Page 21 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

"Tangos,” I whisper. “Poachers confirmed. Two hundred yards out, half-hidden behind snow-laden spruce.”

Nate raises his carbine. “Two-man stack. You call it.”

I exhale winter air, cold and merciless. “We flank hard and take them quiet. Bryn’s somewhere beyond. We end this before they see her.”

I wedge the shotgun butt tight against my shoulder.

For Bryn. For Chris. For every wolf stripped from this mountain.

The next squeeze of my trigger will decide if Bryn gets out of these woods alive—or if I lose everything all over again.

9

BRYN

Snow swallows every sound—until it doesn’t.

A single muffledcrackricochets through the trees, rolling down the ridge like a predator riding the wind. I flinch, breath fogging my face shield. Wren’s gloved hand closes over my forearm before an instinctive reaction can shove me into the open.

“Easy,” she murmurs, eyes tracking the tree line. “That was Caleb’s twelve-gauge. Pattern’s tight. He never wastes a shot.”

I want to trust that calm certainty, but my pulse is stampeding. We’re crouched in a snow-slashed gully beside the damaged snowmobile, telemetry tablet glowing faint green against the whiteout. Somewhere beyond the ridge, Caleb and Nate are stalking poachers who butcher animals with surgical precision. Somewhere out there, my brother’s trail is still bleeding.

I steel my voice. “You sure they’re okay?”

“If they weren’t, you’d hear two more shots.” Wren flicks me a sidelong smile—steady, lethal. “Knox protocol: engage, confirm, finish.”

Distant voices float through the spruce—low, guttural, not English. A harsh syllable snaps out, then another—Caleb’svoice, unmistakable in its clipped command. Branches crack. The forest stills again, tension folding back into the snow like nothing ever disturbed it.

Minutes stretch like wire under tension. Then movement ghosts between the trees. Nate appears first, carbine slung over his shoulder, visor up. Caleb strides behind him, one poacher zip-tied, the other limp over his shoulder. Even buried in winter camo, he’s unmistakable—broad, relentless, carved out of the mountain itself. Relief slams through me so hard my knees nearly buckle.

He sets the unconscious poacher in the sled, then meets my gaze. Those glacier eyes melt for a fraction of a heartbeat—just long enough to say, 'I’m here. You’re safe.'

And God help me, that look feels like the first clean breath after clawing through an avalanche—sharp, cold, necessary.

Getting back to the cabin takes time. Nate drives the repaired snowmobile, with Wren riding behind him. Zeke drives the snowmobile with the sled holding the two prisoners. Caleb and I bring up the rear. I'm pressed against Caleb's back, my arms locked around his waist as wind claws at us. The cold eats through layers and settles in my bones, but I don't care. I’m still riding the high of seeing him walk out of that forest.

By the time we’re all inside, the heat from the woodstove and fireplace feels like stepping into another world—one that’s warmer, safer, and laced with the sharp scent of pine smoke and wet wool. Caleb and Nate hauled the prisoners from the snowmobile and sled to Zeke’s SUV and locked them in. They join the rest of us as we gather tight around the kitchen island. Copper light flickers over maps, evidence boxes, and twolawmen and Caleb, all too wired to blink. Steam curls from mugs of coffee, but no one’s drinking yet.

Caleb drops a blood-sprayed burlap satchel onto the table with a dampthud. The scent of iron and musk billows up in a wave, pungent and primal. It hits the back of my throat like a warning shot. I flinch, recoiling instinctively, stomach turning as I eye the stained fibers and the grotesque promise of what lies within.

"Two fresh wolf pelts,” he says, voice hollow. He wipes his hands on a rag, then clicks a flash drive into my laptop. "Poachers had drone footage of every active trapline—including the one Chris marked. Found the satchel stashed in a snowbank just off the old mine trail. I didn’t bring it inside for fun."

A sick churn twists through my gut like barbed wire. I force down bile, fingers trembling as I advance the footage frame by agonizing frame. Wolves writhing in iron jaws. Moose splayed and flayed, skinned with clinical detachment. Each grim scene bears Chris’s map coordinates like a cursed watermark—proof that this isn’t random. It’s a system. A business. A violation scrawled in blood across everything my brother fought to protect.

Zeke swears under his breath. “That’s enough evidence to level federal charges.”

Nate folds his arms. “Assuming the ring doesn’t burn itself before we get a warrant. We need Bryn’s notebooks, Wren’s telemetry logs, and anything else tying tunnels to revenue.”

Wren passes over her tablet. “Collar pings match the butchering sites. Fourteen wolves down, one still active but heading south—fast. Probably spooked by gunfire.”

Caleb’s jaw tightens. “We can track her at first light. That wolf should lead us to the primary hub—or her den. Either way, we end it.”

Zeke nods. “I’ll process the prisoners in town, loop in Fish and Game. Bryn, you should bunk somewhere safe till morning.”

Wren taps my arm. “My cabin’s closer. Less target-rich.”

Zeke counters, “I can take you back to the bed-and-breakfast. It's centrally located, and safe. I can post a deputy there if you like.”

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