Page 46 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"Anything."
"If this goes sideways. If it's a choice between getting me out or getting that evidence uploaded?—"
"Sierra—"
"Promise me you'll choose the evidence. Healy can't walk away from this. Not after what he did to Joel and Tate. Not after all the victims."
Chris pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "I'm not losing you to make a point."
"It's not about making a point. It's about justice. About making sure all of this—" I gesture at the ridge, the mountain, the past year of his life "—actually matters."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "I promise. If it comes to that. But I'm going to do everything possible to make sure it doesn't."
"Good enough."
The wind shifts. Brings a sound that doesn't belong to the mountain. Engines. Multiple. Still distant but closing.
Chris hears it too. His hand drops to his rifle, brings it up smooth and ready.
"They're early," I say.
"They're smart. Came at us from the north instead of the main approach." He moves to the edge of the ridge, glasses the valley below through his scope. "Four vehicles. Maybe twelve to fifteen operators."
My stomach drops. We were expecting half that number.
"Can we move?"
"Not without them spotting us. This ridge is exposed from three sides." He lowers the scope, face grim. "We hold here. Use the terrain for defense."
I check my Glock. Full magazine. Two spares on my belt. Not enough for a sustained firefight but enough to make them work for it.
"Sierra." Chris touches my shoulder—the good one. "Stay close to the rocks. Use cover. And if I give the word to run, you run. Don't look back."
"Not happening. We fight together or not at all."
He looks like he wants to argue. Then nods, acceptance settling into his expression. "All right. Side by side."
The engine sounds grow louder. I can see them now—black SUVs navigating the rough terrain, heading straight for our position. They know we're here. Of course they do. Healy's too smart to fall completely for our trap. He sent overwhelming force because he knew we'd be ready.
But maybe that's okay. Maybe overwhelming force means he's scared. Desperate. Making mistakes.
I position myself behind the rock outcropping, sight lines clear down the slope. Chris takes the other side, creating a crossfire zone.
"They'll try to flank," he says, scanning the approaches.
My hands are steady on the Glock. Training kicks in, muscle memory from hundreds of hours on the range, from the warehouse in Chicago, from every time I've had to point a weapon at another human being and make the choice to pull the trigger.
The SUVs stop two hundred yards out. Doors open. Figures emerge—tactical gear, rifles, moving with military precision.
"Here they come," Chris mutters.
I check the chamber, feel the weight of my promise settle into my bones. If we don't make it, the evidence uploads. Healy goes down. The network collapses.
The figures fan out, begin their approach. I count fourteen. Professionals. Former military or law enforcement, the way they move speaks of training and experience.
But they're walking into a killzone. And they don't know Chris. Don't know what eleven months alone on this mountain taught him about defensive positions and terrain advantage.
Don't know what a stubborn linguist from Chicago will do when backed into a corner.
