Page 4 of Protector of Talon Mountain

I read it twice, decide and then I pick up my phone and call the number listed. A woman answers. Tells me if I can get to Anchorage by the end of the week, someone will pick me up. I don’t ask her name. She doesn’t ask mine.

We understand each other.

The next morning, I’m on a one-way flight to nowhere.

And for the first time in months, I feel something close to steady.

I don’t know what’s waiting at the base of Talon Mountain, but I do know this… whatever the hell this is? It’s mine now.

1

ZEKE

The plane lands on a strip of cleared dirt about the width of a decent driveway and the length of a bad idea. No tower. No hangar. Just a rusted-out fuel tank and a shed that could fall over if I breathe too hard on it.

Welcome to Glacier Hollow, Alaska.

The propeller sputters to a stop. I grab my duffel, slide the door open, and hop out onto solid ground. Cold air bites through my clothing, sharp and clean. No city stink. No diesel fumes. Just trees, sky, and quiet.

A man waits by an idling SUV, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a canvas coat. Late fifties, maybe early sixties. Clean shaven, but with the kind of face that’s lived too long in the gray. That must be Hal Burton—the mayor who answered my email with a thirteen-word reply:If you want it, the job is yours. I’ll be waiting.Later I wonder if that unlucky number would define Glacier Hollow.

“Sheriff,” he says, voice mild like he’s greeting a friend instead of the stranger who’s about to take over law enforcement for his entire town. He steps forward, offers a hand. “Hal Burton. Appreciate you coming all this way.”

I shake it. Firm grip, too firm—overcompensating. His eyes do that thing weak men’s eyes do when they meet someone who won’t look away: they measure and recalculate.

“How many applied?” I ask.

He chuckles, awkward. “Just you.”

Figures.

We don’t waste time on small talk. I toss my duffel into the back of the SUV and climb in.

The drive into town takes ten minutes. Gravel road, tree-lined curves, occasional tire tracks where they don’t belong. Every instinct I have is already working. Watching. Sizing up.

We pass the first houses—small, sturdy. Weathered. Curtains drawn, even in daylight. One woman watering her porch plants looks up, sees us, and turns away fast. A kid on a bike freezes when he spots the sheriff’s decal on the side of the SUV. He bolts down a side street without waving.

Something’s wrong here.

Hal keeps talking. “Town’s quiet these days. Gets a little stir-crazy in winter, sure, but folks mostly keep to themselves.”

“Drawn curtains and locked doors in the middle of the day,” I say. “That normal?”

He pauses. “We’ve had…incidents. Wildlife. Some petty stuff. Vandalism.”

“And the last sheriff?”

“Tom Davies. Good man. Went out hunting before the first snow. Didn’t come back.”

“That happen a lot?”

Another pause. This one’s longer. “Not really.”

We drive up to a squat brick building with an old, hand-painted sign that saysGLACIER HOLLOW SHERIFF’S OFFICE. The windows are dark.

Hal hands me a key ring with exactly four keys and a tag that readsDOOR / FILES / CELL / SUV.

“Place is yours,” he says. “We cleaned it out as best we could. There’s a cot in the back if you need to stay the night, though Sadie rents a nice studio over her café, The Hollow Hearth.”

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