Page 28 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

The second camera goes onto a corroded I-beam. Dim light from a narrow roof slit spills across a row of pelts strung like macabre bunting—wolf, lynx, even a torn bear hide. Drugged? Snared? Mauled by steel traps? It doesn’t matter. The sight blurs my vision with rage, each hide hanging like a brutal warning, a grotesque tribute to the merciless slaughter that took place here. My hands curl into fists involuntarily, fingernails biting into my palms, fury thrumming through me with every heartbeat.

Footsteps. Close. My breath catches. Every muscle tightens like a tripwire, heart hammering loud enough to drown out the storm. Wren yanks me behind an ore chute as two men pass—one in pixelated camouflage fatigues, the other wearing Big Pete’s outfitter logo like a damn billboard. They unload frozen organs into a cooler, talking about “tonight’s chopper” and “Reynolds’s cut.”

My recorder captures every syllable—the tension in their voices, the stomp of boots on concrete, even the rustling of plastic-wrapped organs. Each sound is another nail in the coffin we're building for them.

We circle back toward the exit, our steps tense and deliberate. A sudden jolt of white-hot pain slices through my ankle, buckling my knee mid-stride. I gasp and pitch forward, barely catching myself. The flashlight jolts from my grip, tumbling end over end down the metal chute—each clack of steelon steel echoing like gunfire in the tunnel’s hush. Dread seizes my chest. That sound was not quiet. That sound was a beacon.

“????!” one guard barks.

A rifle clacks.

“Run,” Wren hisses, shoving me toward a side shaft.

We shove through cobwebbed boards into an emergency ore slide—basically a sheet-metal luge coated in decades of grease. We hurtle down it on our backs, boots braced, friction singeing cloth, the shriek of metal echoing around us. Heat builds from the speed, a burn through soaked fabric and adrenaline.

My breath tears free in gasps, vision streaked with tunnel-light and motion blur as the ore slide rattles like it might split apart beneath us. Wind roars inside, then frost-smack—we spill onto a snowy ravine just as a rifle shot cracks overhead.

I gasp, lungs on fire, chest heaving against the weight of panic and effort. The wind howls as snow begins to whip sideways, thick and fast—each flake a needle against exposed skin. The storm wall isn’t just coming—it’s crashing toward us like a freight train through the trees. A perfect cover. Or a perfect trap.

Wren drags me behind a boulder, pops a flare that dumps red smoke. Caleb’s snowmobile engine wails in response from the ridge, a mechanical howl that cuts through the rising storm like a beacon. The sound vibrates through the snowpack beneath us, sparking a burst of adrenaline as we ready ourselves to run. Relief swells in my chest, hot and fierce—he found us. We race the squall and beat it by heartbeats.

Back at the cabin, Wren rigs the cams to a portable monitor. Footage pops on-screen—gray grain. We watch Big Pete lead Reynolds into frame. I recognize him instantly—his face older, scarred from years of violence, but still unmistakable. Caleb showed me his dossier photos, preparing me for this moment.

Now, even through the grainy cam feed, that same cold, calculating smirk etches his face. The image hits like a punch to the gut. No doubt. It's him. Alive, running this operation, and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Big Pete—the local outfitter from Glacier Hollow who Caleb’s always distrusted, now caught in the act. The betrayal runs deeper than we thought. Reynolds shakes Pete’s hand, then gestures to a pallet of sealed crates.

My breath lodges halfway. “Local outfitter. Former SEAL traitor. That’s the supply chain.”

Caleb’s jaw knots; I swear I hear teeth grind. “Now we know where to strike.”

I hit the space bar to freeze the frame—Reynolds’s grin, Pete’s eager eyes, blood on the floor between them.

Tomorrow we slice the head off this beast… if it doesn’t swallow us first.

12

CALEB

Snow is still swirling in the lantern light when Bryn freezes the last frame—flakes hissing against the windows, the scent of wood smoke curling through the cabin like a warning—Reynolds, smirking beside Big Pete, blood spattered between their boots. The cabin seems to shrink around the image, every crack in the log walls pulsing with the thud of my heartbeat.

“That’s our smoking gun,” she whispers.

Her voice is steady, but her hands tremble on the keyboard, fingertips tapping a stuttering rhythm that betrays her nerves. My eyes track the slight quiver, the pale tension in her knuckles, and something splits beneath my ribs. She’s trying to hold it together—for both of us—but the fear and adrenaline are still coursing through her, twitching just beneath the surface.

Mine don’t shake. They clench. Grief, rage, relief—all of it churns in my gut like ground glass, each shard pressing inward, sharp and relentless. But the only thing I let her see is steel. I reach across her shoulder, fingers brushing the warmth of her collar, and power down the monitor, blacking out Reynolds’ smirk. My thumb hovers on the switch half a beat longer than it should, the urge to punch through the screen surging before Imaster it. Then I slam the laptop shut with a finality that echoes in the small space like a warning shot.

“Enough screen time,” I growl. “You almost got ventilated tonight. Sit.”

She lifts her chin. “I’ll sit when you stop acting like I’m breakable.”

My answer is silence and motion. I scoop her off the bench before she can blink. She yelps, fists battering my chest in protest that’s mostly for show, and I stride through the cabin to the leather sofa near the hearth. Snow-damp gear scatters in our wake—her parka, my shoulder rig, Wren’s med-kit. The storm outside gusts against the shutters, rattling them like warning drums. A log shifts in the fire with a hiss and crack, sending sparks up the flue. Inside, the air simmers with something hotter than the blaze—something primal, unspoken, electric.

I set her on the cushions, kneel, and unlatch her boot. She braces, eyes flashing. “Caleb?—”

“Let me see.”

Her ankle is puffy, mottled violet, already ballooning with fresh bruising. When I press my thumb against the tendon, she jerks and hisses through her teeth, shoulders tensing. I don’t let up. I need to know the damage. My gaze pins hers. “Pain level.”

“Six,” she lies.

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