Page 54 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
The suppression fire at the main entrance intensifies. They're trying to pin Chris down, keep him from engaging the flanker. Smart tactics. These men move with precision—military training, not street muscle.
Movement flickers at the edge of my peripheral vision. The wounded flanker is crawling, trying to reposition for a shot at my location. Blood trail marks his path through the snow.
I send three rounds downrange in quick succession. The first two impact near his position, forcing him flat. The third catches him in the shoulder, spinning him sideways. He drops his weapon, clutching the wound, and scrambles back toward the tree line.
"Flanker one retreating," I report. "Wounded."
"Good shooting." Chris's voice crackles in my ear. "One down at main entrance. Two still in play."
The firefight settles into a rhythm—bursts of gunfire, brief pauses for reloading, the acrid smell of burned powder drifting on the cold air. My ears ring despite the earplugs. Each muzzle flash sears afterimages across my vision.
The second flanker makes his move. He charges from cover, sprinting toward my position with his weapon up. Too close. Too fast.
I empty my magazine—seven, eight, nine rounds stitching across the ground in front of him. He veers left, diving behind a boulder fifteen yards out. Close enough that I can hear his labored breathing.
"Chris." My voice comes out tight. "I need you."
"Thirty seconds."
The flanker pops up, fires a burst that tears through the brush beside the cave exit. Splinters of rock explode around me. I press flat against the cave wall, fumbling for my spare magazine with trembling fingers.
The magazine seats with a satisfying click. I rack the bolt, chamber a round, swing back to my firing position.
The flanker is moving again, using the boulder for cover as he advances. Ten yards now. Close enough to rush my position if I give him an opening.
I squeeze the trigger. Miss. He flinches back.
Another shot. The round sparks off the boulder edge, fragments peppering his cover.
Movement behind me—Chris appears from the cave's interior, moving fast and silent. He hand-signals: stay down. I drop flat as he brings his rifle up, braces against the cave wall, fires twice in rapid succession.
The flanker jerks, stumbles, goes down hard. Doesn't move again.
"Clear," Chris says, breathing hard, blood streaking his face from a graze above his left eyebrow. "Main entrance secure. Three down, one wounded and retreating."
I push to my feet, legs trembling with adrenaline. "The others?"
"Pulled back to regroup. They know they walked into a killbox." He moves to the fallen flanker, kicks the weapon away, checks for a pulse. "This one's gone." Chris strips two magazinesfrom the body and slings the rifle across his back—same kind as ours which means more rounds we can use.
The gunfire has stopped. Eerie silence settles over the mountain, broken only by the wind and the distant sound of the wounded man's screams from the tree line.
Chris keys his comms. "This is Calder. Hostile force engaged and neutralized. Multiple casualties. Anyone still out there, you have one chance to walk away."
No response. The forest watches us with a thousand hidden eyes.
"Check the perimeter," Chris says. "I'll look for survivors."
I move through the cave system, rifle ready, clearing angles and shadows. My shoulder screams with each movement, but I push through it. Pain is temporary. Dead is permanent.
The main entrance shows the aftermath of the firefight—spent brass casings littering the stone, bullet impacts scarring the rock walls, one body sprawled in the snow with a massive chest wound. I don't look too closely at his face.
Beyond, two more bodies lie in the killing field Chris created. Professional hits—tight groups, no wasted ammunition. The man was a sniper before he was an undercover operator. It shows.
"Clear," I report, moving back to where Chris has zip-tied a survivor's hands behind his back.
The wounded flanker from the tree line lies propped against a rock, clutching his bleeding shoulder. Blood pools beneath him, bright red against the white snow. His tactical gear marks him as professional—plate carrier, multiple magazine pouches, quality weapons. Not cheap muscle. Someone invested real money in this team.
Chris kneels beside him, applies a tourniquet to slow the bleeding. "You're going to live if you cooperate. Going to bleed out if you don't. Your choice."
