Page 28 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
The question hangs there, heavy with weight I'm not sure I'm ready to carry. But the answer comes easy, pulled from the deepest part of me where old wounds still bleed.
"Because I've been the person left behind," I say. "And it destroys you."
Something shifts in his expression—recognition, maybe. He knows about loss, about grief, about the special kind of hell that comes from loving someone who's gone.
Outside, the wind begins to shift. The relentless howl eases slightly, the first sign that the storm might finally be breaking. Chris stares at the radio, where his sister's voice was just moments ago coordinating with the federal investigator. Hisexpression is unreadable, caught somewhere between hope and terror.
When he finally speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. "If we do this—if we go after them—there's no going back. You understand that?"
"I understand."
"People will die. Maybe us. Probably us."
"Then we better make sure we take them down first."
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nods.
Dawn breaks cold and clear. The storm has passed, leaving the world buried in fresh snow. Chris is already up, packing gear, checking supplies. The radio sits silent now, the frequency quiet. He picks it up, weighs it in his hand like he's measuring the cost of every transmission he never made.
"We'll need to move fast," he says without looking at me. "You've got the files Nate gave you, your laptop with your analysis. We need to figure out how to connect what you've found with what Joel and Tate died for. Then we burn their whole operation to the ground."
I stand, joints stiff from two days in the cold. "And your sister?"
His jaw tightens. "When this is over. When it's safe." He finally meets my eyes. "If we're still alive."
Not if we succeed. If we're still alive. The distinction matters. This isn't about winning anymore. It's about making sure the truth survives even if we don't.
8
CHRIS
The storm's over, but the danger isn't, and now I've got a former undercover cop/linguist with a death wish following me into the field.
Sierra sits on my sleeping platform, lacing up her hiking boots with methodical precision. Three days of forced proximity in this cramped shelter have stripped away the careful distance we tried to maintain. She knows where I keep the spare propane canisters now, how I rig the ventilation system, which corner holds the emergency supplies. She's seen me wake from nightmares, watched me check my weapons obsessively, caught me staring at Bryn's photograph when I thought she wasn't looking.
And I've learned she's stubborn as hell.
"You're still not dressed for backcountry patrol," I say, pulling my spare cold-weather gear from the waterproof container. The jeans and fleece she's wearing won't cut it in the high country.
She glances up from her boots. "What's wrong with it?"
Everything. But I don't waste time explaining. "Put these on. More layers. The fleece stays, but you need a base layer underneath and a shell on top."
She catches the gear I toss her way, turns it over in her hands. "This is serious equipment."
"It's a serious mountain." I grab my tactical pack from where it hangs on a makeshift hook—a branch wedged between the boulder and the tarp. Start loading it with essentials. Water purification tablets. Emergency blanket. First aid kit with combat gauze and tourniquets. "The dead drops are in the high country. Four miles in, rough terrain. If you can't keep up, you stay here."
"I can keep up."
The way she says it, chin lifted despite the exhaustion shadowing her eyes, almost makes me smile. City-trained but stubborn. I've worked with worse.
She strips off her jacket, pulls on the thermal base layer. I turn away, give her privacy in the cramped shelter. Focus on checking my weapons instead. The Glock goes in my hip holster, concealed under my jacket. Extra magazines go in my pockets. The rifle—my old service M4—gets a full cleaning and fresh magazines. After the last encounter, I'm not taking chances.
"Okay," Sierra says behind me. "How's this?"
I glance back. The gear's too big on her, sleeves covering her hands, but she's rolled them back and cinched the waist tight. She looks like a kid playing dress-up in military surplus.
"Better. Now the boots."
