Page 11 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
But tonight, all I can think about is the woman in the snare. The way she looked at me when she said my name. The determination in her voice when she said like hell I will.
She's not going to let this go.
And I don't know what the hell I'm going to do about it.
I blow out the candle and sit in the dark, listening to the wind howl outside, the propane heater humming steady, knowing tomorrow everything gets more complicated.
Because tomorrow, she's going to come looking.
And I'm going to have to decide whether to disappear completely or do something I swore I'd never do again.
Trust someone.
The thought alone makes my chest tight. Trust got my team killed. Trust put Bryn in danger. Trust is a luxury I can't afford.
But keeping her from digging too deep might mean giving her just enough truth to satisfy curiosity. Just enough answers to make her think she's solved the puzzle.
Just enough rope to hang myself if I'm wrong about her.
I close my eyes and try to sleep. But all I see is her face. Those dark, sharp eyes that saw through a year of hiding in thirty seconds.
And behind her, the ghosts of Joel and Tate. The women in those trafficking photos we never saved.
All of them watching me. Asking the same question.
Was hiding worth it?
She's going to be a problem.
And problems out here get people killed.
3
SIERRA
Idon't sleep. How can I, when a dead man just walked away from me in the snow?
The cabin feels smaller in the dark. I pace from window to door and back, boots still on, parka draped over the chair. My ribs ache from hitting the ground, a dull throb that sharpens with every breath. The snare left bruises around my ankle that I can feel through my sock. None of it matters.
Chris Calder is alive.
I replay the encounter in my head. The way he moved through the trees like he owned them. The rifle held with practiced ease. Those cold, assessing eyes that took me apart in seconds. Ragged beard and patched gear couldn't hide what he was—military, trained, dangerous. And supposedly dead.
The file Nate gave me included background on previous operations in this territory. Chris Calder's case was listed among them—missing nearly a year ago during a trafficking investigation, presumed dead. A note at the bottom: If remains discovered, report immediately for closure. Standard bureaucratic loose end. Except he's not dead.
He's out there right now, somewhere in these woods, very much alive and very much wanting me to forget I ever saw him. Not happening.
I stop pacing, grab my laptop from the desk, fire it up. The satellite connection is slow but functional. I pull up the files Nate gave me—the briefing packet on the trafficking investigation. There, buried in the background section.
Chris Calder. Age thirty-four. Former Army Ranger, 75th Regiment, two tours in Afghanistan, decorated for valor. After discharge, he worked as a wilderness investigator for federal agencies—tracking poachers, investigating illegal activity in remote areas, liaising between law enforcement and backcountry operations.
Eleven months ago, he was part of a joint task force investigating human trafficking routes through federal lands in Alaska. The operation went sideways. Two team members confirmed dead—Joel Martinez and Tate Bishop. Chris Calder reported missing, presumed dead after extensive search efforts failed to locate him or recover a body.
His sister, Bryn Calder, led search and rescue efforts for three weeks before they were officially called off due to weather and diminishing returns. A handwritten note in the margin: Bryn still searches when weather permits.
I stare at the included photo. Military ID shot, probably from six or seven years ago. Younger, clean-shaven, hair regulation short. But the eyes are the same. Sharp. Uncompromising. Eyes that see everything and give away nothing. Why fake your death?
The obvious answer: witness protection. He saw something, knew something, needed to disappear. But witness protection doesn't work that way. They don't leave families grieving. They don't abandon posts.
