Page 41 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

“And I made sure someone else knows, too,” I add. “Just in case I didn’t walk out of here.”

He laughs again, but there’s a crack in it now. He steps closer, gun raising to chest level. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?”

Before he can answer, a shadow slices through the air behind him. Travis. He moves like the wind—fast, brutal, surgical.

Carlton doesn’t even get a word out. The gun flies from his hand as Travis slams into him with bone-breaking force. Carlton stumbles back, cursing, trying to recover, but Travis is already there. One punch to the throat stuns him. A swift kick to the back of the knee takes him down.

I scramble to the side, heart hammering as the two men grapple. Carlton pulls a knife—of course he does—but Travis bats it away with a flick of his wrist. He’s not fighting like someone looking to win. He’s fighting like someone delivering judgment.

“You should have stayed away,” Travis growls, grabbing Carlton by the front of his coat and slamming him into the crate hard enough to crack the wood. “But you had to come for her.”

Carlton spits blood. “You think you’re the good guy in this? You disappeared, Holt. You let your men die and then faked your own death.”

“I walked away so the reputation of my team could reflect what they were… heroes. Now, I want to take you down and bring you to justice.” Travis’s voice drops to a deadly whisper.

Carlton shoves back, swinging wildly, but Travis catches the blow, twists, and pins him face-down against the crate. His knee presses into Carlton’s spine as he cuffs him with a zip tie from his pocket.

“You don’t get to run again,” Travis says.

Carlton laughs through bloody teeth. “You have nothing. No proof. No witnesses.”

“Oh, you’re wrong about that,” I say.

I step forward, Nick’s dog tags clenched in my hand. I loop the chain around my knuckles, just like Travis showed me.

“For Nick,” I whisper.

And I punch Carlton in the temple—fast, sharp, clean. He slumps, stunned, but not unconscious.

“I hope that rattles in your skull every time you try to sleep,” I say, stepping back.

Travis lifts his eyes to mine. There’s no smile. Just that steady, unshakable presence. He stands, hauls Carlton up with him, and tosses him back against the wall where he stays slumped, cuffed and gasping.

I reach into my coat and pull out the small recorder I hid in the inner pocket. It’s still blinking red. I press the button, and the audio rewinds with a soft click.

I hit stop and slide the recorder into Travis’s hand. “Sent it to Hank the moment he started talking. Signal’s piggybacked off the inn’s repeater. Ella made sure we had backup.”

Travis nods once. “You did good.”

Before I can answer, voices rise outside—shouting, boot falls, and the distinct crackle of a police radio. Travis stands between me and the door automatically, body still coiled like he’s expecting a second wave.

But then I hear Hank’s voice. “Clear! Law enforcement coming in!”

Sheriff Calder—the county sheriff—steps into the room with two deputies behind him. His eyes take in the scene in a blink—Carlton cuffed and bleeding, Travis standing tall, me holding the dog tags like a damn war medal.

“Well, damn,” Calder mutters. “Holt. Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“You never did,” Travis says simply.

Calder’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t argue. He gestures to the deputies. “Cuff him properly. Read him his rights. We’ve got the audio feed. Should be enough to bury him.”

As they haul Carlton out, he gives one last look back at me, but I don’t flinch. Not anymore.

“You’re dead,” he rasps.

“No,” I say, stepping closer, lifting my chin. “You are.”

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