Page 10 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
“Fine,” I say. “One night. Then I’m gone.”
He looks like he wants to argue. He doesn’t. Instead, he pushes off the table and moves to the window, picking up his rifle as he does so. It isn't in his hands so much as an extension of them. He kills the lamp nearest the glass so the room goes dim, our reflections fading into the dark beyond.
I try to pretend I’m relaxed. I stretch my legs, flex my toes inside wet socks that have started to itch as they warm. I take in the details—the shelf where he’s stashed spare batteries, the corner holding a second med kit, the hook with a key that likely belongs to a generator. If I have to bolt, I want to know this room better than he does or at least as well. I doubt Nate leaves anything to chance.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Patterns,” he says. “Or breaks in them.”
“Is that how you sleep at night? Counting patterns?”
“I sleep when the math works out.”
I snort and set the mug down. The storm leans a shoulder into the cottage. The room breathes with it. I can feel the shooter in the absence—the way quiet makes you a bigger target.
“You think they’ll wait till morning?”
“If they’re smart,” he says with a nod.
“And if they’re not?”
“Then we’ll know sooner.” He glances back, eyes tracing the cut on my cheek I forgot about. “You need a bandage.”
“I’ve had worse from a cranky lynx.”
“Hold still.” He’s already digging in the med kit. I’m about to tell him I can patch my own face when he’s there, thumb and forefinger gentle as he turns my chin. The sting of antiseptic makes my eyes water. His hands are warm. Mine stop shaking.
“This is unnecessary,” I say, voice steadier than I feel.
“How about we argue after I’m done.” His breath ghosts my skin—coffee, pine, the clean metallic note of oil and steel. Hetapes a butterfly, smooth and exact, then steps back like he never touched me. “Better.”
I hate the sting of disappointment that lingers when he releases me, harsh as frostbite on raw skin. My pulse still hammers for him, traitorous and insistent, like it’s chained to his rhythm instead of mine. It isn’t attraction I want to name—too dangerous, too revealing. I tell myself it’s practicality, survival, nothing more. Useful. That’s all he is supposed to be.
“Gear scan,” he says. “Jacket. Pack. Boots.”
“For what?”
“Trackers.” He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Anyone who bracketed you that clean either knows this terrain like you do, or they tagged you.”
My stomach plummets, a freefall I try to disguise as gravity. “I strip in front of you and you’re going to hand me a playbook first?”
A corner of his mouth thinks about curving. It doesn’t. “Keep your clothes on. Radio frequency sweep first.”
He pulls a small black wand from a drawer, flicks it on. A thin LED line glows. He runs it down the seams of my jacket—nothing—then the hem—nothing. When he hits the right pack strap, the wand chirps.
We both go very still.
“Don’t move,” he says, softer than before.
“I can read a map, Barrett, not a mind.” My voice is steady. My hands aren’t.
He unthreads the strap with a multitool, careful as if he’s defusing more than a frequency. A fleck of black plastic falls into his palm—tiny, the size of a dried berry, wrapped in a sliver of duct tape. The kind that sticks through wet and cold.
He examines it. "Tracker only. No audio or video."
“How long?” I ask, throat tight.
“Could be days,” he says. “Could be hours. Whoever placed it knew what they were doing.” He bags it, seals it, writes a time with a fat marker. “This is how they knew where to set the lane.”
