Page 19 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
The footsteps stop.
Silence stretches. Thick. Heavy. My heart pounds so loud I'm sure whoever's out there can hear it. Cold seeps through my jacket, my jeans, making my fingers start to go numb around the pistol grip. I force myself to breathe slower. Controlled. Like they taught me at the academy.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Stay calm. Stay focused. Stay alive.
My eyes adjust. Shapes emerge from the darkness. Trees. Stumps. The woodpile. And there—movement. A shape separating from the tree line.
Big. Too big to be an animal unless it's a bear, and bears don't walk upright carrying equipment. Bulky parka making them look even bigger. Face completely obscured by a balaclava, only eyes visible in the ambient starlight. They're carrying something—a pack, maybe, or a container. Something bulky enough to need both hands.
My training catalogs details automatically. Height: maybe six feet. Build: heavy, could be muscle or could be layers. Gait: steady, confident, someone comfortable in this terrain. Armed: can't see a weapon but the parka's bulk could hide anything. Threat level: extreme.
They take three steps toward the cabin. Slow. Measured. Like they're in no hurry. Like they have all the time in the world and I'm just an obstacle to be removed.
I rise from the crouch, weapon steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "Stop right there!" My voice cracks the silence like breaking glass. "Identify yourself!"
The figure freezes. We're maybe thirty feet apart. Close enough I could hit center mass if I had to. Close enough to watch them weigh options, calculate angles. Close enough to see their head tilt slightly, considering.
For three heartbeats, neither of us moves.
Then they shift. A subtle change in stance that screams wrong to every instinct I have. Weight transfers to the balls of their feet. Shoulders square toward me instead of the cabin. The container drops from their grip, lands in snow with a muffled thump.
"Don't move!" I adjust my grip on the Glock, finger sliding to the trigger. "Federal agent! I said don't?—"
They pivot and run.
Not toward me. Away. Back into the trees, moving fast, crashing through underbrush with zero concern for noise or subtlety. Just pure flight response.
Every instinct from my undercover days screams at me to chase. Don't let them escape. Don't lose the lead. Follow until you get answers or backup or both. I take two steps, weapon tracking their movement through the trees.
Then training kicks in over instinct.
This isn't Chicago. This is wilderness. Unknown terrain in complete darkness. Perfect ambush country. Every tactical instructor I ever had is yelling in my head to stay put, hold ground, don't run blind after an unknown threat who might be leading you exactly where they want you.
I plant my feet. Hold position. Keep the weapon up, covering the tree line where they disappeared.
My lungs burn. My hands shake. Adrenaline makes everything feel sharp and immediate and too fast.
"Stop! Federal?—"
A rifle cracks from deeper in the trees. Loud. Close. Not at me—the shot comes from farther back, and the running figure staggers, catches themselves, keeps going. The shooter wasn't aiming for me.
Which means there are at least two people out here.
And one of them just shot at the other.
I drop into a crouch, weapon up, sweeping for targets. Wind in my ears. My boots breaking through the frozen surface. Every sound magnified. Every shadow a potential threat.
My throat is tight. My mouth tastes like copper. Training took over for the confrontation, but now that I'm standing herein the dark with at least two armed hostiles somewhere in these trees, the reality hits.
I could die out here. Right now. Tonight. No backup. No cavalry. Just me and whoever's hunting in these woods.
Then footsteps. Different rhythm than before. Heavier. Coming from where the shot originated, moving through underbrush with the kind of control that speaks to years of experience in rough terrain.
Chris materializes from the tree line, rifle in hand, breathing hard. Snow clings to his beard. His eyes find mine across the clearing, and something in them makes my stomach clench.
"Get inside." His voice is low, urgent, leaving no room for argument.
"What the hell was that? Who was?—"
