Page 19 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

Drone.

I ease the window a hair wider and squeeze the trigger. The shot shreds night—white flash, recoil thudding bone—and the red pinprick blinks once, twice, then dies. The whirring cuts out mid-breath. Silence avalanches in.

“Clear,” I tell Bryn. “But stay down.”

I grab boots, jacket, headlamp. I’m out the door, snow up to my knees and still falling. Steam rises off the shotgun muzzle. Twenty paces in I find it: a carbon-fiber tri-rotor drone, palm-sized, half-buried in the snow. The design’s sleek and tactical—built for surveillance, not recreation—and it’s outfitted withhigh-end camera gear. No corporate logo, no ID tag—just a cracked lens and a faint smell of burned electronics. Whoever flew this didn’t want it logged with the FAA.

Inside again, Bryn’s perched on the mattress, cheeks flushed with worry and adrenaline. I hand her the drone.

“Your brother wasn’t paranoid,” I say. “Whoever’s running that pipeline? They know you’re here.”

The worry hardens into something like resolve. I like that look on her—steel under all the gold.

The storm lifts at first gray light, leaving a brittle calm. The air tastes like metal—sharp, anticipatory—as if the mountain itself is bracing for what comes next. Zeke’s SUV growls up the track an hour later, Nate Barrett, the cop from Anchorage, riding shotgun, both men armored in Kevlar and early-morning scowls. Wren arrives right behind them on her snowmobile, goggles iced at the edges, patch pockets stuffed with tranquilizer darts and data cards.

We convene in the main room of the cabin, the air still heavy with the scent of coffee and breakfast lingering like an afterthought. Mugs steam on the side table, the fire crackles low in the hearth, and every movement feels weighed down by what we just learned. Bryn’s there already, dressed in jeans and a heavy sweater, her hair still damp from a recent shower. She sits near the fire, one ankle propped on the hearth ledge, notebook in hand but silent—smart; she’s listening, eyes sharp, tracking every word like she’s mapping something none of us can see yet.

Zeke lays a battered evidence box on the table and flips the lid. Inside are dog-eared trail maps, half-melted granola bars in evidence bags, and a cracked GPS unit with a bloodstainedlanyard. “Three hikers missing in the past few months,” he says grimly. “Two were supposed to be in and out by nightfall. The third had a backcountry permit for five days. None of them came back. Search crews found gear, blood, and drag marks—but no bodies.”

Nate adds a manila folder. “We’ve got a separate string out of Anchorage—four animal bodies in the last year. Not hunters’ kills—these were butchered post-mortem, organs harvested with precision. Bears, moose, even a lynx. They look like black-market trophies, but those cuts? Surgical. This is organized—systematic, profitable.”

“Same M.O. here,” Zeke says, flipping photos across the wood. Moose carcass, wolf carcass, both missing specific pieces. Bryn flinches but doesn’t look away.

Wren unzips her jacket, pulls out her tablet. “Wolf-pack telemetry shows fourteen collars offline in the last six weeks. Not random mortality. Zones are tightly clustered.” She taps a blinking map; bright X’s bloom along the ridge Chris marked in his journal.

Bryn’s hand curls on the notebook. “That’s the same corridor Chris tracked.”

I fold my arms. “It feels like somebody’s using those tunnels..."

"What tunnels?" Nate asks.

"Old mining shafts. This mountain is riddled with tunnels—some connecting the mines, some used to stash smuggled goods, some used to move people or product from place to place. Could be animal parts, maybe something else. Chris marked old mining shafts in his journal—routes that haven’t appeared on official maps in decades. If they’ve been reopened, they’re the perfect cover. The drone last night means they’re protecting the route.”

Nate frowns at the wrecked tri-rotor I'd tossed on the table. “Custom build. Military-grade optics.”

“So a poaching ring with defense-contractor toys,” Zeke mutters. “Great.”

Bryn looks fierce, chin up. “My brother spooked them. Now they’re watching us.”

I catch the tremor in her voice—fear edged with fury—and something territorial claws inside my chest. I shove it down. “Which means we stop watching and start hunting.”

We spread maps across the table in the cabin’s main room, clearing space between empty mugs and Zeke’s evidence box. Bryn’s red triangles butt up against Wren’s X’s and Zeke’s missing-person pins. The pattern is ugly: a loop skirting the official parkland, dipping through federal timber, then vanishing into old mining shafts.

Nate rubs a hand over his jaw. “If someone is trafficking this wildlife, serious money is flowing through Glacier Hollow. Black-market rates for organs and pelts like these can fund a small army—ex-military contractors, encrypted comms, even drone surveillance. That’s not backwoods poaching. That’s organized crime.”

“Or dirty locals,” Zeke says, voice flat. “Big Pete’s trap-supply business took an unusual shipment of steel jaw sets last fall. Not the kind a licensed trapper would use—too crude, too heavy-duty. Word is, the order was cash-paid and rushed, but there's no paper trail.”

Bryn perks up. “He sold me bear spray when I was in there. He said bear encounters were up. Could it be because predators are disappearing from the food chain?” Her eyes flash. “You shutthe wolves down, moose populations explode, bears follow the meat.”

Smart woman. I file the data, heat curling in my gut, my chest tightening with a rough surge of pride. She's sharp—sharp enough to keep pace with me, maybe even outstrip me. The knowledge lands hard, leaves a deep burn behind my ribs that I don’t entirely want to cool. A brutal kind of pride rises in me—knowing she’s keeping pace, spotting patterns I missed. She isn’t just an ally anymore. She’s in this fight with me, blood and grit and fire.

Wren leans in, braid slapping her shoulder, eyes locked on the blinking screen. “Collar telemetry shows one live tag inside the restricted zone—alpha female, pack’s linchpin. She’s circling the perimeter like she’s scenting something off. If we can track her, she’ll walk us straight through the operation. And if she bolts, we’ll know exactly where the threat is coming from.”

Bryn nods. “Let me download her ping table.”

“No.” I set a hand on her notebook. “You’re not touching that ankle to hike yet. It's still swollen.”

Her glare could peel paint. For a split second, it knocks something loose in me—a jolt of heat mixed with exasperation—but I don't let it show. “We don’t have time for caveman rules, Knox. You said we could use the snowmobile and Chris is my brother.”

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