Page 16 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
Barrett's voice. Clipped. Professional. Exactly what you'd expect from ex-military running wilderness operations.
He's good. Better than most people realize. Former SEAL, if the way he moves is any indication. Smart enough to surviveAlaska's backcountry. Connected enough to pull resources when he needs them.
Also connected to the task force that got my team killed.
Maybe he's clean. Maybe he's been compromised. Maybe he has no idea there's a mole in the system, or maybe he's the mole. I don't know, and not knowing is what keeps me out here instead of asking for help.
Trust got Joel killed. Trust got Tate killed. Trust is a luxury I can't afford.
But Sierra knows Barrett by reputation. Works for him. Takes orders from him. Which means whatever she discovers, whatever she decodes, goes straight back to a system that might already be corrupted.
She's going to get herself killed.
The thought lands hard and stays. Not hypothetical anymore. Concrete. Immediate. She's smart and trained and capable, but she doesn't know this terrain. Doesn't know who she's fighting. Doesn't understand that the real danger isn't the trafficking network—it's the people who are supposed to be on her side.
Except warning her means revealing what I know. Means exposing that I've been monitoring the network. Means admitting I've spent eleven months gathering evidence I can't use because I don't know who's safe.
And if she's the mole's plant, warning her means handing them everything.
The radio crackles again. Different voice this time. Younger. Anxious.
"Barrett, this is Jennings. Got movement on the fire road near sector seven. Vehicle, no headlights. Couldn't get a plate."
Sector seven. That's southwest. Near the old logging routes. Near where we found one of the bigger caches last year—medical supplies, cash, encrypted comms gear. The network uses thoseroutes for nighttime drops when weather keeps air surveillance grounded.
Barrett's response is immediate. "Copy that. Maintain observation but do not engage. Report any further movement."
"Copy."
The transmission ends. Static floods back in.
Movement near sector seven. Vehicle running dark. That's not hikers. That's not lost tourists. That's operational activity, happening now, tonight, while everyone's attention is scattered.
While Sierra's alone in that cabin.
The sector seven routes intersect with trails that lead back to her location. Not direct—too many ridges and gullies in between—but navigable for anyone who knows the terrain. Navigable for people who've been using this mountain to move contraband for years.
If they know she's here. If they know she's working communications intel. If they see her as a threat…
My hand moves toward the rifle before conscious thought catches up. Old instincts. Combat reflexes. Protect the vulnerable, neutralize the threat, complete the mission.
Except I'm not on a mission. I'm dead. And she isn't my problem.
She should be Barrett's problem. His operation. His asset. He's got resources, backup, proper channels. Let him handle it. Let the system work the way it's supposed to work. Let me stay out here where I belong.
Where I'm safe.
"You're a coward hiding in the woods."
The words loop back, relentless. Maybe she's right. Maybe this is cowardice dressed up as strategy. Maybe I've been using protection as an excuse to avoid facing what happened. Avoid admitting I failed. Avoid the guilt that sits in my chest like shrapnel I can't dig out.
Joel's dead. Tate's dead. And I'm hiding in a shelter listening to radios while someone else walks into danger.
The engine sound reaches me before I fully process what it means. Faint. Distant. Growing closer. Snowmobile, judging by the pitch.
Too far for standard patrol routes. Too late for recreational traffic. Too deliberate to be coincidence.
Someone's heading toward Sierra’s cabin.
