Page 26 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

The bastard’s alive—and closer than I ever let myself believe. The print’s still fresh, angled in a way that says he wasn’t just passing through. He was watching. Waiting. Plotting his next move like this is a game he’s already won.

I clench my jaw. No more running. No more ghosts. What Reynolds did wasn’t a simple betrayal of a team—it was the fracture of a brotherhood. And now he’s made the mistake of bringing his war to my mountains.

I won’t leave them. Not while there’s breath in my lungs and vengeance in my blood. I won’t stop until I completely destroy the operation—and him.

My pulse steadies—not from fear, but something colder, sharper. Purpose that slices clean through the fog of memory and rage, anchoring me in the now. I’m not flinching. I’m hunting.

You sold out two brothers,I think, memorizing the print.You don’t get a third.

Ahead, a gray sky thickens, storm front swallowing the summit. Somewhere inside that brewing night, Reynolds waits—dragging ghosts from Mosul into my mountains. He has forty-eight hours of freedom; after that, I’m coming to collect.

11

BRYN

Cold air stings my cheeks the moment Caleb straightens from the boot-print. His shoulders lock, every muscle taut, his jaw is clenched so tight I half expect to hear the crack of bone. The fury in his expression isn’t loud—it’s lethal in its quiet focus. The tension in him coils sharp and unyielding, like braided wire pulled taut to the edge of snapping. The shape of the boot-print seems familiar to Caleb, as if it is burned into his memory. His gaze sharpens, breath tightening. He doesn’t say the name, but his entire body goes still in a way that tells me everything.

Caleb doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then, with a slow nod, he finally speaks—his voice flat and low, like gravel sliding beneath steel.

"That tread print—heel drag, shallow toe. That’s Reynolds—the bastard who betrayed my team and left us to die. He used to wear custom Salomons. Their tactical boots are favored for their grip and durability. Same mark left outside Mosul the night he vanished. I’d know it blind."

My stomach clenches. The name tastes metallic now, real and raw in the open air.

"You’re sure?"

Caleb’s eyes slide to mine. "I’d bet my last breath, he’s alive. And something far more dangerous than before. He’s here—and pulling the strings."

His eyes meet mine, fury burning cold and controlled beneath his words. The fury in his eyes confirms it. That bastard’s alive. And he’s here. The betrayal, the fury—it’s all etched deep, like old scars that never healed, branded beneath his skin.

I lay a hand on his arm, grip firm. "Later," I murmur, low and deliberate—quiet code between us that says,we will talk, but not here. Not now.

Right now we need to move the evidence and get Nate’s injury cared for before the storm eats the pass. Caleb’s nod is barely there, but it’s enough to make the team start hauling crates back to the sleds. Snow compacts beneath boots, a sharp contrast to the low groan of wind pushing through the pass. I catch Caleb’s eye—one shared look says it all. The storm is coming, and with it, the reckoning.

Zeke’s SUV skids into Glacier Hollow just ahead of the front edge of the blizzard. Snow swirls under yellow streetlamps, turning Main Street into a shaken snow globe. The moment we unload the contraband, Zeke slaps a shiny deputy’s star onto my parka.

“Temporary authority to catalog and secure electronic evidence,” he says. Translation:you’re officially on the payroll, kid—now don’t break the chain of custody.

Caleb’s already stripping weapons and ammo from a locker in the station armory, movements swift and precise. The harsh clack of metal echoes in the space, underscoring how focused he is. For a moment, I just watch—drawn in by the way thestorm-light glints off the hard angles of his face, the grim set of his jaw. It’s like seeing him fully in his element, dangerous and unshakable—and it sends a ripple of heat through my belly despite the cold clinging to my gear.

He glances over, his gray eyes flicking from the badge to my face, like he wants to pin it farther inside the coat—somewhere closer to my heart where no one else can pry it loose.

“You good?” he asks.

“I’m golden,” I shoot back, even though my ankle throbs with every heartbeat. Painkillers can wait. Data can’t.

Wren has set up a makeshift lab in the back room of The Hollow Hearth: one long folding table, a battered laptop, and half a dozen GPS collars blinking like Christmas in purgatory. I join her there and we connect the sat-phone Caleb pocketed to my rig.

My fingers fly over the keys, each command a coaxing breath. The encryption holds for seventeen minutes before the first breach flickers on-screen—then buckles entirely by the twenty-minute mark.

My pulse ticks faster. "Gotcha," I whisper, tasting the metallic thrill of progress.

“Look at this,” Wren says, spinning her screen. A writhing pattern of red dots fans across the map, then funnels inward toward a black circle labeledIronvale Smelter—Abandoned.

“Every collar pinged from that perimeter before going dark,” she adds. “They’re funneling wildlife into kill boxes, dragging the carcasses inside, quartering them in the tunnels.”

My stomach flips. Chris’s last notebook sketch—a crude map with the wordsmelter?scrawled beside a jagged line—comes roaring back. He knew.

A flicker of unease prickles at the base of my skull a second before Wren’s phone buzzes with Sadie’s name—odd, since she’s working just steps away in the café kitchen.

---