Page 31 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

She mutters something low under her breath—probably not fit for polite company—before repositioning the ice pack and securing it with fresh elastic. A folded blanket slides beneath my heel, elevating it just so. I lean back, biting the inside of my cheek, and Wren gives me a look that says she knows exactly how bad it hurts—and exactly how little she cares about my complaints.

“You limp on that tomorrow,” she warns, “I’ll tranq you and drag you on a sled.”

“Copy that,” I say around a burning grin. Caleb’s eyebrow ticks up—he approves of threats involving tranquilizers. Figures.

Sadie clears the plates with efficient grace, her movements quiet but purposeful. Zeke steps up beside the table, unfolding the Ironvale Smelter blueprints with a crisp snap and spreading them flat, corners anchored by various kitchen utensils that thud against the wood like the opening move of a long-awaited game.

The air shifts—focused, electric—as everyone gathers, shoulders brushing, breaths syncing, the tension in the room spooling tighter with every second. Nate overlays glossy drone photos; Wren boots my laptop, projector cable snaking to the whitewashed wall. GPS data blossoms in neon ribbon trails—wolves in green, moose in blue, collared lynx in furious fuchsia.

Caleb stands behind me, one hand braced on the chair back, gray gaze slicing through layers of data. His presence is weight and warmth—steadying.

I highlight the primary game corridor leading straight past Tunnel Three. “Poachers drag carcasses down wildlife paths—fewer human tracks, less chance of patrols. If we reroute animal interest away from Tunnels One and Four, we can funnel them to Tunnel Three."

Zeke nods. “That’s where I can station deputies unseen. One choke point beats four firefights.”

“What’s your lure?” Nate asks.

“Moose,” I answer, grinning.

Wren nods. "I have two spare collar transmitters in storage that a couple of the rangers left up here last season."

"We can drag the decoy carcasses with scent lure—make them smell like actual kills. That should ping the poachers’ receivers and draw them in. If the poachers receive a ping, they'll bite.”

Wren leans over the blueprint, her braid swaying. “I’ll plant a predator-call repeater fifty meters deeper. Keeps them chasing sound.”

Caleb’s fingers flex on the chair. “We wire this side exit,” he says, tapping an annotated service ladder. “Blast the stairs after the last man drops—no retreat.”

A hush tightens the room, dense and breathless. We’re apex hunters now, coiled around the strike zone like a pack ready to lunge. Every map and mark we lay down is a claw, a fang, a warning. No one speaks, but the fire crackles in the hearth like distant gunfire. Outside, the forest listens—waiting.

The air grows heavy, charged with anticipation, like the thick static before a lightning strike. Floorboards groan beneath shifting weight, a rifle’s bolt slams home, and the steady glow from the hearth washes the room in restless, amber light. The moment breathes like a held pulse, and tomorrow night, only one side walks away.

When plans are mapped, Zeke and Nate load gear back into the SUV and Sadie goes with them, promising to send breakfast at dawn. Caleb latches the door, and suddenly it’s just the three of us—me, him, Wren—plus a cabin full of ticking nerves.

I break first. “I can’t lose anyone else.” The words scrape out of me, tight and raw. “Chris is still out there—maybe forever lost—and that hole already feels like it’s swallowing everything.”

Wren’s expression softens—only a degree, but enough. “We don't know that you've lost Chris, and you won’t lose us.”

“Promise me,” I demand, turning to Caleb, heat prickling my eyes.

He steps closer, rough palm cupping my jaw, thumb tracing my cheekbone. “I promise. No one on this team dies tomorrow, and we'll find out what happened to Chris. But whatever happens, you are no longer alone.”

Before I turn, a flash of memory grabs me—Chris, grinning with one arm slung around my shoulders, his hair wild from the wind and his cheeks streaked with dirt from our last backcountry hike together. That smile of his always saidtrust me, we’ll make it. It lives inside me now like a ghost tucked behind my ribs. The ache is sharp, but it steels me. I’ll see this through—for him.

Wren clears her throat. “What he said.” She squeezes my shoulder—"Sister’s vow." For a breath we stand like a three-link chain no blade can cleave.

Boots thud heavily on the porch, wood creaking under each deliberate step. Nate storms back in, shaking snow. “I just got word. The judge finally signed. We've got a federal warrant that's valid for forty-eight hours.”

Zeke and Sadie follow him. "That means we have an official seal on our little op," said Zeke with a smile.

Nate nods. “Anchorage tower logged a charter request. Cargo chopper, tail number Sierra-Two-Uniform-Nine. ETA tomorrow twenty-thirty at Ironvale coordinates.”

Caleb’s slow smile unfurls with lethal intent, like a wolf scenting blood on the wind—calm, quiet, but pulsing with promised violence just beneath the surface.

Wren exhales a single word: “Showtime.”

I swallow the last curl of fear, feeling it trail like a smoldering ember down my throat and catch fire in my chest. It sears as it settles, smoldering low and fierce beneath my ribs. The burn doesn’t fade—it forges, reshapes, tempers me like steel drawnthrough flame. It makes me sharper. Harder. Ready to carve through whatever comes next.

Tomorrow, Reynolds will land in our snare. My heart thrums like distant war drums, each pulse syncing to the storm building around us. Wind rattles the windows, the glass humming faintly in its frame, as if the mountain itself braces for what’s coming. When it happens, Talon Mountain will breathe again—its freedom carried on wind that doesn’t whisper, but roars it to the sky in a cry of primal triumph.

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