Page 39 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

And Carlton? He has no idea what’s coming.

11

ABBY

The wind bites at my cheeks as I step out of the Jeep, wrapping my arms tighter around my body for show. It’s not the cold making my hands shake. It’s adrenaline. The cabin—a once-charming hunting lodge turned into forgotten ruin—looms ahead like a carcass of memories and broken promises. The wooden siding is weather-worn, the roof half-caved on one end, and the broken windowpanes whistle softly in the mountain gusts.

Perfect place for a trap.

Travis hated this idea, but Carlton wouldn’t go for a meeting in public. In the end Travis and I agreed Carlton needed to think he had control until it was too late for him to figure out he didn’t.

Meeting in this place meant Travis prepped for every possible failure. He didn’t just scout the area—he rigged the perimeter with fallback sensors, checked every blind corner, laid out three backup extraction points. And he still looked like he wanted to throw me over his shoulder and lock me in a bunker until this was over.

But he let me go… because he knows I can do this… because he trusts me.

I swallow the lump in my throat and walk slowly toward the cabin, boots crunching over ice and debris. I’m dressed for the part—old jeans, an oversized coat, and just enough panic in my eyes to sell the role of a terrified, desperate woman in over her head.

The front door groans on its hinges as I push it open. The inside smells like mildew and rot. There’s dust thick enough to write a novel in, and broken glass crunches beneath every step. A single figure stands in the center of the room, lit by shafts of light breaking through the broken ceiling. He turns as I enter.

Carlton.

He looks exactly like I imagined, and nothing like I expected. His face is smooth, deceptively kind. Older, but not frail. There’s a crispness to his stance, the kind of poise that comes from decades of manipulation, not combat. Designer coat. Polished boots. Gloves like he’s afraid of catching something from the furniture.

His smile is tight, eyes scanning me from head to toe like I’m a document to be studied and filed.

“You’re late,” he says.

I blink, startled. “As you instructed, I ensured I wasn’t being followed.”

He chuckles. “You think anyone in that sleepy town gives a damn? Travis might have them fooled, but not me. You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest, Abigail.”

I keep my posture defensive, shrinking slightly, as if his presence alone is enough to make me wilt. “You said you’d help me… that you wanted to protect what Nick died for.”

That draws a spark of interest. He cocks his head. “I said a lot of things.”

I force a tremble into my hands as I unzip the canvas bag slung across my chest. The fake journal sits inside—carefully aged, full of plausible half-truths Travis and I cooked up overwhiskey and intel sheets at three in the morning. It looks real. It reads real.

But if Carlton knows the truth, this won’t buy us time. It’ll get us both killed.

“I have what you’re looking for,” I say, and pull it out, clutching it to my chest like it’s my last lifeline. “Nick’s journal. He told me to keep it safe. I didn’t even read it until last week. But it scared me. There’s stuff in here I don’t understand. Things about operations that weren’t in his records. I thought Travis could help, but he—he’s not the man Nick remembered.”

Carlton moves forward with deliberate steps. Every movement is calculated. Smooth. Predatory.

He doesn’t reach for the journal. Not yet. He’s playing with me.

“He never was. You’re a clever girl, Abby. And braver than your brother gave you credit for. I see now why he worried about you so much.”

I grip the journal tighter, taking a step back. “I just want this over.”

“Of course you do,” he says smoothly. “And it can be… if you give me that.”

“I want to know why,” I say, pushing a little further. “Nick trusted you. He wrote your name. He said if anything happened to him, I should stay away from you. Why would he say that?”

Carlton’s eyes gleam, like he’s been waiting for someone to ask.

“Because your brother was a fool,” he says, stepping closer. “Loyal. Principled. But foolish. He and Travis both. A couple of fucking Eagle Scouts. I gave them everything—an edge, a purpose. I was building something greater than any of them understood. And what did they do? They turned on me.”

“You sold out your own unit,” I say, letting a little steel into my voice. “You gave up their position to foreign intel.”

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