Page 58 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
I'm moving before they hit the ground, sprinting toward the main entrance. Through the window I see shapes moving—three men rushing toward the north side alarm, leaving the entryway clear.
Perfect.
I breach the door fast and quiet. The interior is exactly what I expected from an old ranger station—main room with a stone fireplace, hallway leading to offices and sleeping quarters, stairs to the second floor. Documents cover every surface, maps marked with routes and coordinates, radio equipment broadcasting encrypted traffic.
A command center. Healy's been running his operation from here for months, maybe longer.
Movement in the hallway. One of the men returning from checking the alarm. He sees me, reaches for his weapon.
I'm faster. Two shots center mass. He goes down.
The gunfire alerts the others. Voices shout, boots pound. This is about to get loud.
I take cover behind an overturned desk as muzzle flashes erupt from the hallway. Return fire tears through the room, shattering windows, splintering wood. I send controlled bursts back, forcing them to keep their heads down.
Where's Sierra?
A door to my left swings open. Sierra appears, weapon up, and she puts three rounds into the closest hostile. He drops. She moves to cover beside me, breathing hard.
"Two down on the first floor," she reports. "Where's Healy?"
"Upstairs. Command room." I reload, chamber a round. Down to two mags plus what's in the weapon. Need to make shots count. "Let's move."
We fight our way to the stairs, trading fire with the remaining defenders. One tries to rush us from a side room—I catch him with a grenade, the blast throwing him back into the wall. Another comes down the stairs firing blind—Sierra drops him with a headshot that would make a sniper proud.
Then we're on the stairs, moving up, clearing corners. My ears ring from the gunfire. Smoke fills the building from the grenade blast. The whole place smells like blood and burned powder.
The command room door is closed. Locked. Probably reinforced.
I don't care.
I plant a breaching charge, step back, detonate. The door blows inward in a shower of splinters and smoke.
Sierra moves through first, weapon up. "Healy. It's over."
I follow her in, taking the opposite angle, rifle trained on the room's occupant.
Healy stands behind a desk cluttered with computer equipment, radios, and tactical maps. He's older than his photos—mid-fifties, gray at the temples, lean and hard from years inthe field. The kind of man who climbed the federal ladder by stepping on bodies.
He looks at Sierra, then at me. His eyes widen slightly in recognition.
"Calder." His tone stays level despite the rifle pointed at his chest. "You were supposed to be dead."
"Yeah. I get that a lot."
He reaches for the pistol on his belt. Slow. Deliberate. Testing to see if we'll shoot.
"Don't," Sierra says. "Hands where I can see them."
Healy raises his hands, but the smirk on his face says he's not worried. "You think this ends with me? I'm a cog, Calder. The network is bigger than you can imagine. Bigger than federal agencies. We move millions through these mountains every year. People, drugs, weapons. You take me down, someone else steps up tomorrow."
"Maybe," Sierra says. "But you're the cog I'm going to break."
His eyes shift to her, calculating. "You're the linguist. Vale, right? The cop who burned her cover in Chicago." He leans forward slightly. "Wait. I can give you names. The whole supply chain, ports to distribution. But I need protection—witness security, new identity. That's the only way this works."
Rage floods through me, hot and immediate. This man sent my team to die. Orchestrated the ambush that killed Martinez and Bishop. Forced me to abandon everything—my life, my sister, my identity—to survive.
And he thinks he can bargain.
