Page 47 of Protector of Talon Mountain

“Pieces,” I say. “Still putting it together. I’ve got another SEAL riding with me?—”

“Figured that was Caleb.”

I smile a little. “If we need you?—”

“You will,” he says. No drama. Just fact. I nod to myself and keep driving. “I’ve got your back. Be careful. Abby likes your Sadie.”

I don’t bother to deny she is now my Sadie. “Then that makes two of us. Keep me advised on the fire and if you can, keep your eyes open on the town until Caleb and I get back.”

“Will do. Good hunting, Zeke.”

The call ends. As the SUV rolls along beside me, Caleb’s scanning the tree line through the passenger window, his jaw set. He has said little since we left the edge of town, but he doesn’t need to. His tight shoulders tell me everything. He’s reading the woods like a language most men have forgotten.

“Pull off here,” he says suddenly, voice low.

I do, killing the engine as soon as we’re stopped. The silence afterward is absolute. We get out without a word and head into the trees, our boots softly crunching over ice. Caleb moves ahead, crouching low when he reaches the first set of ATV tracks. I kneel beside him and take a closer look—fresh treads, staggered in places where the machine hit a rut. Someone was in a hurry. But not reckless. This trail was chosen, not stumbled onto.

“Blood,” Caleb says, pointing ahead to a pine sapling sprayed dark at the base.

I follow the trail with my eyes. It’s not a lot. But it’s enough to say someone left here injured—or worse. And I know, even before I say it aloud, that this wasn’t a random act of violence. This was a message. A warning.

I stand slowly, scanning the shadows deeper into the woods. Whoever ran this op torched the garage to cover a trail—but the real cleanup happened out here.

“This was a drop site,” I mutter. “They torched the garage to sever ties. What they didn’t count on is that we were already watching.”

Caleb nods, pulling out his phone and snapping photos. “Or that your fire department could respond so quickly.”

“Apparently six months ago, we didn’t have a fire department.”

Caleb nods. “I’ll keep tracking. You go deal with what’s next.”

I know what he means. The town. Sadie. The fallout. I turn back toward the SUV, the weight of it all pressing down like the snow-heavy sky above us. Joe’s gone. Adam too. But they didn’t vanish without help.

I climb back into the SUV, start the engine, and grip the wheel tight. Glacier Hollow isn’t just some quiet town anymore. It’s a fuse. And someone’s already lit the match.

* * *

The second I’m back in cell range, I pull over and make the call. There’s only one guy I trust for what I need right now—Detective Nate Barnett, Anchorage PD, white-collar unit. We served together back in Coronado. He owes me, and we both know it.

The line clicks twice before he picks up. "MacAllister. Thought you were allergic to phones."

"I need a name run through your financial unit," I say without preamble. "Brent Holloway. He ever pop up in anything off the books? Private LLCs, corporate laundering, suspicious movement of funds through Alaska fronts. He was involved with my girl, Sadie Callahan."

Nate exhales like I just dumped a lot on his desk before breakfast. "Is he your target because of her or something else?"

"He’s about to be both."

A pause. Then, "Give me an hour."

I hang up and head back toward town. The sky's still low and gray, bleeding into the mountains like it can’t decide whether to snow or rain. Dirt from the ridge Caleb tracked still cakes my boots. That bloodstain hasn’t left my head. Someone got hurt bad out there—maybe Adam. But we didn’t find a body. Just a burn site and tire tracks headed east.

By the time I park behind the café, the streets are stirring with early risers. The fire crew is cleaning up the last of the fire. A couple of regulars with coffee already in hand are watching. A maintenance truck creeping toward the bridge. All quiet on the surface. But the kind of quiet that makes your skin itch.

I step into the back of the café. Sadie’s at the prep table, apron already dusted in flour, a tray of cinnamon rolls cooling by the window. She glances up when she hears me, and something shifts in her expression—something tight.

She doesn’t say it. But I know.

I cross the room in three strides. "What happened?"

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