Page 32 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

Wren tugs on her parka and gives me a last glance, something unspoken passing between us. Caleb nods once, and she slips out the door, heading for her snowmobile. The engine coughs to life, headlights cutting through the trees as she disappears into the mountain dark, bound for her remote cabin.

Nate claps Caleb on the shoulder. "We’ll sweep the highway, keep Glacier Hollow on alert."

"Sadie is going to run comms from the café," Zeke adds, already moving toward the SUV. "We’ll have radio contact every two hours."

They file out, weapons loaded, boots heavy on the porch. The SUV roars to life and vanishes down the ridge, taillights flaring once before the forest swallows them whole.

14

CALEB

The door shuts behind Zeke’s crew with a final echo of engines and fading taillights. Their SUV disappears down the ridge, swallowed by snow-slick pines and moonless dark. A cold wind slithers through the branches, and the distant creak of settling ice echoes like a whispered omen. One heartbeat, two—silence settles like powder on fresh tracks. Bryn stands with her back against the timbers, coffee mug forgotten on the table, blue eyes reflecting hearth-fire and nerves she refuses to show.

I cross the room, palm bracing the log wall beside her head. “Five hours until first light,” I murmur. “Grab what sleep you can.”

She tips her chin, stubborn. “You’ll take the same advice?”

“Soon as I finish rechecking our kit.”

A quick nod—then she pushes onto her toes and kisses the corner of my mouth, heat sparking through the chill clinging to our clothes. “Wake me at zero-three-hundred.”

“Count on it.”

Pre-dawn bleeds pearl-gray across the peak of Talon Mountain. Bryn and Wren roar away on a snowmobile before the sun crests—narrow taillights threading a switchback of ice and shadow. Their snowmobile tows a sled with sealed dry-boxes packed with scent-lure, transmitter collars, and motion-trigger cams.

I watch until the last flicker of red vanishes, then sling my rucksack over my shoulder and trek north along the ridgeline, breaking trail through crusted drifts that crackle under my weight. The wind knifes across my cheeks, but I welcome the sting—it grounds me. Each step sinks into the packed snow with a brittle snap and frozen pine needles, sharp and sure.

I think of the two people I love and trust most in this world: my sister, Wren—my compass since we were kids—and Bryn, the storm I didn’t see coming but now can't imagine living without. That second name still catches me off guard, not because I doubt it, but because loving her feels like it rewired something deep in me. I love her. Somehow, between firefights and fleeting silences, she slipped under my defenses and anchored herself there. Now I carry that truth like armor, forged not from guilt or duty, but from something harder—hope.

One kilometer east of the smelter ruins I find the first vantage—a granite spur overlooking Tunnel Three. Frost-coated spruce branches veil the ledge; I prune only what I must, keeping my silhouette swallowed by shadow. Twenty meters back, Zeke and Nate rig a claymore bracket to a dead stump, angled toward the exit ladder. They work quietly, gloved fingers sure. We exchange nods—no talk needed.

By noon, Nate’s crouched in the main shaft splice, drilling holes with an old-fashioned hand drill for shaped charges. Hisbreath ghosts in front of him; sweat ices on his temples. “Two detonators,” he mutters. “Primary and fail-safe.”

“Good,” I answer. “Give me the trigger remote when you head out.”

He snaps the hard case shut. “Planning to stay inside?”

“I’ll be topside—helipad.”

Nate’s brow lifts. “That’s lone-wolf even for you, Knox.”

“Better me than anyone else.”

He studies my face for a beat longer, jaw tight with unspoken understanding, then silently passes the remote. In our world, respect isn’t verbal—it’s earned in scars, grit, and the willingness to shoulder the danger so someone else doesn’t have to.

Mid-afternoon, clouds crawl all the way up from the harbor, gray and heavy. Bryn’s voice crackles over comms: “Decoys planted—Trail Seven. Cameras up, signal steady. Heading to repeater drop.”

“Copy,” I reply.

She speaks in a focused, professional tone, but I hear fatigue beneath it. Ten minutes later Wren checks in—"Repeater anchored, transmitter humming."

They swing wide and angle back toward the cabin by 1600, snowmobile runners spraying powder as they crest the ridge. Frost streaks Bryn’s parka; her ankle wrap is dark with melted ice and grit, but her smile is feral—mission bloodhound and proud of it.

We hunker inside for the final briefing. I unroll terrain sheets across the table; the corners curling slightly from stored creases. The edge of my glove brushes over the worn grid lines as I press them flat. My thoughts flick briefly to Wren, and to Bryn—two people I never expected to be my reason for fighting this hard.

Loving Bryn snuck up on me. I didn't plan for her, but now the thought of losing her is like ice in my veins. I push the emotion down and anchor myself in the task. Bryn overlays liveGPS feed from the moose collars; green dots shimmer, migrating exactly where we need them. Wren toggles a view and a red grid blooms: sensors along Tunnel Three pulse bright with each collar ping.

Zeke double-checks our coordinated placements on the map, then slaps the table. “That’s our kill box.”

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