Page 39 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"They've always known roughly where I am. Too much territory to search blind." I stand, work the stiffness from my joints. "But now they have specifics. They'll be back."
"With how many?"
"Enough to be sure they can take us." I start prepping gear—magazines, water, emergency supplies. "Which gives us maybe twelve hours. Twenty-four if we're lucky."
Sierra stands too, tests her injured shoulder with a grimace. The bandage shows fresh blood seepage. Not good, but not critical. Yet. Without antibiotics, infection is just a matter of time.
"So what's the plan?" she asks. "Run?"
"Running just delays the inevitable. They'll track us, wait for weather or terrain to give them an advantage, then hit us when we're vulnerable." I hand her an energy bar. "We need to change the dynamic."
"How?"
The plan's been forming in my head since I saw that figure on the ridge. Risky. Probably suicidal. But it's the only way to force Shepherd's hand.
"You cracked their communications pattern. You know how they talk, what protocols they use." I pull out the stolen sat phone from the dead drop. "We use that."
Understanding dawns in her eyes. "Plant false intel."
"Make them think we've identified Shepherd. That we have proof, evidence, documentation. That we're preparing to transmit everything to federal authorities." I turn the sat phone over in my hands. "When they move to stop us, we'll be ready."
"That's a great way to get us both killed."
"Yeah." I meet her gaze. "But it's the only way to draw them out. Force them to commit before they're ready. Before they have overwhelming numbers."
Sierra's quiet for a long moment. Then she nods. "Okay. Let's do it."
We spend the morning preparing. Sierra works on the sat phone, cracking the encryption with tools on her laptop. I prep our defensive position—sight lines, fallback routes, fields of fire. It's not much. This shelter was designed for concealment, not combat. But it'll have to do.
Midday, Sierra takes a break. Sits beside me while I clean weapons, check ammunition counts. We're running low on everything. Food, water, ammo. Medical supplies. If this doesn't work, we won't last another week.
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
"Shoot."
"If we survive this—" She pauses, corrects herself. "When we survive this. What happens to you?"
The question hits harder than it should. I've been so focused on the next threat, the next day, the next hour, that I haven't let myself think past survival.
"I don't know," I admit.
"You can't stay dead forever." She watches me work, those sharp eyes seeing too much. "Bryn deserves to know you're alive. Even if it's complicated. Even if it's dangerous."
My hands still on the rifle. "What if she can't forgive me?"
"What if she can?" Sierra shifts closer, winces as her shoulder protests. "You won't know unless you try."
The words settle between us, heavy with truth I've been avoiding for eleven months. I left Bryn thinking I was dead. Let her grieve, let her search, let her blame herself for not finding me. All because I thought disappearing would keep her safe.
But maybe I was wrong. Maybe protecting her means something different than I thought.
"I'm scared," I say quietly. The admission costs me, but Sierra's earned the truth. "Not of dying. I've made peace with that. But of coming back. Of facing her. Of seeing the hurt I caused."
"She's stronger than you think." Sierra's hand finds mine, squeezes. "And she loves you. That doesn't just disappear because you made a hard choice."
I want to believe her. God, I want to believe that there's a way back from this. That I haven't burned every bridge, destroyed every connection. That someone like me—someone who's spent a year living like an animal in the woods—can rejoin the world.
For the first time since Joel and Tate died, I let myself imagine it. Not just surviving. Living. Having a future that extends beyond the next firefight.
