Page 2 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain (Men of Talon Mountain #3)

WREN

T he shot is so clean I don’t hear the crack until the bullet kisses the snow a foot from my boots, spitting powder up my legs. Not a hunter’s mistake. Not some tourist with a borrowed rifle. This is precision—deliberate and professional.

The air razors down my throat. Pine bites my nose. Ice dust freckles my cheeks like shrapnel.

For a beat my body forgets how to breathe, then survival slams the switch. Not a ricochet. Not luck. The snow hush swallows the world until all I hear is the small, hard sound of my heart.

“Count, Wren,” I whisper into my balaclava, voice lost to the wind. One… two… three… No tail echo. No honest report. Suppressor or long distance with fat snow soaking the sound.

Wind’s NNE, eight—maybe ten—so they’re holding low-right from here.

I inventory in a blink: Krummholz ribbon to the west, drifted cornice of snow to the east, boulder spine dead ahead with a narrow sidestep cut nobody uses unless they’ve mapped this ridge by feel.

I mapped it the winter I decided I didn’t owe anyone answers anymore.

My fingers flex on instinct. I don’t pray. I plan.

My heart jolts once, hard, and then instinct takes over.

I drop low, scanning the tree line without lifting my head above my hood.

Snow drifts hiss in the wind, masking everything except the burn in my lungs.

Whoever’s out there is too far to see without glass, but the angle tells me they’re set up across the ridge.

I angle my body into the wind, narrowing my profile, knees absorbing the first shock of cold.

The poles stay strapped to my pack—too much movement would give me away.

Every step is a calculation: wind slab that won’t collapse, rock outcrop that won’t crumble, deadfall that won’t groan.

I move like a ghost when I have to. And today, I have to.

I move. Not toward the trail, never toward the obvious exit. I cut left, skirting the drop-off, boots silent on the crust. My pack slides against my spine, and I hug the terrain I know better than my own reflection.

Out here, the wrong line means a twisted ankle or worse, but I’ve run this high-country maze since I moved to Talon Mountain. The ridges and gullies are my home turf. I’ve spent years mapping every draw and choke point by heart, but I never imagined I’d be navigating them under fire.

I zigzag upslope until a granite outcrop shields me, then angle back in a shallow arc toward the trail, using a narrow deer path buried under wind-packed snow.

The game track feeds me into a thicket that spits me out fifty yards above where the main trail kinks east—far enough to make it look like I’ve been somewhere else entirely.

I drag my right glove once in a long, messy scuff—an intentional stumble to sell the lie if anyone tries to track me.

Ten strides later, I stamp a small triangle into the drift with the heel of my boot—my field shorthand for danger—trail burned.

If Nate ever reads this line, he’ll know to cut wide.

He won’t know it’s mine unless he’s been paying closer attention than I want him to.

Though after Glacier Hollow last winter, I can’t pretend he hasn’t seen how I work.

We never talked about it, not really—but we moved through that case like we shared a field book.

Another shot shatters the quiet, close enough that the concussion punches my ribs. Bark explodes from a spruce at shoulder height. I bite down hard to keep from swearing out loud and push into the wind, letting the next ridge swallow me from view.

Fresh sap sweetens the air. The strike is clean—no keyhole, no yaw—round’s stable across the basin.

I count beats to the faintest ghost of a report.

Six to eight hundred yards if the wind and my gut agree.

“Show-off,” I breathe because pettiness is a shield.

He/she is good, but I'm better at not dying.

The isolation I’ve lived in for five years—my shield, my sanctuary—is suddenly a liability. No cell service up here. No one around for miles. Except him.

Silence kept me whole when the world wanted me open.

Silence doesn’t call for help. Out here, quiet is just a bigger target with nicer views.

I told myself I stayed for wolves, data, and distance.

Truth? I stayed because it was easier to haunt a mountain than to explain why I can’t sleep when anyone says my name with pity.

Nate Barrett. Former SEAL turned Wildlife Protection officer.

Keen eyes, steady hands, and a code that runs deeper than most people’s convictions.

We’ve only worked one op together, but it told me enough—he doesn’t flinch under pressure, and he doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t need answered.

Glacier Hollow was supposed to be a one-time assist. I didn’t expect to see him again.

I sure as hell didn’t expect to need him.

