Page 21 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain (Men of Talon Mountain #3)

NATE

W ren’s declaration still echoes in my head as we step into the cold.

She’s not running again. That’s not just words, that’s a tectonic break.

Her guard doesn’t simply lower, she lets it fall.

I catch the subtle change, the tension in her shoulders easing and her mouth parting like she is finally breathing free air again.

There’s a rawness in her expression that grips something deep in my chest and twists.

She knows I saw her. All of her. Not the brittle front or the biting tongue, but the woman who’s been surviving, not living.

There’s a rawness in that kind of revelation that strips me bare, a punch to the chest I didn’t brace for.

It drives through muscle and memory, leaving a reverberation in my bones that makes my jaw lock, and my spine stiffen, down into a place I didn’t realize still held feelings.

Like a blade sliding beneath armor I forgot I was wearing.

The night air is biting. Cold. Clean. Every shadow feels loaded. We move as one, sweeping the perimeter in silence. Her boots press into the frost-hardened ground beside mine, the sound crisp and deliberate, each step syncing with mine like an unspoken agreement.

It’s a rhythm that settles something in my chest, a cadence so familiar it stirs a memory from a long-ago patrol in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan.

The silence then had been taut with anticipation, the trust between us unspoken but absolute.

It is the same now, quiet and tense, but this time it is Wren at my side instead of a fellow SEAL, and that change does not feel wrong. It feels earned. This time; it’s her.

The presence, the partnership, it grounds me in a way I didn’t realize I’d been missing. My lungs ease. My grip on the rifle adjusts, not because I’m less alert, but because I’m not alone. It’s a quiet syncopation, steady and sure, like the first breath after surfacing from deep water.

The symmetry of it—the way she moves without hesitation beside me—feels like a promise. One I didn't know I needed. For the first time in too long, I don’t feel like I’m walking point alone.

She’s steady. Focused. Fierce in that quiet, contained way that never fails to pull my attention.

I scan the trip lines, test the motion sensors, then hold up a hand to signal a pause.

She stops immediately, her body going still with a tension that ripples from her shoulders to her spine.

Her eyes dart in the direction of the sound, jaw tightening, every muscle coiled and waiting.

There's no hesitation—just readiness sharpened by instinct.

A sudden crack splits the stillness, violent and jarring, like a twig snapping beneath a careless boot or a reckless change of weight. The sound slices through the tension like a blade, every instinct in me flaring awake.

Wren’s eyes meet mine, steady and sure. There’s no fear, only the taut stillness of someone bracing to strike, her body a live wire of instinct and resolve.

I lift my rifle slowly. "Movement. Northwest quadrant. Could be a false alarm, but I’m not betting on it."

She nods, pulling her sidearm with zero hesitation. "Let’s circle. Pinch from both sides."

We separate. My steps are calculated, quiet. I keep to the tree line, breath even, every sense locked in. I’ve run ops in worse conditions, but this one feels personal. There’s something out there. Not just someone. Something planned. Calculated.

Thirty yards in, a flicker of movement draws my eye. It’s not the jerky pace of wildlife. This is calculated—measured. Human. I count four figures, maybe a fifth. They've sent a small hit squad.

One crouches low behind a rotting log, the others spread out in a familiar pattern. Triangulated formation. Coordinated. Trained. They are not amateurs. They are not wandering in by mistake. Their discipline is too precise, their spacing too deliberate, every step calculated with intent.

They're positioned with discipline—spread wide enough for cover, tight enough to communicate without a word. This isn’t some desperate last stand.

It’s a deliberate maneuver, like they’ve rehearsed it.

My gut knots with a grim certainty: these men are here for more than a scare.

They know exactly who we are, and exactly how to hurt us.

I tap my comm. "Five targets confirmed. Moderate spread. You see them?"

Her voice comes back low and controlled. "Affirmative. I'm behind the left flank."

"On my mark. We take them fast, before they realize how badly they've underestimated us."

I exhale, slow and deliberate. One heartbeat. Then another. The cold bites through my jacket, grounding me in the now, even as adrenaline buzzes beneath my skin like a live wire stretched too tight.

"Now."

