Page 57 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
Chris's expression goes cold. Hard. The face of a man who's about to settle accounts.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "He is."
14
CHRIS
The ranger station sits in the valley like a cancer, and I'm about to cut it out.
Sierra crouches beside me behind the pine screen, her breath misting in the cold air. Below us, the station shows all the signs of an active operation—vehicles running, fresh tire tracks in the snow, movement through windows. Two guards patrol the perimeter, both armed with tactical rifles, moving in coordinated patterns.
Professional. Disciplined. Healy's not taking chances.
I pull out my thermal scanner, sweep the building. Three heat signatures on the ground floor, two more upstairs. Five hostiles inside, two outside. Seven total against two of us.
I've faced worse odds. Barely.
"Seven confirmed," I whisper to Sierra. "Two outside, five in. Healy's upstairs in what looks like a command room."
She nods, already pulling out her laptop. "Once we secure him, I need sixty seconds at his terminal. I'll broadcast everything—voice analysis, financial records, intercepted communications—to every federal agency simultaneously. Barrett, DOJ, Homeland, FBI. Everyone gets it at once."
"What if his system is encrypted?"
"It will be. But I've been studying the network's communication protocols and I can crack it." Her eyes meet mine, fierce and certain. "Trust me."
I do. Against all logic, against every instinct that's kept me alive for the past year, I trust this woman completely.
"Here's the plan," I say. "I trigger the north perimeter alarm, draw the guards away from the main entrance. You can slip in through the side window on the east wall. Move through the first floor, secure any hostiles quietly if you can. I'll come in through the front after the guards are down, link up with you, we take the command room together."
"What about the men inside?"
"They'll respond to the alarm. That gives you your window." I check my rifle, my pistol, count magazines one more time. Fifteen rounds in the pistol. Twenty-eight in the rifle. Three spare mags. Four grenades. "Stay low, stay quiet. If this goes loud before we're in position, abort and fall back to the rally point."
"I'm not leaving you in there."
"Sierra—"
"No." She grips my arm, her fingers tight through the fabric. "We go in together, we come out together. That's the deal."
"All right," I say. "But you follow my lead on tactics."
"Deal."
We move down the slope, using terrain and tree cover to mask our approach. The snow helps—muffles sound, hides tracks. I lead us in a wide arc to the north side of the station, where the alarm system's junction box sits exposed on an exterior wall.
The guards are on the south side now, cigarette break. Sloppy. Healy's getting complacent, thinking he's safe out here.
He's wrong.
I pull a small charge from my pack, shaped for noise not damage. Set the timer for thirty seconds, place it against the junction box. Sierra's already moving toward her entry point, low and fast through the snow.
The charge detonates with a sharp crack that echoes across the valley. The alarm screams, piercing and urgent. Lights flash inside the station.
The guards react immediately, weapons up, moving toward the north side at a run. Professional training, poor tactical awareness. They're focused on the alarm, not on cross-checking their six.
I let them pass my position. Wait until they're ten yards beyond. Rise from cover with my rifle up.
Two shots. Both guards drop.
