Page 2 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

“I go where I’m needed.” I cock my pistol, then my rifle. “You hold. Keep Viper alive.”

He nods once. That’s all it takes.

I vanish into the snow, moving low and fast. Heart steady. Breathing tight. I don’t miss. I don’t waver. That’s why they called me Shadow. Because by the time you see me, you’re already dead.

I take the first two before they register what’s happening. The third—bigger, meaner—fights. But he’s slow. Clumsy. I wrap my arm around his throat and whisper, “Wrong mountain,” before I snap his neck clean.

Then it all goes sideways.

A flash grenade blinds me. I hit the ground hard, ears ringing. Boots slam down beside me. A voice I know too well growls in my ear.

“Thought you’d be smarter than this, Holt.”

It’s Carlton.

I blink away the white and stare up at the man who was supposed to have our backs. My commanding officer. The one who sent us into this op blind.

“You set us up,” I rasp.

He crouches, cool as you please, like this isn’t a battlefield soaked in blood. “Collateral damage. Politics are messy. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand betrayal just fine.”

He chuckles. “You always were too righteous for your own good. Good soldier, though. A damn good killer. Shame you won’t make it out of here.”

I lunge—too slow. His boot connects with my ribs. Pain explodes. My weapon’s gone. My team’s scattered or dead.

He leans down. “Your team's gone, Travis. You just don’t know it yet.”

“You’ll burn for this,” I growl.

“No, you will,” he says, his voice smooth and venomous. “But not before you take the fall. And when the story breaks? It’ll be your face, your name. Not mine.”

Then he walks away.

Misty Mountain, Colorado

Present Day

That night plays on repeat in my mind. Every time I close my eyes. Every time the wind howls through these trees, reminding me of what I left behind. Or what was taken.

The world thinks I’m dead.

Better that way.

Let them think that. Travis Holt dead after a disgraceful op gone wrong.

They don’t know the truth.

Carlton’s rising fast—D.C. darling, golden boy with blood on his hands. I’ve got enough proof to bury him. But truth? Truth doesn’t matter without power. And I gave mine up the day I walked away.

Now, I write fiction that’s too close to fact. Watch the forest instead of war zones. Keep a shotgun by the door and my past locked tight.

Some nights I wonder if I’ll ever stop waiting—for the knock, the shot, the final reckoning.

Some battles don’t end just because you walk away… and I’m done running.

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