Page 36 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
Nate nods, all business again. "Motion sensors first. Then we'll reset all the trip lines."
I reach for my coat and pull it on slowly, the canvas stiff and cool against my arms. The weight feels grounding, like slipping into something that still belongs to me. Nate steps toward the door, flashlight in hand, but I can feel the heat of his gaze before I even turn. I glance back, meeting his eyes with something that lands closer to trust than I expect.
"Nate."
He lifts his chin and looks at me quizzically.
"When this ends... if we make it through... I’m not running again."
His mouth stays still, but something changes in his eyes, focused and unflinching, like he's already decided the answer for both of us. The look carries weight, quiet certainty, and I feel it settle deep in my chest, anchoring me with a gravity I hadn’t realized I needed.
"Good. That saves me the trouble of hunting you down, throwing you over my shoulder, hog-tying you and dragging your stubbornly sexy ass back here where you belong."
I can't help the grin that tugs at my mouth as we step into the dark together, side by side, and I realize that for the first time in five years, I’m not bracing for the next avalanche alone.
The storm is not over. It crouches on the horizon, coiled and waiting, gathering itself tighter and meaner with every breath of wind, holding until the perfect moment to strike with teeth bared and no warning.
14
NATE
Wren’s declaration still echoes in my head as we step into the cold. She’s not running again. That’s not just words, that’s a tectonic break. Her guard doesn’t simply lower, she lets it fall. I catch the subtle change, the tension in her shoulders easing and her mouth parting like she is finally breathing free air again. There’s a rawness in her expression that grips something deep in my chest and twists.
She knows I saw her. All of her. Not the brittle front or the biting tongue, but the woman who’s been surviving, not living. There’s a rawness in that kind of revelation that strips me bare, a punch to the chest I didn’t brace for. It drives through muscle and memory, leaving a reverberation in my bones that makes my jaw lock, and my spine stiffen, down into a place I didn’t realize still held feelings. Like a blade sliding beneath armor I forgot I was wearing.
The night air is biting. Cold. Clean. Every shadow feels loaded. We move as one, sweeping the perimeter in silence. Her boots press into the frost-hardened ground beside mine, the sound crisp and deliberate, each step syncing with mine like an unspoken agreement.
It’s a rhythm that settles something in my chest, a cadence so familiar it stirs a memory from a long-ago patrol in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan. The silence then had been taut with anticipation, the trust between us unspoken but absolute. It is the same now, quiet and tense, but this time it is Wren at my side instead of a fellow SEAL, and that change does not feel wrong. It feels earned. This time; it’s her.
The presence, the partnership, it grounds me in a way I didn’t realize I’d been missing. My lungs ease. My grip on the rifle adjusts, not because I’m less alert, but because I’m not alone. It’s a quiet syncopation, steady and sure, like the first breath after surfacing from deep water.
The symmetry of it—the way she moves without hesitation beside me—feels like a promise. One I didn't know I needed. For the first time in too long, I don’t feel like I’m walking point alone.
She’s steady. Focused. Fierce in that quiet, contained way that never fails to pull my attention. I scan the trip lines, test the motion sensors, then hold up a hand to signal a pause. She stops immediately, her body going still with a tension that ripples from her shoulders to her spine. Her eyes dart in the direction of the sound, jaw tightening, every muscle coiled and waiting. There's no hesitation—just readiness sharpened by instinct.
A sudden crack splits the stillness, violent and jarring, like a twig snapping beneath a careless boot or a reckless change of weight. The sound slices through the tension like a blade, every instinct in me flaring awake.
Wren’s eyes meet mine, steady and sure. There’s no fear, only the taut stillness of someone bracing to strike, her body a live wire of instinct and resolve.
I lift my rifle slowly. "Movement. Northwest quadrant. Could be a false alarm, but I’m not betting on it."
She nods, pulling her sidearm with zero hesitation. "Let’s circle. Pinch from both sides."
We separate. My steps are calculated, quiet. I keep to the tree line, breath even, every sense locked in. I’ve run ops in worse conditions, but this one feels personal. There’s something out there. Not just someone. Something planned. Calculated.
Thirty yards in, a flicker of movement draws my eye. It’s not the jerky pace of wildlife. This is calculated—measured. Human. I count four figures, maybe a fifth. They've sent a small hit squad.
One crouches low behind a rotting log, the others spread out in a familiar pattern. Triangulated formation. Coordinated. Trained. They are not amateurs. They are not wandering in by mistake. Their discipline is too precise, their spacing too deliberate, every step calculated with intent.
They're positioned with discipline—spread wide enough for cover, tight enough to communicate without a word. This isn’t some desperate last stand. It’s a deliberate maneuver, like they’ve rehearsed it. My gut knots with a grim certainty: these men are here for more than a scare. They know exactly who we are, and exactly how to hurt us.
I tap my comm. "Five targets confirmed. Moderate spread. You see them?"
Her voice comes back low and controlled. "Affirmative. I'm behind the left flank."
"On my mark. We take them fast, before they realize how badly they've underestimated us."
I exhale, slow and deliberate. One heartbeat. Then another. The cold bites through my jacket, grounding me in the now, even as adrenaline buzzes beneath my skin like a live wire stretched too tight.
