Page 33 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
The forest is too quiet. Whoever took those shots is still out there, watching. Waiting for us to break cover, but we don't have a choice.
I check the rifle one more time, then meet Sierra's eyes. "Stay close. We move fast and we don't stop until we're clear."
She nods once, and we disappear into the trees.
9
SIERRA
The bullet that grazed my shoulder is nothing compared to the one my vest took in Chicago, but it's Chris's face when he looks at the wound that does the real damage.
We made it back to the shelter an hour ago. My legs are shaking from the hike down—adrenaline crash mixed with blood loss and pain that's settled into a deep, persistent throb. Chris hasn't spoken since we cleared the tree line. Just moved with military efficiency, sweeping the perimeter, securing the entrance, lighting the propane heater.
He kneels beside me on the sleeping platform, first aid supplies spread between us. The candle flickers, casting shadows across his face that make him look older, harder. Battle-worn. His hands are steady as he peels away the blood-soaked bandage, but his jaw is locked so tight I can see the muscle jumping with each careful movement.
The fabric sticks to the wound. Each pull sends fresh pain lancing through my shoulder, sharp enough to make spots dance at the edges of my vision. I bite down on my lip, taste copper.
"Sorry," Chris mutters. His fingers pause, gentler now. "Almost got it."
The final strip comes free, and I can't stop the sharp inhale. The wound is exposed to air now—angry red, edges crusted with dried blood that's gone dark and tacky. The furrow carved by the bullet is deeper than I thought, maybe an inch wide where it cut across the meat of my shoulder. Not deep enough to hit bone, but deep enough that I can see layers of tissue I'd rather not think about.
"How bad?" I ask, even though I can see it myself.
"Could've been worse." His voice is flat. Controlled. The kind of control that comes from barely holding it together. "Another two inches and it would've shattered your collarbone. Four inches and you'd have a sucking chest wound." He reaches for his canteen, unscrews the cap with hands that want to shake but don't. "Needs cleaning. Fresh gauze."
The water is ice cold against the heat of the wound. The shock of it makes me gasp, fingers digging into the sleeping bag beneath me. Chris doesn't stop—just keeps pouring, flushing away blood and debris, his free hand braced against my good shoulder to keep me steady.
"Breathe through it," he says quietly. His thumb moves in small circles against my collarbone, probably unconscious. Grounding. "Almost done with this part."
He sets the canteen aside, reaches for the antiseptic. The bottle is military issue, label faded but still readable. Betadine solution. I know what's coming.
"This is going to hurt," he warns.
"Just do it."
The first drop hits the wound and it's like being shot all over again. Fire spreads from the injury site, radiating down my arm and across my chest. My vision whites out for a second. The only thing keeping me from jerking away is Chris's hand on my shoulder—firm, steady, an anchor in the storm of pain.
"I know. I know." His voice cuts through the haze. "Just a few more seconds."
He works quickly, efficiently. Cleans the entire wound with the precision of someone who's done this before—alone in this shelter with no one to hear if he screamed. The thought makes my chest tight.
When he finally sets the antiseptic aside, my whole body is trembling. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the mountain cold.
"Worst part's over." Chris opens another packet of combat gauze, the same kind that promotes clotting. His touch is careful, measured, as he packs it against the injury, applying just enough pressure to seal it without making me want to pass out. "You did good."
But I see it in his eyes—the guilt, the self-blame, the weight of responsibility he carries like armor.
"I knew the risks," I say quietly. "I signed up for this."
His hands pause. "You signed up to analyze data. Not get shot."
"I was a cop in Chicago. Getting shot comes with the territory." I catch his wrist, make him look at me. "This isn't on you."
"Like hell it isn't." He pulls away, wraps the bandage with more force than necessary. "I should've spotted that shooter. Should've cleared the ridge before we moved through the ravine."
"You saved my life. Again." I watch him secure the bandage with medical tape. "How many times does that make it now? Three?"
"Not keeping count."
