Page 33 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

Sadie’s voice crackles over the handheld: “The town seems to be clear. Sheriff station ready on standby. Breakfast promised if you bring Reynolds in alive.” She tries to sound light. I can hear prayer in the crackle.

“Appreciate it,” Bryn tells her. “We’ll see you at dawn.”

I glance at Bryn’s ankle. She’s leaning on the table to take weight off it, pretending she isn’t. “Stick close to Wren in the control snowmobile,” I order. “You’re the eyes tonight, not the spear.”

Blue eyes slit. “Yes, commander.”

I quell a grin. “Don’t test me, biologist.”

Full dark drops at 18:14. A new-moon sky—black as wet obsidian—hides everything but the stutter of our infrared beacons: small devices that emit invisible light, seen only through night vision goggles or thermal scopes. The temperature dives—my breath hits the cold air and freezes instantly, crusting delicate frost along the wool balaclava.

But the man I’ve come all this way to find isn’t just reclusive—he’s a glacier in flannel. Hard-edged, ancient, and unmoved by time or reason. Not the kind of cold that stings and fades, but the kind that clamps down slow and merciless, creeping into your bones until everything soft inside you freezes solid.

At just past seven, a sharp double-ping crackles through my earpiece at the helipad—Bryn’s voice follows a beat later, clipped and steady. “Moose Collar Alpha just triggered the carcass receiver.”

That’s our bait. Good.

Two minutes crawl by.

“Contact,” she whispers again, quieter now. “Three targets entering the main shaft. Heavy packs.”

Her words tighten as she speaks, adrenaline cutting through her usually calm tone. I can’t see what she’s looking at, but I don’t need to. I hear it in her voice—the tension, the certainty. Whoever just crossed into Tunnel Three isn’t out for a hike. They’re coming loaded and ready. Predators, moving through the dark.

“Stand by,” Zeke answers from the west ridge. Volunteers from neighboring towns ghost forward, snow camouflage blending into drifts, rifles held low but ready, eyes sharp and scanning the dark for movement. Their bootsteps are nearly silent, disciplined, each footfall a calculated glide rather than a stomp, keeping the element of surprise intact. A few adjust their grips, fingers curling around triggers with a readiness honed by long nights and harder training.

Zeke and Nate had taken extra care in whom they brought in to keep Pete in the dark.

Another pulse—five more signals. Then voices. Clipped Russian, rapid English. Foot soldiers. Perfect.

“Tunnel exit clear,” Nate breathes. “Charges primed.”

“Hold,” I reply.

My post is the helipad: a cracked concrete circle behind the smelter, half buried under a drift. I crouch behind a rusted forklift, night-vision goggles painting the world in eerie greens. Wind keens through broken scaffold—no rotor wash yet.

Inside the shaft, muffled scuffle, a curse. Bryn feeds updates: positions, numbers, weapon shapes on thermal. Her voice is calm, anchor-steady. Makes my pulse hammer with wicked pride.

Zeke strikes first—flashbangs thunder. The volunteers with him swarm. Shots crack, short and controlled. In less than ninety seconds: “Tunnel secure. Six in cuffs.”

A rotor thump rolls over the ridge—the deep thunder of a heavy lift chopper. I step from cover, but remain in the shadows, automatic rifle raised. Helicopter belly lights sweep the pad once, twice, then settle. Side door slides open; Reynolds drops to the ground, parka hood up, satellite phone clenched in gloved fist. Two riflemen fan out.

I train my rifle on him as I step forward into the landing lights. “Long time, Reynolds.”

He freezes, recognizing my voice even before the goggles. “Knox.” His laugh is all gravel. “Should’ve guessed you’d crawl out of your hole.”

“Didn’t crawl. I tracked.”

He waves his men aside and draws a combat blade. “Let’s finish this.”

Before I can react, before anything is decided, Reynolds’ men turn and run. I guess money doesn’t buy loyalty anymore. We can catch up with them later. For now, I need to deal with Reynolds—that poor bastard always did believe his skills were greater than they actually were.

For a split second, a memory flares—Mosul, the dust and the chaos, and the betrayal that left two of my brothers bleeding out in the sand while Reynolds vanished like a ghost. That betrayal carved itself into my bones. Not this time.

I sling the rifle across my back and unsheathe my blade, its polished steel catching the harsh floodlight's glint, casting fleeting, sharp reflections that dance menacingly along itsedge. The cold air is a razor slicing into my lungs with each breath, as sharp and biting as the weapon I grip with white-knuckled intensity. We circle each other with deadly intent, our boots dragging ominously through the whispering snow, leaving chaotic patterns on the once-pristine ground.

Reynolds lunges with a clumsy, telegraphed feint to the left, his movements awkward and desperate. I sidestep with lethal precision, parrying his attempt, and drive my elbow into his throat with bone-jarring force that reverberates through my body like a shockwave. He staggers back, coughing violently, his blade flailing in wild desperation. It slices across my bicep, a shallow sting that ignites every nerve in my body, more insulting than injurious yet electrifying.

I pivot with ferocious speed, hooking his wrist with a practiced, savage motion, twisting it with a vicious snap. The sickening pop of tendon and knuckle echoes through the frigid air like a morbid symphony. His blade slips from his grip, clattering uselessly into the snow with a dull, defeated thud.

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