Page 52 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"Good." I catch her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Neither am I."
She shifts to look at me, her expression serious despite the flush still coloring her skin. "Chris, whatever happens tomorrow?—"
"Don't." The fear rises swift and sharp. "Don't say it."
"I have to." Her fingers find mine, lacing together. "We both know the odds. Armed men, hostile terrain, and we're outnumbered. One of us might not?—"
"No." The word comes out harsh. I pull her closer, as if proximity can keep her safe. "I just found you, Sierra. I'm not losing you now."
"Then we don't lose." Her voice carries absolute conviction. "We fight, and we win, and we build something on the other side of this."
Build something. The concept feels foreign and fragile, like speaking a language I've forgotten. "I haven't let anyone close in so long." The admission costs me, but she deserves the truth. "Didn't think I deserved it. Everyone I care about ends up hurt or dead or?—"
"Stop." She cups my face, forcing me to meet her eyes. "You deserve everything, Chris Calder. And I'm going to make sure you get it."
The certainty in her voice makes my throat tight. "Promise?"
"Promise." She kisses me softly. "We survive tomorrow. We expose Healy and whoever else is behind this corruption. We get justice for your men and everyone else they've destroyed. And then?" A smile curves her lips. "Then we figure out what normal people do when they're not running for their lives."
"I don't remember normal."
"Neither do I." Her thumb strokes my cheekbone. "We'll learn together."
We lie tangled in the sleeping bag, making silent vows in the flickering lantern light. Survival. Justice. A future neither of us expected to want. Sierra's breathing eventually evens out, her body relaxing into sleep despite the danger waiting beyond the cave entrance.
I stay awake, one hand on the pistol beside our makeshift bed, the other wrapped around the woman who's somehow become my reason to survive this. The darkness outside the cave is absolute, the kind of black that only exists in the mountains far from civilization.
Hours pass. I count them by the lantern's dimming light, by the shift in Sierra's breathing, by the way the cold intensifies in the deep hours before dawn.
Just before the first hint of gray touches the eastern sky, Sierra stirs against me, consciousness returning in slow increments. I press a kiss to her temple, savoring this last moment of peace.
"When this is over," I whisper, "I'm taking you to meet my sister."
Sierra's smile is drowsy and warm. "I'd like that."
She nestles closer, and I memorize the feel of her—the weight of her head on my shoulder, the softness of her skin, the steady rhythm of her breathing. This moment. This woman. Everything I have to protect.
The wind shifts outside, carrying a new sound that makes every muscle in my body lock.
Engines.
Sierra hears it too, her body going taut against mine. We don't speak. Don't move. Just listen as the sound grows louder, multiple vehicles approaching from the valley below.
Too early. They're coming too early. The failsafe hasn't triggered yet—we're at least an hour short of the two-hour deadline.
And with them, the first snowflakes of a new storm begin to fall, obscuring the trail we spent yesterday defending. Erasing our advantages. Leveling the playing field in ways that make my tactical mind race through contingencies and backup plans.
Sierra's hand finds mine under the sleeping bag. Her grip is strong and steady, her jaw set with the same grim determination I feel.
"Showtime," she murmurs.
I kiss her once more—hard and fierce and full of everything I can't say. Then we're moving, pulling on layers and gear, checking weapons with the smooth efficiency of soldiers who've done this too many times. The intimate bubble of the cave shatters, replaced by the cold calculation of survival.
The engines are closer now. Maybe fifteen minutes out.
Sierra takes position at the cave entrance, pistol ready. I move to the secondary exit, counting my ammunition one more time. Eighteen rounds in the pistol. Thirty in the rifle. One spare magazine, and a knife.
Enough to do damage. Maybe not enough to win.
