Page 7 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
He runs through the survival checklist. How to keep the fire going. How to recognize animal tracks. How to identify frostbite. Information overload, but I force myself to focus, memorize every detail.
"You'll be okay?" Nate asks, and for the first time there's something softer in his tone.
"I'll be fine."
He hesitates at the door. "If you need anything, call, and you might want to venture into town to get clothes more suited to Alaska. Don't try to tough it out. This place doesn't care how strong you think you are."
Then he's gone, snowmobile engine fading into the distance, and I'm alone.
The silence crashes down. No hum of traffic, no voices through thin walls, no sirens or footsteps or the ambient noise of humanity packed close together—just wind in the trees and the crackle of the wood stove and my own breathing too loud in the empty cabin.
I stand in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around myself despite the warmth from the stove. The cabin feels both too small and too big at the same time. Four hundred squarefeet that might as well be a thousand miles of empty space. In Chicago, I lived in a studio apartment half this size and never felt this alone. There were always neighbors arguing through the walls, music thumping from upstairs, the constant presence of other people even when I couldn't see them.
Here, there's nothing. No one. Just me and the wilderness pressing against the windows like something alive and waiting.
I walk to the window, peer out into the gathering dusk. Trees. Snow. More trees. The landscape doesn't care that I'm here. Doesn't care if I live or die. That realization should terrify me, but instead it's almost liberating. No one's watching. No one's judging. No one knows Sierra Vale exists except Nate, and he's miles away by now.
I could disappear out here. Really disappear. Not like the cover identity that burned in Chicago, not like the fake death I sometimes wished for when the undercover work got too deep. Just... gone. Swallowed by white and cold and silence.
The thought should comfort me. Instead, it makes my chest tight.
I turn away from the window, force myself to move. Unpack mechanically. Hang clothes on wall pegs, set up my laptop, arrange the case files. Keep moving. Don't think about how far I am from anything familiar. Don't think about the warehouse, the gunfire, my cover burning.
Don't think about the fact that maybe I chose Alaska because running away is easier than facing what I left behind.
The sun drops below the tree line. Darkness floods in. I light the oil lamps, supplement them with a battery-powered lantern. The cabin feels smaller in the dark, shadows pressing against the windows.
I should eat something. Should review the files. Should check the perimeter, make sure I know the layout before I'm stuck inside for the night.
The perimeter. Right. That's smart. Tactical. Get my bearings while there's still a very little light left.
I pull on the parka, grab the satellite phone, clip a knife to my belt. The cold outside is shocking even after just an hour indoors. My breath plumes. Frost is already forming on the cabin windows.
The marked trail loops around the cabin, fifty yards out, packed down by previous use. I follow it, boots quietly crunching on frozen snow, scanning the tree line. Threats. Landmarks. Anything that might matter.
The satellite phone beeps as I walk, searching for a signal. I hold it up, watching the bars climb. Testing range.
My boot catches something.
There's a sharp tug, a metallic snap, and the world tilts. My ankle jerks sideways, yanks me off balance. I hit the ground hard, snow cushioning the fall but not enough to keep my head from bouncing off frozen earth.
Stars burst across my vision. Pain lances up my leg.
I look down. Wire snare, hidden under fresh snow, wrapped tight around my boot just above the ankle. The more I pull, the tighter it gets. Professional work. Meant to catch and hold.
Panic floods my system. I reach for the knife at my belt, but the angle is wrong, the snare has me twisted. My fingers fumble with the snap, can't get leverage.
Then I hear it.
Heavy breathing. Low and rhythmic. Coming from the trees twenty feet away.
A shape moves in the shadows. Massive. Dark fur catching the last light. Black bear, emerging from the brush.
Big. Maybe two hundred pounds, lean from hibernation. hungry and dangerous. Its head swings toward me, nose working the air.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Blood roars in my ears. This isn't like facing down a gangbanger with a gun—I know guns, I know how people think, how they move, what they want. This is pure animal. Pure instinct. No negotiation. No talking my way out.
Scent markers. There must be bait near the trap.
