Page 3 of Protector of Talon Mountain

I drop my keys on the counter, boots still on. The place is too quiet. No music, no TV, just the muffled hum of the A/C. I move down the hall. The bedroom door’s open, and my mind takes in and processes everything in the space of a second.

My training includes assessment and appropriate responses. That works well in combat, not so much in personal domestic relations.

One heel kicked halfway under the bed. Red lace thong on the floor. Shirt—mine—draped over the dresser. The moan that breaks the silence is high and breathy, followed by a voice I know too well.

“God, right there.”

Isla.

Another voice follows, deeper. Confident. Familiar.

“No talking, princess.”

My CO. Commander Talbot.

It takes me a second to move. Not because I’m in shock. I’m not. I’m just trying not to kill him.

My hand flexes at my side. One step forward and I could end it. One pull of the Glock holstered at my back and neither of them would ever speak again. As much as I might want to, I don’t.

I stand there long enough for them to see me. Isla gasps, pulls the sheets up to her chest. Talbot doesn't even flinch. His eyes meet mine, and there’s no guilt in them. Just something colder. Dismissive. Like I was a game they got bored with.

"Zeke," Isla says, voice trembling now. “I thought you were?—”

“Gone?” I say in a cold, flat tone. “I was. You’re welcome.”

Talbot smirks, the bastard. “I always said your timing was spot on, MacAllister.”

I don’t speak… I just walk out.

* * *

The next three days pass like a movie I don’t give a shit about. I tell command I’m done. I was supposed to sign re-enlistment papers. I don’t, and I offer them no explanation. I just fill out the papers to end my Naval career, pack up my life, and put my uniform and everything else that goes with it in the trash. The trident, the ribbons, the framed photos—they all go. Nothing feels like mine anymore. Not the rank. Not the condo. And sure as hell not her.

I head north along the coast, somewhere no one knows my name. The motel outside Seattle is a dump—spotty Wi-Fi, a cracked ice bucket, and a bed that squeaks if I so much as shift. I don’t care. It’s hard to care about anything except the hollow pit in my gut and the dead space where my heart used to be.

I run through my options. I could disappear. I could burn everything down. Killing my former CO and my ex-fiancée crosses my mind, but even for me, that’s a step too far. Rural Montana’s out—too far removed from the life I’ve lived since walking away from the ranch where I was the oldest of four boys. A few defense contractors reach out, offering checks and access, but I’ve had enough of D.C. and the bullshit that comes with it. San Diego’s off the list too—too many ghosts waiting for me there.

So I do nothing. For days, I just sit. Think. Stare at the walls until the silence starts to scream. Then, finally, I open the laptop. Not for news. Not for social media. I don’t need headlines or updates. Just a blank search bar staring back at me.

Jobs for Ex-Military.

Nothing grabs me. Security gig in Denver. Bodyguard detail in Dubai. Consulting for a private firm that used to be Blackwater and now calls itself something sanitized. Pass. All of it.

I’m scrolling aimlessly when I see it, buried under a thread titledJobs Nobody Wants.

No header. No link.

Just:Sheriff needed—Glacier Hollow, Alaska. No questions asked.

That’s it. No contact info. No salary. No sign-on bonus. Just a challenge hidden in plain sight.

No questions asked.

I stare at it for a long time. Because here’s the thing: I don’t want a job. I want a reason to get the hell out of my own head.

And something about that line—it’s not just bait. It’s a dare.

I click the message. It’s one paragraph. Short and cold. Town of less than two hundred. No other applicants. Old sheriff died last winter. Mayor’s desperate. Nearest real police presence is five hours away.

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