Page 15 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
Except I've been waiting eleven months, and the right moment hasn't come. The trafficking network is still operational. Drop sites still active. Encrypted communications still crackling through channels I shouldn't be able to access but do because I've spent nearly a year learning their patterns.
And now Sierra's here to decrypt those same communications, which means someone thinks the network is vulnerable. Someone thinks there's evidence worth finding.
Someone's going to die trying.
I drop my pack and rifle near the entrance, check the perimeter out of habit. No tracks. No disturbance. The cache I marked three days ago is still sealed, which means whoever's been shadowing me hasn't found this location yet.
Yet.
They will eventually. That's why I keep watch, and when they start to zero in, I move. Erase every trace. Brush out tracks. Scatter the fire pit. Redistribute deadfall until it looks natural. Leave nothing that says a human was here.
But for now, this shelter is secure. For now, I can breathe.
The radio sits in its usual spot, wedged between the rock wall and my gear cache. Old military-grade handset, the kind that can pick up frequencies civilian equipment can't touch. Battery's solar-charged, which means limited use, but I don't need much. Just enough to monitor.
Just enough to hear her voice.
Bryn's on wildlife patrol comms sometimes when she's out in the field. She came to Glacier Hollow as a wildlife biologist. Still looking for me. Still refusing to believe I'm dead even thougheveryone else moved on. Her voice cuts through the static sometimes, and it reminds me why I'm doing this.
Reminds me what I'm protecting.
I pull the radio out, check the charge. Sixty percent. Good enough. The frequency Barrett's people use is easy to find—they're not exactly covert operations. I tune in, adjust the squelch, wait.
Nothing but static.
Most times, there's nothing. Silence. Empty air. But sometimes there's chatter. Sometimes there's laughter. Sometimes there's Bryn's voice cutting through the cold to tell someone the trail conditions are clear or the weather's holding or she's heading back.
And on those nights, for just a few seconds, I remember what it felt like to be human.
Tonight there's only static. White noise that fills the shelter and makes the emptiness louder. I should turn it off. Save the battery. Stay disciplined.
Instead, I leave it on. Let the static wash over me. Pretend it's company instead of proof I'm alone.
The temptation to transmit is always there, hovering at the edge of discipline. Key the mic. Say her name. Tell her I'm alive, I'm sorry, I'm doing this for her even though it feels like dying slowly.
But transmission means exposure. The mole would hear. Everyone I'm trying to protect becomes a target. So I listen instead. Night after night. Holding onto the sound of her voice like it's the only tether keeping me from disappearing completely into these woods.
"You're not hiding. You're fighting. Alone. In the dark. Against an enemy you can't see."
Sierra got that part right, at least. The enemy I can't see. Can't identify. Can't touch without proof solid enough to survive scrutiny from people who might already be compromised.
Someone on the inside fed our coordinates to the trafficking ring. Someone with access to operational planning, communications, movements. Someone who knew exactly when and where we'd be vulnerable. The task force had maybe fifteen people with that level of clearance. Any one of them could've done it.
Which means I can't trust any of them.
And now Sierra's here, sent by that same system, working for Barrett who worked adjacent to that same task force. She could be clean. Could be genuine. Could be exactly what she appears to be—a forensic linguist trying to break a case.
Or she could be the mole's insurance policy. Sent to confirm I'm dead. Sent to finish what the ambush started.
I don't know which, and that uncertainty is going to get one of us killed.
The memory comes without permission, the way it always does. The weight of choosing survival over bringing them home. Joel's gone. Tate's gone. And I'm alive in this shelter because I chose to stay dead.
Some days, I'm not sure I made the right choice.
The static on the radio shifts. Not Bryn's voice—too deep, too male—but someone transmitting on any frequency. I turn up the volume.
"—conditions clear on the north ridge. Heading back to base."
