Page 37 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
"Now."
The world detonates around me. A gunshot cracks through the trees like a whip, the air tearing hot and merciless, and I duck low with my heart slamming against my ribs in time withthe rifle’s echo. Wren's voice shouts something, inaudible over the sudden roar, but I know her tone: precise, focused. I pivot to cover the center line, booted feet digging into the frozen dirt. Muzzle flash flares behind the treeline. A spray of bark explodes inches from my face.
I fire back—quick, controlled. One round punches through his chest, the recoil jarring up my arm as the impact drives him backward. He collapses in a heap, dead weight hitting the ground with a muffled thud. I keep my sights locked for a beat longer, adrenaline roaring through my veins like a war drum, until the body goes still. Only then do I allow myself a breath.
Another shadow surges out of the dark to my right. I pivot fast and slam the butt of my rifle into his temple. The impact lands with a sickening crack, and he stumbles, knees buckling. I don't give him a second chance. I drive my boot down into his chest, pinning him to the frozen ground. My breath saws through my throat as I scan the tree line, vision twitching from shape to shape, every muscle ready to strike again if needed.
Branches thrash wildly as a third runner veers off to the left, disappearing into the underbrush. I don’t hesitate. I pivot and take the shot—a clean, controlled hit to his shoulder. Non-lethal, but enough to slam him sideways and drop him hard. His weapon flies from his grip and skitters across the icy ground. He hits with a strangled cry, writhing as pain overtakes him.
Another man—leaner, twitchy—tries to make a break for it, but Wren moves fast. One precise shot drops him before he can make a sound. The last one, eyes wide, panic overtaking whatever training he had, bolts into the thicker woods. I’m on him in an instant, boots hammering frozen earth, branches clawing at my arms. He’s quick, driven by desperation, but his footwork’s sloppy. Erratic. He’s not going to last long.
He turns to fire. A shot cracks. Pain blooms across my bicep, a scorching line that sears through flesh and radiates down myarm. It is not deep, but it is brutal, hot, and immediate, a reminder of how close I came to worse. My legs burn from the sprint, each stride sending shockwaves up my thighs. The cold air rakes my throat raw, my chest heaving under the strain. The pain in my arm throbs, threatening to steal focus, but I push harder, adrenaline keeping my footing fierce and my instincts honed as I launch myself at him anyway.
We collide hard. My shoulder slams into his ribs and the air whooshes out of him as we hit the ground. He fights back, wild and desperate. Elbows fly, fingers claw, but I’ve got the leverage. Pain flares, searing across my arm where the bullet grazed me, but I use it. Channel it. My knee drives into his gut as I rip the weapon from his hands and press him into the hard-packed snow.
"You’re done," I snarl, yanking the weapon free.
My breath punches past my clenched teeth, ragged and fast. My pulse roars in my ears, each beat syncing with the raw throb in my arm and the surge of something deeper, the grim, electric drive to end this before it ends us.
Wren appears out of the dark, gun raised. Her eyes rake over me.
"You’re hit."
"Just a graze."
She’s already moving, using the butt-end of her rifle to knock the guy unconscious in a pretty savage blow. She presses me against the tree, stripping back my jacket. Efficient. Angry. Hands steady.
"You're a lucky idiot," she mutters. "You could have taken a clean round through an artery."
"Would’ve made things interesting."
"This is not a game, Nate."
She's pissed. I know that she's pissed, although telling her that and that I think she's sexy as hell when she’s pissed probably isn't the best idea.
Her fingers move fast, slicing through fabric with a ruthless kind of focus that makes my breath hitch. I catch the smallest tremble in her knuckles, a small bit of emotion breaking through the hard shell she wears. She doesn’t speak, but her tension bleeds through every movement—efficient, sure, but too forceful, like if she doesn't keep her hands busy she might lose it.
My eyes lock on her mouth, the way it presses into a thin, determined line, and for a second, I wonder if she's trying just as hard not to look at me. Not to feel this shift between us. with clinical precision.
She peels back the ruined sleeve and presses gauze against the wound, her touch firm but trembling slightly at the edges. Her jaw tightens, eyes flicking up to mine just long enough for me to catch the storm behind them—fear, anger, and something else.
The heat of her body presses close, her breath shallow, and when her hand brushes my skin again, something inside me jolts—not from pain, but from the way her fingers linger for half a second longer than necessary. It's not just triage. It’s something charged. Something dangerous. She’s in medic mode now—professional, precise, but I see the tension in her jaw.
Her anger isn’t just adrenaline. It is fear wound tight like a spring, a live current sparking beneath every clipped movement. Her jaw is locked, her breath harsh, and I can feel the cost of her caring in the force of her hands.
"I'm okay, Wren... or I will be."
"It’s clean," she says finally. "But you’re not lifting anything heavy until I say so."
"Bossy."
She levels me with a look that could cut glass. "And don't you forget it."
We secure the prisoners and haul them back to the cottage, picking up the fifth along the way. With all five accounted for, we bind their wrists with makeshift zip cuffs, layering nylon and plastic until none of them can move without pain, and then I call Zeke to arrange pickup. Dawn is still a few hours off, so we lock them in the tool shed, adjusting the Toyo stove so they won’t get frostbite. The chopper will take about an hour to get here. Until then, we sit tight and stay alert.
Back inside the cottage, Wren presses a new bandage to my arm and tapes it down. Her hands linger a second longer than necessary, fingertips brushing against my skin with a subtle hesitation that makes my breath catch. There's a trace of uncertainty in her eyes or maybe something deeper—and the soft graze leaves a heat in its wake that has nothing to do with the wound. I don’t look away. I want her to see that I felt it too. She looks up.
"Those guys out there? They're just a distraction."
