Page 30 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

A low rumble shakes the cabin—at first, it sounds like distant thunder, a rolling groan buried beneath the storm’s breath. Then comes the sharpcrack, like bone snapping under pressure, followed by the hiss of ignited magnesium that scorches thesilence. Not thunder. A flare. The acrid tang of burning chemicals threads through the air even before the crimson bloom pulses through the frost-glazed window. Red light washes across the cabin interior, licking the walls in an ominous glow that makes every shadow seem to crawl.

My blood goes ice cold. “Flare on the east perimeter.”

Bryn’s breath catches. “Trip-wire.”

I’m on my feet in a heartbeat, snagging jeans, rifle, radio. “Stay here, keep pressure off that ankle.”

“Not happening.” She grabs a pistol, chambers a round, and gives me a look that dares me to stop her. The click of the slide echoes louder than it should in the charged silence, slicing through the tension like a flare through fog. “Partners, remember?”

I glare, but there’s no time. The outer sensors blink crimson on the control panel—one, two, three. Multiple contacts, circling, closing. A low hum buzzes from the panel, joined by the barely audible crackle of static interference. Somewhere outside, the wind shifts, carrying a faint metallic scent and the faint tread of boots moving over snow. Reynolds’ crew is probing, testing our defenses—they're not scouts. They're predators, scenting blood.

I slam my spare mag into place. “Fine. But stay on my six, Bryn. If they want a war, we’ll give them one.”

Wind howls as I throw the door wide, the cold slamming into me like a punch to the chest, dragging every ounce of my heat—and hers—into the black. Snow billows in tight spirals, ghosting around the red flare sputtering in the drift, its glow painting the white in blood.

The metallic stench of spent magnesium lingers sharp in my nose, and from beyond the flare’s dying light, movement stirs. Shadowed figures ripple through the tree line like wraiths, rifles glinting like fangs under the bone-pale moon.

They came hunting.

I tighten my jaw and step into the snow, boots pressing through the frozen crust with a brittle snap beneath each step. The cold bites at my cheeks, and my breath spills out in pale streams, curling like smoke in the frigid air, vanishing as quickly as it forms.

They may not know it, but they have become the prey, and the predator is on the hunt.

13

BRYN

Snow hisses off the barrel of my pistol as Caleb and I sweep the tree-line one last time. A sharp gust slashes across the clearing, stinging my cheeks and tugging strands of hair from beneath my knit cap. The cold air bites deep, carrying a residual trace of burnt powder—faint, nearly gone, but enough to stir a warning deep in my chest.

My body stays coiled, tension locked in every joint, like a bowstring stretched to the brink. I hold still, muscles trembling from the strain, the wind sliding over me like a blade. Every instinct screams to move, to strike, but I wait—silent, loaded, deadly. The cabin door creaks behind us—a low groan half-lost in the wind—but it's enough to tether me. My boots press over the hard-packed snow with steady, deliberate steps, each one sharp and alert.

The forest beyond is quiet now. No muzzle flashes split the dark. No blinking threat markers. Just the wind threading through spruce needles and the flare’s dying glow collapsing into cinders. The lantern on the porch flickers behind us, casting a pulse across the clearing like the heartbeat of something fierce and waiting.

Headlights crest the rise—Zeke’s SUV fishtails, chains grinding. It skids to a stop beside our snowmobiles, engine ticking in the cold. Nate climbs out of the passenger door, shotgun ready, scanning the horizon like the city cop he pretends he isn’t. Relief prickles my skin; seeing familiar faces roll up in that SUV, armed and ready, instantly hits like a second wind.

“Perimeter is clear for the moment,” Caleb says, voice a granite scrape. He lowers his rifle but doesn’t sling it over his shoulder. “See anything on the way up?”

“Just taillights running scared,” Zeke answers, popping the hatch. “Left you a calling card—a slug casing with a hand-carved R.” He opens the back door and helps Sadie out. She's holding two thermoses of what I hope is coffee and a bakery box big enough to make angels sing.

I holster my gun and limp toward the porch. Pain blooms hot up my calf and my ankle throbs with each step, the ache flaring deep into the bone. I clench my jaw and push forward, knowing I’ll pay for it tomorrow, but right now, it’s survival—momentum. No time for ice, no space for weakness. Not with another fight coming.

Wren meets me on the steps, knit cap pulled low, a medical bag slung over her shoulder. Her eyes flick to my bandage, then to Caleb, and back to me—silent question. I give her a shrug that translates tostill attached, still pissed. She smothers a laugh and ushers me inside, followed by the others.

The cabin’s main room feels smaller with five bodies and enough gear for a platoon. Flames roar in the river-rock hearth, casting dancing shadows across the smooth floorboards. Caleb—ever the one thinking three steps ahead—has stacked extra logs within easy reach, a silent promise the heat won't falter tonight.

Sadie thrusts a steaming mug of rich, dark coffee into my hands. The warmth blooms instantly across my fingers, acontrast so jarring it nearly buckles my knees before I even shrug out of my coat. The coffee boasts a deep, rich intensity with bold, smoky undertones and a lingering, bittersweet finish. It punches through my exhaustion, curling up into my sinuses like the warm embrace of something good and familiar. Steam fogs my lashes, clinging like mist to frozen bark, and I wrap both hands around the ceramic, greedily soaking in the heat.

“The café may be closed, but heroes drink free,” she says with a tired smile, pressing a plate of still-warm cheese biscuits into Wren's hands.

The scent wafts up—sharp cheddar and melted butter—and my stomach growls like a threat. I squeeze Sadie’s elbow in silent thanks, my throat too tight, too full of everything I can’t put into words. Her warmth anchors me, even as the war still simmers just outside the cabin walls.

Nate thumps a stack of ammo boxes onto the kitchen counter, the metal corners clanging against wood. “No more scouts on the road,” he says, looking around the room. “Just a probing party trying to test our perimeter. They didn’t stick around long.”

“That won’t last,” Caleb mutters, sliding a fresh mag home with a series of precise clicks that reverberate through the quiet like a countdown. “We hit them harder than they expected. They'll be back—stronger, smarter.”

Wren jerks her chin toward the chair. “Foot up. Now.” Apparently condensing language to its smallest number of words is a family trait.

She doesn’t wait for a response—just steers me down like a sheepdog herding a limping lamb. Her fingers work fast, unwrapping the bandage with practiced efficiency and the merciless touch of someone who knows healing hurts. My breath hisses through my teeth as the fabric peels away to reveal angry, purpling skin swollen tight around the joint.

---