Page 8 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
The bear huffs, a sound like a locomotive releasing steam, and I feel it in my bones. Predator. I'm not a federal agent out here. Not a forensic linguist. Not even a person with rights and options. I'm just meat. Prey caught in a trap.
It takes another step closer.
My hand closes around the knife handle. I yank it free, slash at the wire. The blade skitters off the metal, barely scoring it. Wrong angle. Can't get leverage. The snare bites deeper into my boot.
The bear moves closer. Ten feet now. Close enough that I can smell it—musky, wild, the scent of something that hasn't bathed in months, mixed with the copper tang of old blood on its breath. Close enough to see muscles bunch under thick fur. Close enough to see the way its small eyes fix on me with something that might be curiosity or might be hunger.
The bear takes another step. Eight feet.
Every instinct screams to fight, to scramble away, but the snare holds me pinned. Can't run. Can't get leverage to cut the wire. My fingers are numb, shaking. The knife feels useless in my hand. Bears chase. Movement triggers prey drive. But staying still might just mean dying slower.
My vision tunnels. The bear fills my entire world—dark fur, massive shoulders, claws that could gut me with one swipe.
Seven feet.
This is it. Two hours in Alaska and I'm going to get mauled because I couldn't follow simple instructions. Stay on the trail.Don't wander. My body will be another statistic, another idiot city transplant who thought she knew better.
Six feet.
I can see the individual hairs on its muzzle now. Can see the way its breath makes small clouds in the frigid air. Can see death walking toward me on four legs, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
A shadow moves in the trees behind the bear.
Then a voice cuts through the silence, low, rough and commanding.
"Don't. Move."
The bear swings its massive head toward the sound. I catch a glimpse through the gathering dark—a man stepping from the tree line. Tall, broad-shouldered, beard covering half his face, carrying a rifle.
His eyes lock on mine.
And something in my chest goes still.
2
CHRIS
The woman in the snare is going to get herself killed, and that's going to be a problem for me.
I've been watching from the ridge since Barrett dropped her off. Tracked the snowmobile's approach, watched her unpack through the cabin windows, waited to see if she'd have the sense to stay inside. Like anyone with half a brain would on their first night in backcountry, but she didn’t. City people never do.
They show up with their expensive, designer gear and their ignorance and their certainty that the rules don't apply to them. They wander off trails, ignore warnings, treat the wilderness like it's a theme park designed for their entertainment.
And then they die.
Usually I don't care. Natural selection doing its work. One less human stomping through my territory, leaving trash and noise and scent everywhere. The mountain takes what it wants, and I'm not playing guardian angel to idiots who can't follow instructions.
But this one's different; she tripped my snare... and she didn't panic, even when the bear showed up.
I set that trap three days ago after finding fresh boot prints near one of my caches. Someone's been poaching in my territory—checking my traplines, stealing my game, leaving signs everywhere that they're tracking me. Professional work. Deliberate. Not some lost hiker or curious local.
The snare was meant to catch whoever's been shadowing me. Send a message. Make them think twice about coming back.
Instead, it caught her.
I watch through the rifle scope as she struggles with the wire, movements panicked and sloppy. Rookie mistake after rookie mistake. She's pulling, which only tightens the snare. Hasn't figured out she needs to push slack into the loop first.
Then the bear emerges from the brush.