He has eyes that see too much and a cottage that’s a hell of a lot closer than my cabin or the long, exposed trip to town. I don’t want to go to him, but the choices are slim: get picked off in the open, or trust the one man who might be able to turn the tables.

He moves like weather—contained, certain, not in a hurry because storms never are.

I’ve watched him twice from the tree line—once when he found a poacher’s ATV track on rotten snow at dusk, once when he freed a fawn from wire with hands careful enough to make me reevaluate my bias against badges.

Attraction isn’t the word. Useful is. Dangerous is.

Unavoidable might be. Somewhere under all that danger is a steadiness that pulls at me in ways I don’t trust when bullets aren’t flying.

I angle south, weaving through a cut of old-growth spruce that leads into a narrow draw.

My breath clouds, ragged, but my pace never falters.

Halfway through, I find the little snare line I set last month—still empty, still holding.

I smile despite the adrenaline. Nate once busted a poacher up here after finding traps just like these.

Silent rescue. He never knew it was me who left the sign for him to find.

The birch-peel arrow I tucked three inches under the bark is exactly where I left it—old-school marker my grandmother taught me.

Nate followed two just like it last winter and walked three frightened deer out of a kill lane, no victory lap, no press.

He didn’t need to know who flagged the route.

I didn’t need thanks. I needed those deer alive. Same language today. Different stakes.

The snow deepens as I push higher, crossing over the shoulder of the ridge before dropping into his valley. The trees break, and I catch sight of smoke curling from his chimney. He’s home.

Great. Worst-case scenario meets least-bad option.

I roll my shoulders, try to knock loose the tremor I don’t intend to let him see.

I want his scope, his angle, and maybe the steadiness I pretended I didn’t miss when the op ended.

I want the kind of backup that doesn’t require me to be soft to be safe.

My thighs are burning by the time I reach the clearing close to Nate’s cottage, and the whole way in I argue with myself.

This is a mistake. He’ll ask questions. He'll tell Caleb. He’s my big brother, but he’s one of Nate’s closest friends.

Caleb will want details I don’t plan on giving.

But the echo of that first shot still hums in my bones, and I’m not stupid enough to face a pro shooter alone.

Town is more than an hour exposed on foot, more if the wind sours. Nate is four minutes and a pride tax. I pay the tax.

I step out of the tree line into open view, my hands where he can see them. The cottage door swings open before I can knock.

“What the hell happened to you?” Nate’s voice is a low growl, his gaze cutting over me like he’s already cataloguing threats.

“Good to see you too,” I shoot back, my tone dry. “Mind if I come in before someone takes another shot at me?”

His eyes sharpen as he looks past me. “Inside. Now.” It’s the same tone he used when we cornered that outfitter last winter. Same steel under the calm. Back then, it pissed me off. Tonight, it steadies me more than I want to admit.

He fills the doorway, broad frame, knit cap pulled low, carrying the faint bite of cold air and earth clinging to him. His hand lands at my elbow for a heartbeat, firm, directing, then gone like he knows exactly how much touch I’ll tolerate.

“Inside,” he repeats, stepping aside. “Track your boots.”

“Your floor, your rules,” I say, stepping past. “You might want to add, deflect incoming fire to your chore list.”

I pass him, the heat from the stove hitting me like a wall. The door shuts with a final-sounding thud. For the first time since that bullet hit, I let myself breathe.

My goggles fog. The room is pine and iron and a kind of order I recognize: everything placed in a precise place, everything placed.

Same calm chaos I remember from his gear station during the poaching op—field packs lined up like soldiers, weapons in half-assembly, and that quiet precision like he was always one move ahead of the threat.

A spotting scope waits at the front window, lens capped but pointed at the ridge line.

A rifle case sits open on the bench, magazines lined like patient teeth.

He was cleaning or expecting trouble. Maybe both.

He steps closer, crowding my space just enough to make it clear he’s not buying any casual act. “Start talking, Wren.”

“Somebody, a pro is my guess, took two shots from across the basin,” I say, stripping my gloves. My fingers are red and stupid with cold; I flex them in front of his fire until sensation burns back.“The first kissed snow; the second trimmed a spruce at my shoulder.”

“Suppressor?” He moves to the window, pops the scope cap.

“Maybe, but it could have been that the snow ate the sound. Could be a can, could be distance. Could be both.”

“Angle?”

