Page 53 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
Through the falling snow, I catch the first glimpse of headlights winding up the mountain road. Three vehicles. No, four. More than we expected. More than we planned for.
Sierra looks back at me, her expression grim and calculating. We're outgunned and outmanned, but we're going to fight anyway because surrender isn't in either of our vocabularies.
The snow falls harder, thick flakes that will make targeting difficult. That will cover tracks and muffle sound and turn this mountain into a winter hellscape.
Perfect conditions for ghosts.
I rack a round into the rifle chamber, the metallic sound sharp in the pre-dawn quiet. "Time to haunt some bastards."
13
SIERRA
Four vehicles wind up the mountain road through heavy snow, and I'm in position.
My rifle rests against the cave wall beside me, magazine seated, safety off. The secondary exit where I'm posted offers a narrow view of the western approach—rocky terrain, sparse tree cover, perfect for flanking maneuvers. Chris positioned me here specifically because he knows they'll try to come around.
The headlights disappear as the vehicles stop below the ridge line. Close enough to approach on foot, far enough to deploy without giving away exact positions. At least twelve men, probably more. We're outgunned and outmanned.
We're going to fight anyway.
My shoulder throbs from last night. The fresh bandage shows a small dark spot, but the bleeding stopped. The wound is the least of my concerns right now.
Chris's voice crackles in my ear, low and controlled. "Four tangos visible from my position. Standard tactical sweep. More behind, staying with vehicles."
"Copy." My pulse pounds in my throat, but my hands stay steady on the rifle. I've been in dangerous situations before—interviews with violent suspects, the warehouse firefight in Chicago—but never like this. Never with automatic weapons and professional killers in mountain terrain.
Never with so much to lose.
Movement catches my eye. Three figures detach from the tree line, moving low and fast toward the cave's main entrance. Good discipline—proper spacing, covering each other's advance, weapons up and ready.
The crack of Chris's rifle shatters the dawn quiet.
The lead man drops mid-stride, weapon clattering against rock. The other two scatter into cover, return fire erupting in a sustained burst that echoes through the mountains. Muzzle flashes strobe in the half-light, bullets sparking off stone near the cave entrance.
Training kicks in. I drop lower behind cover, control my breathing, scan my sector for threats. The sound hammers my eardrums even with protection—louder than the warehouse firefight in Chicago, more sustained. Cordite stings my nostrils. But my hands stay steady on the rifle.
These aren't street thugs with pistols. These are professionals with tactical rifles and military discipline. Different battlefield, higher stakes.
"Contact," Chris's voice cuts through the chaos, calm and controlled. "Two more breaking wide left. Watch your sector."
I shift position, scanning the western approach through the rifle scope. There. Two figures moving through the deadfall, using the terrain to mask their advance. They're trying to flank Chris's position, get an angle on the cave entrance.
"I see them," I whisper into the comms.
"Take the shot if you have it."
I center the crosshairs on the lead flanker's torso, exhale, squeeze.
The rifle kicks hard against my injured shoulder. Pain lances through the wound, white-hot and immediate. But I see the target stumble, grab his leg, go down behind a fallen log. His scream cuts through the gunfire.
"Hit," I report, already shifting to track the second flanker.
He's moving faster now, using his partner's position for cover, trying to close the distance. I squeeze the trigger twice more—miss high, then miss left. He drops into a depression and disappears from view.
"Lost visual on flanker two," I say.
"Stay on him. I'm occupied."
