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"Law enforcement or intelligence." I pull up my analysis notes, start building a profile. "Mid-level fed, probably. High enough for access but not so high they'd draw scrutiny.Smart, patient, bilingual—Russian and English. Great Lakes background."
"That narrows it down to what? A few hundred people?"
"More like fifty, once I cross-reference with Chicago case files and Alaska operations." I type faster, following the thread. "Shepherd made a mistake. Multiple mistakes, actually. They think they're careful, but linguistic patterns don't lie. Every message they send gives me more data."
Chris watches me work, and when I glance up, there's something new in his expression. Respect, maybe. Or hope—the kind he's been afraid to feel for eleven months.
My shoulder throbs in counterpoint to my heartbeat. The ibuprofen hasn't kicked in yet. Exhaustion pulls at the edges of my vision, making the screen blur.
Chris notices. Of course he does. "That's enough. You need to eat."
"Five more minutes?—"
"Now, Sierra."
The command in his voice leaves no room for argument. I save my work, close the laptop. He's already pulling supplies from his cache—MRE packets, energy bars, a water bottle.
"Gourmet dining," I mutter, but I take the energy bar he offers. Peanut butter chocolate. It tastes like sawdust, but I force it down.
Chris eats mechanically, attention divided between the food and the shelter entrance. Always alert. Always ready. He hasn't let his guard down since I got shot.
The propane heater glows steadily in the corner, pumping warmth into the small space. In the time I’ve been here he's never had to refill it.
"How do you keep yourself supplied?" I ask. "Propane, food, medical supplies. You couldn't have carried everything from the ambush site."
His jaw tightens. Takes him a moment to answer. "I steal it."
"From who?"
"Campers. Unattended cabins. Supply caches left for emergencies." He doesn't look at me. "I take what I need. Leave the rest. Try to hit places that can afford the loss."
There's shame in his voice. This is a man who spent his career protecting people, enforcing laws, doing things the right way. Now he's a thief.
"You do what you have to do to survive," I say quietly.
"Doesn't make it right."
"No. But it keeps you alive." I set down my energy bar. "And if you're alive, you can still stop them. That's worth a few stolen propane tanks."
He glances at me then, something like gratitude flickering in his eyes.
"When's the last time you really slept?" I ask.
"I sleep."
"That's not an answer."
He doesn't respond. Just finishes his bar, drinks half the water, hands me the rest.
The shelter is warmer now, propane heater doing its job. My muscles start to uncoil, tension draining away now that the immediate danger has passed. But the fear remains—not of getting shot again, but of failing. Of letting another trafficking network slip through my fingers because I wasn't smart enough, fast enough, good enough.
"I can't lose this," I whisper. "I can't let Shepherd disappear like others have."
Chris moves closer, turns my face toward his with gentle fingers. "You're not failing. You're the first person who's gotten this close. First one to crack their pattern, identify their signature. That's not nothing."
"It's not enough."
"It's a start." His thumb brushes my cheekbone, and suddenly the air between us feels charged. Different. "And you didn't do it alone."