“High ridge east of the old survey cairn.” I nod toward the map tube in the corner. “If they’re smart, they’re gone.”

His mouth goes thin. “Smart enough to miss?”

“I don’t believe in warning shots,” I say. “I believe in bracketing.”

His eyes flick to my left cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

“Tree is worse.” I touch the stinging cut and wince. “I’ll live.”

“Sit.” He nods toward a chair. “You’re dripping on my floor.”

“You going to mop while someone uses your valley as a shooting range?”

“I’m going to keep you steady while I take a look at my valley.” He sets a mug in front of me. “Drink.”

I eye it. “You always drug strangers?”

“If I wanted you unconscious,” he says without looking up from the scope, “you wouldn’t have made it to the door.”

“Charming.” I wrap both hands around the heat. “Fine. You’ll get your intel without the coma.”

“Height of strike and offset,” he says. “Numbers.”

“First: foot forward of my toes. Second: shoulder height, three yards right. Wind NNE, eight to ten. The shooter compensated like they’ve met weather before. My bet: six to eight hundred yards.”

He hums. “Caliber?”

“Didn’t see the round. Entry looked clean.”

“So not a yahoo with a deer rifle,” he says. “We’re talking practice and access.”

“In Alaska, those breed like rabbits,” I say. “Pick a bar, throw a dart.”

His mouth curves—almost. “You ran to me instead of to town.”

“I ran to the one person who already knows how I work. And doesn’t flinch.”

“Flattering.” He adjusts focus. “You think this is tied to your work?”

“It could be tied to yours.” I sip. It’s strong enough to stand a spoon. “Poachers don’t love going broke.”

“True.” He sweeps the ridge slow. “You left a triangle stamp.”

So he did see it. “Then you already know the draw is burned.”

He nods. “You hurt anywhere else?”

“I said I’ll live.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

I blow out a breath. “No.”

“Good.” He lowers the scope. “Boots.”

“What about them?”

“Off.”

“I’m not staying.”

“You are until I clear the ridge.” He turns, posture easy, eyes not. “You came here. You accept the rules.”

“My rules involve not being managed.”

“Then draft new ones,” he says, maddeningly calm. “Work with me, Wren.”

I stand because if I sit I’ll throw the mug and it’s an expensive mug. Nate has city cop taste. He likes expensive things. I know the artist that threw this mug. It wasn't cheap.

“Terms: you don’t call Caleb. I know he’s your friend, and he’ll press for answers I’m not ready to give. You won’t like lying to him, but I’m asking you to do it anyway. You don’t call town, and you don’t log anything until we’re sure this isn’t some idiot testing a new toy.”

“Do I look like I answer to a gossip chain?”

“You and my brother are friends..."

"Last time I checked so were we."

I nod. He has a point. "You wear a badge. People expect noise.”

He considers that. Nods once. “No calls. Yet.” He slides a topography map from a tube and spreads it across the table. “Show me your ingress. Mark the stamp.”

I trace the line with a finger that won’t quite stop shaking. He watches the tremor, says nothing. Respect beats pity by a mile, but it still makes my throat tight.

“Here. And here.”

“We’ll circle from the west,” he says. “I want brass, glass, footprints—anything they were sloppy about.”

“They weren’t.”

“You don't know that. People get lazy when they think they’re alone.” His tone is mild. The look isn’t. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.” He sets down bread, venison, and an apple that probably cost him a favor. “Fuel up.”

“Is this your way of softening me up?” I ask, tearing bread because my hands need something to do that isn’t shaking.

“It’s my way of keeping you effective.” He taps the map. “What’s your read beyond pro shooter?”

“Patient,” I say, “which is worse than good.”

“Agreed.” He glances at the window as wind presses against the glass. “We wait fifteen. Then we move.”

“We?”

“You didn’t come here to go back out alone,” he says. “And even if you did, I wouldn’t let you.”

“You wouldn’t let me?” My eyebrow climbs on reflex.

He meets it without a blink. “Correct.”

The word shouldn’t settle me. But it does. Same way it did last winter when the shots were aimed at us and I wasn’t sure we’d make it out clean. He’d steadied me then, and his calm assurance does so again.

And just like that, I know I’m not walking back out of here until he has every answer he wants. A low metallic ping carries from the porch—small, unmistakable, not the house settling. Both our heads turn.