Page 27 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

“Tell me you’re not calling about coffee,” I joke.

“Wish it was.” Her voice is tight. “Two busloads of Insta-tourists booked a guided snowshoe loop—Forest Service approved—right past Ironvale the day after tomorrow.”

Haul night. Perfect.

I meet Wren’s gaze. “If civilians wander in while Reynolds is cleaning house, we’ll be bagging wolves—and bodies.”

"We'd best tell the boys."

I love how Wren refers to Nate, Zeke and Caleb as boys. There's no way anyone would mistake those tall, muscular men for boys.

"I'll go," I say as I electronically save everything, and grab Caleb's over-sized parka.

“I’ll come with,” says Wren.

We make our way to the sheriff’s office and stride into the squad room where Caleb and Zeke are bent over topography maps, their faces lit by the harsh overhead fluorescents.

“We're going to need remote cameras in the smelter tunnels tonight,” I announce, voice steady and urgent.

Zeke nods. “Sadie told me about the tourists. We're going to need visual confirmation, timestamps, everything. If Reynolds is staging from that site, I want eyes on him before the tourists stumble into something they can’t walk away from.”

Caleb’s eyes narrow as he looks down at my ankle. “That ankle says you stay put.”

“My ankle’s attached to the best shot you’ve got at handling live surveillance gear,” I fire back. “Wren and I can plant four cams in under an hour. I realize you're all big tough mountain men, but Wren and I both have more experience with wildlife and field cams. You can monitor everything in real time from the ridge.”

Zeke rubs his temples. “We don’t have manpower for a three-prong op and babysitting.”

Caleb exhales like a man choosing which limb he can live without. “Fine. Bryn rides with Wren and stays on comms." He turns back to me. "At the first sign of trouble, you two will bug out.”

Wren salutes with two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Caleb hooks a finger under my chin for half a second—just enough for my pulse to trip. “You disappear on me or if anything happens to either of you, I'll burn that mountain to bedrock, understood?”

Warmth coils low in my belly. “Roger that, Commander Overprotective.”

The wind bites harder the higher we climb, spitting snow as Wren and I veer off the main track and push the snowmobile through a narrow cut in the trees. The snowmobile's engine growls beneath us, the only sound cutting through the mounting wind as we climb. Neither Wren nor I speak; the weight of what we might find ahead presses against us like the rising storm.

We follow a snow-choked service road; old mining records indicate its location, and its path is barely visible under the snowdrifts. Caleb’s clipped voice feeds us instructions throughthe comms, guiding us up switchbacks slick with ice until we reach the smelter’s GPS coordinates.

When we finally kill the engine, only the sound of wind through spruce needles remains. We leave the snowmobile behind a tangle of dark branches and unstrap our gear. The smelter hulk rises ahead like a rusted beast, windows gone, roof half-collapsed. My breath curls in the cold air as we slip through a buckled loading door, the faint light from outside catching on rusted metal and casting jagged shadows across the ground.

Inside, the air hits like a slap—sour with old ash, tinged with blood and rot. The stench clings to my throat, thick and metallic. We move fast. I climb the edge of the rusted conveyor platform while Wren braces the ladder. The infrared lens on the trail cam gives one defiant blink—red, then nothing—as it goes dark, programmed to wake at the first hint of movement.

Wren whispers, “Two more.”

We edge into a lateral tunnel choked with rusted ore carts, their metal frames jutting like ribs from a dead beast. The air grows colder, damper, pressing against my lungs with a chill that tastes of mold and blood. Every creak beneath our boots echoes like cannon fire.

Then—voices. Sharp Russian consonants ricochet off the walls, followed by clipped English commands, each syllable tight with command and violence. My pulse stutters. This isn’t an empty tunnel. We’ve walked straight into their den.

“—get tonight’s quota staged?—”

“—pilot wants wheels up before white-out?—”

Bile climbs my throat, thick and acidic.They’re already here.My hand trembles as I edge the mic closer to my lips, the metal cold against my skin. "Coordinates inbound," I whisper, barely above the surge of panic trying to claw its way out.

Caleb’s gravel reply hits my earpiece a breath later: “Copy. Keep moving and get out of there.”

I swallow hard, forcing my boots to move, each step echoing in the tunnel like a warning bell. The weight of the voices behind us grows louder in my ears, dread curling sharp and cold beneath my ribs. We’re no longer observers—if we’re caught, we become prey.

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