Page 43 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
The radio crackles again. Different frequency this time. One I've been monitoring but never heard active before.
A voice cuts through the static. Male. Calm. Speaking with a Great Lakes accent.
"Ghost." The word is clear, unmistakable. "We know you're alive. We know she's with you. And we're coming."
Sierra's face goes white. "That's Shepherd."
The voice continues. "Twenty-four hours. You have twenty-four hours to surrender yourselves and all evidence. Or we come for you both."
Then silence.
Sierra grabs my hand, grips tight. "They took the bait."
"Yeah." I stare at the radio, mind already running through defensive scenarios. "They did."
Twenty-four hours. We have one day to fortify our position, set our trap, ready ourselves for the fight.
One day to decide if we survive or die trying.
Sierra's eyes meet mine. I see my own determination reflected there. We're not backing down. Not running. Not surrendering.
We're ending this. One way or another.
"Let's get to work," I say.
11
SIERRA
The false intel is live, the trap is set, and all we can do now is wait for Shepherd to take the bait.
Eighteen hours have passed since Chris and I transmitted the encrypted data. Eighteen hours of hiking through terrain that makes my wounded shoulder scream with every step. Eighteen hours of climbing to this godforsaken ridge that Chris swears is the perfect intercept point.
He's right. Of course he's right.
The ridge sits at the convergence of three valleys, high enough for line-of-sight communication across the entire northern quadrant. Chris knows this mountain like most people know their own neighborhood. Every dead drop, every supply cache, every place the trafficking network uses to relay information.
This spot? This is their hub. Messages route through here before dispersing to operations sites. If Shepherd responds to our bait, the signal will pass through this ridge.
If. The word hangs heavy in the cold air.
I huddle behind an outcropping of rock, portable receiver balanced on my knees, laptop open despite the battery drain. Chris insisted we bring the solar charger—another piece of gearhe "liberated" from an unattended cabin. The small panel sits angled toward the weak winter sun, trickling power into my devices.
Five hours we've been here. Five hours of watching signal patterns, monitoring frequencies, waiting for something that might never come.
My shoulder throbs. The bandage needs changing but we're conserving supplies. Infection is a risk I'll worry about if we survive the next twenty-four hours.
Chris is twenty yards away, prone on the ridge with his rifle, scanning the approaches through his scope. We've been trading off—two hours on watch, two hours rest. Neither of us actually sleeps during rest periods. Just sits with weapons ready, listening to the mountain.
The receiver crackles. Static, then nothing. False alarm. I've heard a dozen of those today.
I pull my jacket tighter, flex my fingers to keep circulation going. January in Alaska is no joke. Even with Chris's gear, even with layers and heat packs, the cold finds ways in. Seeps through fabric, settles into bones, makes your joints ache and your thoughts slow.
Focus. I force my attention back to the screen, run another diagnostic on the decryption software. Everything's operational. All I need is a signal.
"Anything?" Chris's voice is low, barely audible over the wind.
"Static and more static."
