Page 38 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
Chris's hand finds my arm, squeezes once. Stay quiet. Stay down.
My heart pounds against my ribs, adrenaline flooding my system. We're naked, vulnerable, trapped in a shelter with oneexit. If someone's found us—if Shepherd's people tracked us back here—we're sitting targets.
The movement stops. Whoever's out there is close now. Maybe twenty yards. Maybe less.
Chris inches toward the entrance, rifle raised, moving with the silence of a predator. I reach for my clothes, pull on the thermal layer as quietly as possible. My shoulder screams in protest but I ignore it.
A twig snaps. Too close. Right outside the shelter.
Chris's finger moves to the trigger.
10
CHRIS
The owl call is off by half a beat, and that's how I know we've got company.
I reach for Sierra's arm, squeeze once. Stay quiet. Stay down. She freezes beside me, every muscle going taut. Smart woman. Doesn't question, doesn't argue, just reads the threat in my touch and responds.
I move to the propane heater, shut off the valve. Darkness swallows the shelter completely. The candle goes next—pinched out between thumb and forefinger, the sting of heat barely registering. In the sudden black, my eyes adjust fast. Eleven months of living nocturnal will do that.
Sierra's breath is shallow beside me. Controlled. She's scared but functional. Good. Fear keeps you sharp. Panic gets you killed.
I crawl to my gear cache, retrieve the night scope. Military surplus, generation three. Cost me two months of rationed MREs and a stolen fuel cache to trade for it, but it's worth every ounce. Out here, night vision is the difference between hunter and prey.
The scope comes up smooth, familiar weight settling against my eye socket. Green-tinted world resolves into clarity—trees,rocks, the slight depression where the deadfall conceals the entrance. And there, on the ridge line two hundred yards out, a thermal signature.
Human-shaped. Still as stone. Watching.
My finger moves to the trigger guard. Not on the trigger—not yet—but close. Ready. I track the figure through the scope, looking for tells. Equipment, weapons, backup. But whoever this is, they're good. No unnecessary movement. No radio chatter I can detect. Just patient observation.
Professional.
The kind of professional who works for people with resources. People like Shepherd.
Twenty minutes pass. Might as well be twenty hours. My shoulder aches from holding position, old shrapnel wounds protesting the cold and stillness. Sierra hasn't moved either, pressed against the rock wall where I left her. I can hear her breathing—slow, measured, the rhythm of someone fighting to stay calm.
The figure on the ridge shifts. Finally. Rises from their position with fluid grace, melts back into the tree line. Gone.
I wait another ten minutes. Count every second. Make sure they're really gone and not just repositioning. When I'm satisfied, I lower the scope.
"Clear," I whisper.
Sierra exhales hard. "What was that?"
"Recon." I relight the candle, keep the flame low. "Someone checking our position."
"Why didn't they attack?"
Good question. The kind that means she's thinking tactically instead of just reacting. "Because they don't know if I'm alone. If I have backup. How well-armed we are. They're gathering intel before they commit."
Understanding wars with horror in her expression. She's smart enough to know what that means. We're not the hunters anymore. We're the prey.
Dawn comes slow and cold. Neither of us sleeps. We sit with our backs against opposite walls, weapons in reach, eyes on the entrance. Waiting for a threat that doesn't come.
When pale gray light finally seeps through the gaps in the tarp, Sierra breaks the silence.
"They know where we are now."
