Page 10 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"He seems to know enough to warn me about predators. He didn't warn me about you."
"Maybe he doesn't know I exist."
"Or maybe you don't want him to." She's sharp. Too sharp. Wheels turning behind those dark eyes. "I’m Sierra Vale. I’m working with Nate.” She stops. Goes completely still, and I know what’s coming before she says it. “Wait a minute. I've seen your face. In the file. The briefing materials they gave me in Chicago." Her eyes go wide. "Holy shit, you're Chris Calder."
Every muscle in my body locks down. My hand drifts toward the knife, not as threat but as anchor. Something real to focuson while my mind races through options and none of them are good.
She knows my name. Knows my face. Means she's seen the reports. Mission logs. Witness statements from the trafficking investigation that got my team killed.
Which means she knows I'm supposed to be dead.
"You're supposed to be dead." She says it out loud. "You went missing almost a year ago. Everyone thinks—your sister thinks...”
"I am dead." My voice comes out flat, hard, no room for argument. "And you're going to forget you ever saw me."
"Like hell I am." She takes another step forward, and I see the investigator in her now. The person who doesn't let go once they've caught a thread. "What are you doing out here? Why fake your death? What happened on that mission?"
"None of your business."
"It's exactly my business. I was sent here to investigate trafficking routes through this territory. Routes that got your team killed. If you know something...”
"I don't know anything." I turn, start walking toward the tree line. "Go home. Do your job. Stay away from me."
"Wait!"
I don't wait. I move through the trees with eleven months' practice, letting shadows swallow me. Behind me, I hear her calling out, demanding answers, but her voice gets fainter with every step.
She'll go back to her cabin. Tell Barrett she saw someone in the woods. Maybe she'll even say my name. And Barrett will tell her what everyone believes—that Chris Calder died in the backcountry almost a year ago. That stress and isolation make people see ghosts.
He won't believe her.
But she'll believe herself. And that's the problem.
I move faster, putting distance between us, heading deeper into territory where she won't follow. Can't follow. Not without better gear, better training, a death wish.
The moon rises over the ridge, painting everything silver and black. My camp is two miles northeast, hidden in a ravine where satellite surveillance can't reach and human eyes won't find it unless they know exactly where to look.
I've stayed hidden this long. Stayed dead. Being dead keeps everyone safer—Bryn, Barrett, anyone else who might get pulled into the mess I left behind.
The traffickers think I'm gone. The mole feeding them information thinks I'm gone and no longer a threat. And as long as they think that they'll stay quiet. Stay put. Won't escalate.
But now she's here.
She must be some kind of fed Barrett called in. The kind who solves puzzles for a living, who doesn't stop digging until every bone is uncovered.
And she's seen my face.
I reach my camp just as full dark settles over the mountain. The shelter is invisible from ten feet away—reinforced tarp stretched between two boulders, camouflaged with branches and debris, entrance hidden behind a deadfall that looks natural until you know the gap behind it.
I duck inside, seal the entrance with the insulated flap I rigged from an old tent, light a candle. The space is small but efficient, dug down two feet into the earth for better insulation. Sleeping platform raised off the ground, layered with pine boughs, foam pad, and a zero-degree sleeping bag with a bivy sack over it. Gear cache secured in waterproof containers. Emergency supplies. Radio I never use, because transmitting means being found, but I can listen and sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps me sane.
The real key to surviving Alaska winter is the subterranean heating system I spent two months perfecting. Vented propane heater, small enough to be portable, connected to a five-gallon tank I refill from cached supplies every three weeks. The vent tube runs up through a crack in the boulder, dispersing exhaust where it won't be visible from below. Not enough heat to make it comfortable, but enough to keep the temperature above freezing. Enough to stay alive.
I light the heater, feel the first wave of warmth. It'll take thirty minutes to bring the shelter up to a livable forty degrees. Until then, I stay bundled.
And pinned to the rock wall, a photograph. Bryn, from three years ago, long before everything went to hell. Laughing at something off-camera, head thrown back, completely unguarded. Happy.
I stare at that photo every night. Remind myself why I'm doing this. Why I can't go back. Why staying dead keeps her safe.