The world detonates around me. A gunshot cracks through the trees like a whip, the air tearing hot and merciless, and I duck low with my heart slamming against my ribs in time with the rifle’s echo.

Wren's voice shouts something, inaudible over the sudden roar, but I know her tone: precise, focused.

I pivot to cover the center line, booted feet digging into the frozen dirt.

Muzzle flash flares behind the treeline.

A spray of bark explodes inches from my face.

I fire back—quick, controlled. One round punches through his chest, the recoil jarring up my arm as the impact drives him backward.

He collapses in a heap, dead weight hitting the ground with a muffled thud.

I keep my sights locked for a beat longer, adrenaline roaring through my veins like a war drum, until the body goes still. Only then do I allow myself a breath.

Another shadow surges out of the dark to my right.

I pivot fast and slam the butt of my rifle into his temple.

The impact lands with a sickening crack, and he stumbles, knees buckling.

I don't give him a second chance. I drive my boot down into his chest, pinning him to the frozen ground.

My breath saws through my throat as I scan the tree line, vision twitching from shape to shape, every muscle ready to strike again if needed.

Branches thrash wildly as a third runner veers off to the left, disappearing into the underbrush.

I don’t hesitate. I pivot and take the shot—a clean, controlled hit to his shoulder.

Non-lethal, but enough to slam him sideways and drop him hard.

His weapon flies from his grip and skitters across the icy ground.

He hits with a strangled cry, writhing as pain overtakes him.

Another man—leaner, twitchy—tries to make a break for it, but Wren moves fast. One precise shot drops him before he can make a sound.

The last one, eyes wide, panic overtaking whatever training he had, bolts into the thicker woods.

I’m on him in an instant, boots hammering frozen earth, branches clawing at my arms. He’s quick, driven by desperation, but his footwork’s sloppy. Erratic. He’s not going to last long.

He turns to fire. A shot cracks. Pain blooms across my bicep, a scorching line that sears through flesh and radiates down my arm.

It is not deep, but it is brutal, hot, and immediate, a reminder of how close I came to worse.

My legs burn from the sprint, each stride sending shockwaves up my thighs.

The cold air rakes my throat raw, my chest heaving under the strain.

The pain in my arm throbs, threatening to steal focus, but I push harder, adrenaline keeping my footing fierce and my instincts honed as I launch myself at him anyway.

We collide hard. My shoulder slams into his ribs and the air whooshes out of him as we hit the ground.

He fights back, wild and desperate. Elbows fly, fingers claw, but I’ve got the leverage.

Pain flares, searing across my arm where the bullet grazed me, but I use it.

Channel it. My knee drives into his gut as I rip the weapon from his hands and press him into the hard-packed snow.

"You’re done," I snarl, yanking the weapon free.

My breath punches past my clenched teeth, ragged and fast. My pulse roars in my ears, each beat syncing with the raw throb in my arm and the surge of something deeper, the grim, electric drive to end this before it ends us.

Wren appears out of the dark, gun raised. Her eyes rake over me.

"You’re hit."

"Just a graze."

She’s already moving, using the butt-end of her rifle to knock the guy unconscious in a pretty savage blow. She presses me against the tree, stripping back my jacket. Efficient. Angry. Hands steady.

"You're a lucky idiot," she mutters. "You could have taken a clean round through an artery."

"Would’ve made things interesting."

"This is not a game, Nate."

She's pissed. I know that she's pissed, although telling her that and that I think she's sexy as hell when she’s pissed probably isn't the best idea.

Her fingers move fast, slicing through fabric with a ruthless kind of focus that makes my breath hitch.

I catch the smallest tremble in her knuckles, a small bit of emotion breaking through the hard shell she wears.

She doesn’t speak, but her tension bleeds through every movement—efficient, sure, but too forceful, like if she doesn't keep her hands busy she might lose it.

My eyes lock on her mouth, the way it presses into a thin, determined line, and for a second, I wonder if she's trying just as hard not to look at me. Not to feel this shift between us. with clinical precision.

She peels back the ruined sleeve and presses gauze against the wound, her touch firm but trembling slightly at the edges. Her jaw tightens, eyes flicking up to mine just long enough for me to catch the storm behind them—fear, anger, and something else.