Page 20 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

“That was before the posse showed up—you know, the sheriff and a cop? And they aren't rules... not really. The fact is, you would slow us down. If this is as big as it seems, they won’t take anyone prisoner. They'll shoot first, bury the bodies, and ask zero questions.”

Zeke lifts an eyebrow, skepticism etched deep into the furrow between his eyes. He crosses his arms, shifting his weight slightly before nodding once. “Caleb’s right. One misstep and we’re body-bag material.”

Bryn’s shoulders sag, but her eyes stay hot. “Then pair me with Wren on the snowmobile. I can monitor telemetry while you and Nate scout the ridge.”

I weigh it. Wren’s lethal with a gun—be it dart or bullet—and cooler under pressure than most soldiers I’ve known. Watching her move, calculated and unshakable, always sends a bolt of pride through me. She’s my sister—and a force of nature. With Bryn riding behind her, that snowmobile becomes a damn missile. Fast, efficient, and near impossible to touch. If anyone can keep Bryn safe out there, it’s Wren.

“Fine,” I say. “But from the moment we leave here, you stay within arm’s reach of either Wren or me. Period.”

She opens her mouth—sass loading—but something shifts in those sea-glass eyes, and she nods once. Submission, but earned, not given. Tension coils in my chest, born of command and something sharper—the raw, unrelenting need to earn her trust, to keep her safe. A pang hits low in my gut, part hunger, part reverence. Later, I’ll unpack that—when the mountain's quiet and she’s sleeping beside me instead of charging into its teeth.

Zeke peels off down a narrow prospect trail, moving wide toward the southern ridge on a snowmobile. We plan to go part of the way on foot to keep the noise level low when we get closer. Wren revs the lead snowmobile, Bryn seated behind her, telemetry unit strapped snug between them. Nate and I bring up the rear on the third snowmobile, eyes tracking the tree line like a predator on scent. No one's left behind. Not on my watch.

Frost-laced air slashes my lungs with every breath. Sharp, unrelenting, it bites deeper than windchill—cold iron threading my ribs and tightening every breath like a vice. I grit my teethand breathe through it, steadying my grip on the shotgun, willing my focus to the terrain ahead. Boots crack through the wind-scabbed drifts when we dismount, the snow bright under a bleeding sky. Sunlight slants over the peaks, casting long shadows. The mountain doesn’t just watch—it waits. Every muscle in my body coils tighter, ready to strike if it has to. My boots shift in the snow, crunching like brittle glass beneath the weight of what's coming.

Nate keeps his voice low, a whisper drifting between the pines. I tighten my grip on the shotgun, the cold steel biting into my palm as I scan the tree line. My ears strain for sound, pulse pounding, every nerve drawn taut like a wire in a winter storm.

“You trust her?”

My jaw tightens, breath fogging in the bitter air as I scan the tree line again, shotgun steady. The weight of the question cuts deep, unspoken memories surfacing like old scars beneath fresh bruises.

“With my life.” The words land before I can second-guess them. Too easy, too fast—but true. And that truth hits harder than I want to admit., and it rattles something deep—because I do trust her. Not blindly, not without reason. It’s not that I don’t believe in trust. I just never thought I’d find someone who made me want to risk it again.

He glances sideways. “Funny. You used to say trust was a liability.”

“It still is.” I scan the timber. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m in.”

“Copy that.” He taps the comm. “Sheriff’s in position—armed checkpoint at Pete’s.” Meaning: Zeke’s securing the valley exit in case the traffickers bolt.

Static crackles. Wren’s voice: “Telemetry acquired. Lone wolf tag moving southeast—looks spooked.”

Bryn’s tone follows, steady but excited. “We’re shadowing. Coordinates uploading to Caleb’s dash.”

I glance at the handheld GPS: a green dot beelines toward tunnel mouth three. “She just gave us a guide dog,” Nate murmurs.

“Let’s move,” I say as we park the snowmobile. I tighten my grip on the shotgun and give a sharp nod toward the trail. The snow muffles everything but the thud of my boots and the pounding urgency in my chest. There’s no room for hesitation now—every second counts.

We break into a half-run—more stumble than sprint in the snow—keeping low and pushing through the drifts with gritted resolve. Pine scent and what feels like shards of ice in my lungs. Snowflakes spin off branches like sparks off a grindstone.

My pulse stutters—like a snapped line yanking tight—dread cinching around my ribs until I can't breathe right. The blinking dot on the GPS screen flickers once more… and then freezes, silent, still, a heartbeat stilled in the snowbound dark.

A single gunshot splits the valley open, echoing off the ice-laced peaks like a war drum. It rolls through the trees, sharp and jarring, yanking my breath short and sending a jolt straight through my spine.

“Wren!” I bark into the mic.

No answer.

Bryn’s voice bursts through, breathless. “Shots fired—north ridge. Wren’s okay, but the snowmobile’s hit. They’re on foot, heading our way.”

“Hold position,” I growl.

“Negative, Caleb. They’re tracking the wolf. I’m not letting them kill her.”

Of course she isn’t. I bite off a curse. “Stay alive. We’re en route.”

Nate and I break into a sprint. Four hundred yards downhill, I spot movement: two figures in white camo, rifles slung, dragging a sled loaded with burlap shapes—limp animal forms. The shapes are unmistakably animal—furred, too small and contorted to be human. Poachers, not murderers. Not this time.

One glances back.

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