Page 45 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"Dead man's switch."
"Exactly." I save the final package, encrypt it with military-grade protocols. "If we go down, he goes down with us."
Chris nods slowly. "Smart."
The wind picks up, howling across the ridge. I close the laptop, tuck it into its protective case. My hands are shaking—not from cold. From adrenaline. From the knowledge that in a few hours, armed professionals are coming to kill us both.
"Sierra." Chris's voice pulls me back. "We should talk about?—"
"Don't." I cut him off. "Don't do the 'in case we don't make it' speech. We're making it."
"I wasn't going to say that."
I meet his eyes. Hope and determination flicker in his expression, along with something deeper I'm not ready to examine.
"When I came here," I say quietly, "I was running. From Chicago, from the warehouse, from the fact that I almost died and it didn't even matter because the network kept operating. From the surveillance photos that got me burned. From feeling like no matter how hard I fought, I was always three steps behind."
Chris is quiet, listening. Really listening. Not interrupting, not offering platitudes.
"I thought maybe Alaska would be different," I continue. "Remote enough that I could do the work without it costing everything. Without having to look over my shoulder every second. Without wondering if today's the day someone recognizes me and finishes what they started in that warehouse."
"But?"
"But you." The words come out rougher than I intend. "You stopped me from running. Reminded me why I became a cop in the first place. Not to hide behind linguistics and data analysis, safely removed from the fight. To actually fight. To make a difference even when it's hard and dangerous and probably stupid."
"Sierra—"
"Let me finish." I need to say this while I still have the courage. While there's still time. "I spent five years undercover on various cases pretending to be someone else. Got so good at lying that sometimes I forgot who I was underneath. Then Chicago happened and my cover got blown and I thought maybe that was it. Maybe I'd lost myself for good."
I look up at him, this man who's been living as a ghost, who understands what it means to lose yourself in the fight.
"You reminded me," I whisper. "Who I am. Who I want to be. Someone who doesn't run when things get hard."
Chris steps closer. His hand comes up, cups my face with a gentleness that seems impossible for someone with so much violence in his past. The touch is careful, reverent, like I'm something precious instead of someone who stumbles into bear traps and gets shot.
"You did the same for me," he says, voice low and rough. "Reminded me I'm more than a ghost on this mountain. More than what Healy tried to turn me into. More than guilt and rage and survival."
His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I lean into the touch despite myself. Despite knowing that getting attached to someone in our situation is dangerous and foolish and exactly the kind of thing that gets people killed.
"I thought I was dead," he continues. "Not literally, but inside. Where it counts. Eleven months of existing but not living.Of breathing but not feeling anything except cold and anger. Then you show up with your sharp tongue and your refusal to quit and suddenly I'm?—"
"What?" I prompt when he stops.
"Alive again." The admission seems to cost him. "Wanting things I have no right to want. Like a future. Like tomorrow."
I close the distance between us. Don't know who moves first—maybe both of us. Maybe it doesn't matter.
He kisses me and this time there's no urgency born of fear, no desperate need to feel something before the fight. Just connection. Understanding. Two people who've finally found their way out of isolation, finding something worth fighting for beyond revenge.
I kiss him back, pour everything I can't say into the pressure of my lips against his. The fear that we won't survive this. The hope that maybe we will. The absolute certainty that whatever happens in the next few hours, I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. With him. On this mountain. Making a stand instead of running.
His other hand finds my waist, pulls me closer despite the bulk of our winter gear. I taste coffee on his lips, feel the scratch of his beard against my skin. Real. Solid. Here.
The kiss deepens and for just a moment I let myself forget about Healy, about the men coming to kill us, about the evidence package and the twelve-hour deadline. Let myself exist in this moment where it's just us—two broken people holding onto each other in the cold.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in clouds of vapor between us.
"Promise me something," I say.
