Page 56 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
We move quickly, securing the prisoners with zip ties and duct tape. I pull out the satellite phone and dial Nate Barrett's encrypted line.
While I wait for it to connect, Chris searches the dead attackers' gear. Two frag grenades on one body, two more on another. Quality tactical equipment—plate carriers, night vision mounts, encrypted radios. Whoever funded this operation spent serious money.
He answers on the first ring. "Sierra? Jesus Christ, where the hell have you been? Your cabin was sabotaged, you went dark, I've had teams?—"
"I'm fine, Nate. Alive and mostly intact." I glance at Chris, who's clipping grenades to his vest. "Actually, I need to report a firefight. Multiple hostiles engaged and neutralized at my location. Three KIA, one wounded and secured for questioning."
Silence on the line. Then: "What?"
"If you think that's shocking, you're going to love this next part." I take a breath. "Chris Calder is alive. He's been in deep cover for eleven months. He's with me now."
The silence stretches longer this time. When Nate speaks again, his voice is tight. "Say that again."
"Chris Calder. Bryn's brother. Alive. Standing right here."
Chris takes the phone from my hand. "Barrett, it's Calder. I know you have questions. They'll have to wait. We have a tactical situation developing?—"
He gives a rapid briefing: the cave assault, the interrogation, Healy's location at the ranger station, the time-sensitive nature of the operation. Professional. Efficient. The federal operator underneath the mountain man exterior.
Nate's response crackles through: "Backup is en route. ETA four hours. Hold position and wait for support."
"Negative," Chris says. "Target will be mobile by then. We're moving on the ranger station now."
"Calder, that's not?—"
Chris cuts the transmission, pockets the sat phone. "He'll send backup anyway. But we can't wait."
"Agreed." I reload my magazines, counting rounds carefully. Fifteen left in this mag, eight in my last spare. Twenty-three total. Not enough for a sustained firefight, but enough if we're smart. "Healy runs the second he hears his team went dark. This is our only shot."
We load the remaining gear onto one of the snowmobiles the attackers left behind—a newer model with good tread and a full tank. Chris drives, I ride behind with my rifle across my lap. The engine roar shatters the morning quiet as we tear north through heavy terrain.
The forest blurs past in streaks of white and gray. My arms wrap around Chris's waist, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Last night feels like a lifetime ago and like seconds ago simultaneously. The memory of his touch, his taste, the way he looked at me like I was something precious.
I can't lose him now. Not after finding him.
The terrain grows rougher as we climb higher. Chris navigates with the confidence of someone who knows these mountains intimately. He takes us through a narrow canyon, across a frozen stream, up a ridge that offers a tactical overview of the valley beyond.
My mind races with everything that led us here. The corruption I uncovered, the attempts on our lives. Every choice that brought me to this moment—riding behind a federaloperator I fell in love with, about to assault a fortified position against overwhelming odds.
I could die in the next hour. We both could.
The thought doesn't terrify me the way it should. Maybe because I stopped being afraid when I survived Chicago. Maybe because some things are worth dying for—truth, justice, the man whose back I'm pressed against.
Chris kills the engine. We coast to a stop behind a screen of pines.
Below, nestled against the mountainside through the falling snow, sits an abandoned ranger station. Two story, log construction, surrounded by outbuildings and equipment sheds. Smoke rises from the stone chimney—gray against the white sky.
Someone's home.
Two vehicles parked out front. Movement visible through the windows. I count at least three distinct shapes moving inside.
"There," Chris whispers, pointing to a figure crossing between buildings. Even from this distance, even through the scope, I recognize the posture, the gait. The man from the surveillance photos Barrett showed me.
Deputy Director Healy.
My pulse kicks up. This is it. The man at the center of the corruption network. The one who orchestrated everything. Who ordered the hit on Chris's team. Who tried to have us killed.
"He's there," I say. "Healy's there."
