Page 12 of Protector of Talon Mountain

He walks me to my door. Steps inside first. Sweeps the place like it’s protocol. Then moves to the front and looks at me one last time.

That look.

It settles somewhere under my skin, like he’s just left a mark there—something permanent.

He steps out as the wind picks up. I close the door, turn the deadbolt.

Just like he told me to.

I hear him walk away.

And I stand there, long after he’s gone. Heat crawling up my neck. Pulse racing in ways it hasn’t in years.

3

ZEKE

The following morning I walk Sadie from her cottage to the Hollow Hearth, my hand resting at the small of her back. She doesn’t say much, just leans into me like she knows I’m scanning every shadow, every corner. When we reach the door, I give her a nod. “Be careful and call someone if you need to. I’m going to do a little exploring, and I don’t know that I’ll have reception.”

“I’ll be fine, Zeke.”

I wait until she’s safely locked inside before I turn away. Once she’s ready to open the town will be waking up and daylight will be creeping over the mountain. I get in the SUV and head towards the other end of town. If anyone is watching, I want them to think I’m going in the opposite direction of the trails that wind above the town—where the tree line thins out and secrets like to hide. But even before I’m out of sight, I feel it. The town’s too quiet. Not the calm kind of quiet that settles over a place like Glacier Hollow after a snowstorm.

This is different. Heavy. Artificial. Like someone whispered a warning into every ear and told them to stay inside, stay silent, stay small. My boots crunch over frozen ground, and the hairs on the back of my neck lift. I am reminded that almost since day one, I’ve felt something wasn’t quite right in Glacier Hollow, and I’m going to find out what. So, I go where the noise usually hides—the outskirts.

Circling back, I leave the SUV parked behind the bait shop—careful not to be seen—and sling my pack over my shoulder, heading north through the brush. No backup. No partner. Just me and my Glock, a thermos of black coffee, a flashlight and instincts that haven’t dulled even after everything I’ve left behind.

The air gets colder fast out here. Denser. Trees hang low with snowmelt, and the only sound is the occasional snap of a branch underfoot.

This is where truth lives—out past the roads, beyond the signal, in the places people think no one will look. But I’m looking.

Several hours pass as my boots crunch over frost-hardened leaves and I move off the trail—because the real traffic doesn’t happen on the trails. About three clicks out, I find it—a faint depression in the moss. A path so lightly used it wouldn’t show up to the average eye. But I’ve followed insurgents through the Hindu Kush in worse conditions. I know what a hidden route looks like. This one’s fresh.

I crouch, fingers brushing the edges of the tire track, cutting through the soft earth. Not an ATV. Not wide enough. Smaller. Motorbike. Too light for a hunting rig. Too small for logging.

The trail leads into deeper woods, winding through natural choke points and ravines like someone knows how to use the terrain to their advantage. I follow it. Whoever’s running this isn’t dumb, but they’re not invisible either. I respect that.

Forty minutes later after discovering the track, I find the shack. Burned out. Half collapsed. It appears to have been abandoned for years—until you step inside and catch the smell—not smoke, not decay, but sweat, fuel and metal.All of it recent.

I pull my phone from my chest pocket, snap photos from every angle. Interior. Exterior. Close-up on the boot prints in the ash—someone stepped in and out after the last snowfall. Which means in the last twenty-four hours.

I check for tire tracks, shoe patterns. Someone parked out here. Then hiked in. Heavy tread. Same direction as the prints. Two sets. One heavier, one smaller. I document both.

Then I find something I don’t like. A spent shell casing near the fireplace. Nine millimeter. Clean. No weather damage. Sloppy or left on purpose? Either way, someone’s using this place—and they didn’t think they’d be followed. Or worse… they don’t care.

I pull a latex glove from my pack, bag the casing, and press two fingers against the charred wall. Still flakes. Which means the fire was recent, not historic—a burn site to destroy something?

I don’t get answers. I just collect them.

Ten minutes later, I have a full set of photos and GPS coordinates logged. No immediate threats. No obvious stash. But what’s here is enough to tell me one thing: Whatever’s happening in Glacier Hollow—it’s not random. It’s planned. Organized. Hidden.

And nobody’s talking. That’s not fear of the unknown, that’s fear of someone.

In town, people duck their heads and keep their mouths shut because they’ve already made a choice—to survive, not resist. They don’t trust that I’ll be here or that I can or will protect them.

I’ve seen it before. Afghanistan. South Sudan. Even back home, small towns with old blood and dirty money. You don’t have to be running a cartel to keep people scared. You just need enough reach and the willingness to act without hesitation.

My boots crunch on the path as I head back, staying off the trail, quiet as a shadow. The wind cuts colder now. The trees creak overhead.

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