Page 18 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
—drop site charlie, 0300?—
—package secure, moving north on foot?—
—watch the fed bitch?—
That last line.Fed bitch.The same phrase a Chicago enforcer used right before he tried to put a bullet in my back during the warehouse raid a month ago. Distinctive syntax. Regional marker. The kind of linguistic fingerprint that doesn't migrate randomly across two thousand miles.
Someone from my old case is here. Operating on this mountain. Coordinating drops and shipments and using the same verbal patterns that got them caught in Illinois.
Which means this isn't just Alaska's problem anymore. This is my problem. The case that nearly killed me followed me north, and whoever's running it knows I'm here.
I save the file, close the laptop, grab the flashlight from the desk. The beam cuts through darkness, illuminating the small cabin interior—wood stove still radiating heat, gear hung on wall pegs, rifle Barrett issued me propped beside the door. Everything exactly where I left it.
Except the generator's dead, and generators don't die on their own when they're three-quarters full.
The flashlight feels inadequate in my hand. Forty lumens against wilderness and whoever might be out there. But it's what I have, so I move toward the door, checking the Glock's chamberas I go. Round loaded. Muscle memory from years of field work taking over.
The cold hits the second I step outside. Brutal. Immediate. The kind of cold that steals breath and makes exposed skin ache. I sweep the flashlight beam across the clearing before going behind the cabin to the woodpile and the lean-to covering the generator, trees pressing close on three sides.
No movement. No sound except wind.
The clearing feels bigger in the dark. More exposed. In Chicago, I knew every alley, every doorway, every potential threat vector. Here, the wilderness is a living thing with too many hiding places and too many ways to die.
I move toward the generator, boots breaking through the frozen crust. Each step feels exposed. Vulnerable. Like I'm walking across a stage with spotlights tracking me while the audience sits hidden in darkness.
Halfway there, I stop. Listen.
Nothing. Just wind in the pines and my own breathing, too loud in my ears.
The generator sits under its lean-to exactly where it should be, metal housing coated with frost. I crouch beside it, run the flashlight beam along the fuel line, following the rubber tubing from the tank to the engine.
There.
A clean slice through the rubber tubing. Straight edge. Deliberate. No way that happened from wear or cold or bad luck. Someone cut it. Recently, judging by the diesel still pooling dark on the snow beneath, the sharp chemical smell cutting through the pine scent.
My throat goes tight. My hand moves to the Glock without conscious thought, drawing it from the holster, checking angles. This isn't equipment failure. This is sabotage.
This is someone sending a message.
I stand fast, spinning with the flashlight, sweeping the perimeter. Trees. Shadows. Shapes that could be stumps or could be something worse. The beam doesn't reach far enough. Doesn't penetrate deep enough. Everything beyond twenty feet might as well be a wall.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Training says assess the threat, secure the position, call for backup. But backup is miles away and the satellite phone is inside and every instinct is screaming that standing out here with a flashlight makes me a perfect target.
I kill the light. Let darkness swallow me.
For three seconds, I'm blind. Completely blind. My eyes need time to adjust, time I don't have, time that feels like an eternity while someone could be lining up a shot or closing distance or?—
That's when I hear it.
Boots. Heavy treads breaking through snow crust. Steady rhythm. Deliberate. Coming from the tree line to my left.
Not trying to hide. Not sneaking. Just... walking. Like whoever it is doesn't care if I hear them coming.
That scares me more than stealth would.
I drop into a crouch, weapon up, finger near but not on the trigger. My breath comes in short bursts, each one a white cloud in the frigid air. In Chicago, I learned to read situations fast. Learned when to talk and when to shoot and when to run like hell.
Right now, all three options feel equally terrible.
