Page 12 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
Unless he couldn't trust the people who were supposed to protect him.
I pull up the trafficking case files Nate gave me. Intercepted communications, routes, drop sites. Start cross-referencing with Chris's last known mission parameters. There.
The coordinates where his team was ambushed are less than fifteen miles from here. The trafficking routes they were investigating run right through this territory. And the communications I'm supposed to decode? They started appearing after Chris "died." Someone picked up where his investigation left off, or someone wanted to make sure it stayed dead.
I lean back, rubbing my eyes. The pieces are there, but they don't quite fit together yet. Chris is alive, hiding in the backcountry, apparently still monitoring the trafficking network based on those traps he set. He saved my life but wants me gone.
Because he's protecting someone? Or because he's protecting something?
My training kicks in. When dealing with an unknown, establish three categories: witness, victim, or perpetrator. Figure out which one, and you know how to proceed. Chris saved me from the bear. One point in the witness or victim column.
But he's hiding. Lying. Let his sister believe he's dead. Suspicious behavior. Could be a perpetrator covering tracks, or could be someone terrified of the real perpetrator. I need to know which.
The smart move would be to tell Nate. File a report. Let proper authorities handle this. But Chris was right about one thing—if someone on the inside set up his team, if there's a mole in the task force, then going through official channels could get him killed. Could get me killed. Could blow whatever he's been doing out here for the past eleven months.
I close the laptop, stand, stretch muscles starting to stiffen from the fall and cold. Through the window, the sky islightening. Not sunrise yet, but that pre-dawn gray that means morning isn't far off. Decision made. I'm going after him.
Not to turn him in. Not to expose him. But to get answers, because if Chris Calder has been monitoring this network for eleven months, he knows things I need to know. Patterns. Players. Weaknesses. And if he's the key to breaking this case, I'm not letting him disappear back into the wilderness.
I gear up properly this time. Layers. The heavy parka Nate gave me. Gloves. Hat. I check my Glock, make sure the magazine is full, chamber a round. Clip my knife to my belt. Grab the satellite phone, make sure it's charged.
Then I step outside into the pre-dawn cold.
The snow is undisturbed except for one set of tracks leading away from the cabin. Mine, from when I walked into that trap. And beyond them, deeper into the trees, another set. Larger. Male. Chris's tracks from when he left. I'm not a tracker. Never claimed to be. But the snow makes it easy. I can see where he walked, where he paused, where he changed direction. He didn't bother hiding his trail. Either he didn't think I'd follow, or he didn't care. Or he wants me to follow.
That thought makes me hesitate. What if this is a trap? What if he's leading me somewhere isolated where he can—what? Kill me? If he wanted me dead, he could have let the bear do it. No. He's not the threat, but he's hiding something.
I follow the tracks northeast, moving slowly, watching for more snares. The forest is silent except for wind in the trees and my breathing. No birds yet. Too early, too cold.
The tracks lead me through dense timber, along a ridgeline, then down into a shallow valley where a creek runs frozen. The ice is thick, covered with snow, making it look like solid ground.
And there, sitting on a fallen log near the creek, rifle across his knees, is Chris Calder.
He doesn't look up as I approach. Just sits there, staring at frozen water, like he's been waiting.
I stop about ten feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough that he can't grab me if this goes sideways. "I told you to stay away," he says. His voice is flat, no inflection.
"And I don't take orders from ghosts."
He looks up then. Those sharp eyes lock onto mine, and for a second, I see something that might be respect. Or might be irritation. Hard to tell with this man. "You followed my trail."
"You left one."
"On purpose."
That catches me off guard. "Why?"
"Because if you're stupid enough to come after me, I'd rather meet you somewhere I choose than have you stumbling around getting yourself killed." He gestures at the forest around us. "You're loud. You step heavy. Every predator within a mile knows you're here."
Heat crawls up my neck. "I'm a federal investigator, not a wilderness guide."
"Then investigate from your cabin. Stay out of my territory."
"Your territory?" I step closer, anger overriding caution. "This is federal land. You don't own it."
"I've been living on it for eleven months. That makes it mine."
"You've been hiding on it for eleven months." I correct. "There's a difference." His jaw tightens. Good. Getting to him.
