Page 23 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"How bad were you hurt?" she asks.
"Bad enough."
"Why not go to a hospital? Why not call for?—"
"Because hospitals have records." The words come out sharper than I intend. "Records get flagged. Flags get people killed."
She doesn't flinch at my tone. Just nods slowly, like that makes perfect sense in whatever world she lives in now.
The coffee tastes exactly as bad as I expected. I drink it anyway, let the heat work its way through my system. Sierra does the same, grimacing but determined. We sit in silence for a while, just two people who don't belong in the civilized world anymore, much less with each other, hiding from things that want us dead.
"Joel," I say finally. Don't know why his name comes out now, in this moment. Maybe because the guilt always sits closer to the surface when the stakes get high. "The ranger who died. He and Tate were with me when it happened."
Sierra's expression shifts. Softens slightly, but not with pity. Something deeper.
"What happened?" Her voice is careful, like she knows this ground is mined.
"We were going after evidence. Documents hidden in a cache—shipping manifests, financial records, the whole network laid out. Proof we could use." I stare at the flames. "We never made it. Someone knew we were coming."
"They hit us at dawn. Three positions, coordinated fire. Professional." My jaw tightens. "Joel went down first. Throat shot. Dead before he hit the ground. Tate tried to get me to cover after I took a round to the side, but they got him too. Headshot while he was reloading."
The fire pops. I don't look away from it.
"I was bleeding badly when Tate fell across my legs. Already gone. They were both gone, and the shooters were closing in to confirm the kills."
"How did you survive?"
"Ran. Moved before they could finish the job. Tracked their radio chatter, avoided their search pattern." I pause. "Left a blood trail a mile long, but the snow covered it. They assumed I'd bled out somewhere in the wilderness. Eventually, so did everyone else."
She doesn't offer platitudes. Doesn't say "I'm sorry" or "it wasn't your fault" or any of the meaningless phrases people use when they don't know what death actually looks like. She sits with it for a moment. Then she says, "I've held someone bleeding out too. It doesn't leave you."
My chest tightens. Not breaks—it's been broken for a long time. But cracks wider, letting in light I'm not sure I want.
"Afghanistan?" I ask.
"Syria. I was asked to go because of my ability to decipher and break codes and my linguistic skills. An IED took out their transport. I ended up holding pressure on a wound while the medic worked on someone else." She drinks her coffee, eyes distant. "Kid was nineteen. Kept asking if his mom would be proud. Died before the helicopter arrived."
We sit with that shared ground. Two people who've seen the worst of what humans can do, who carry those moments like stones in our pockets.
"Before I came to get you," I say, shifting gears because lingering in the past won't solve the present, "I tracked the intruder. Found their route in, their observation point. They watched you for at least an hour before making their move."
Sierra straightens. "What else?"
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the handheld radio. Set it on the ground between us. "They dropped this. Encrypted frequency. Professional gear—not something local poachers would carry."
She picks it up, turns it over in her hands. Her expression hardens as she recognizes what it means.
"Someone connected to the network," she says.
"Has to be. Same equipment I saw before, same frequencies they were using for coordination. Which means?—"
"They know I'm here because someone told them." Her jaw tightens. "Someone on the inside."
"Same as what happened to me." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "We were sent on a mission through official channels. Encrypted coordinates, standard protocol. But someone high up knew exactly where we'd be and when. Cut our communications. Set up a professional kill team to be waiting for us."
"Do you know who?"
"I have suspicions. Nothing concrete. But there are only so many people who had access to our investigation notes, who knew our patrol routes." The names run through my head like a litany. Garcia, who always seemed too interested in our progress. Thompson, who transferred out two weeks after the attack. Whoever's running logistics now. "Could be any of them. Could be all of them."
