Defender of Talon Mountain (Men of Talon Mountain #6)

Prologue

RHYS

Whitewater Junction, Alaska

Three Years Ago

"Sheriff, we've got a vehicle accident on Mountain Pass Road. Single vehicle off the embankment." A pause, then quieter: "You need to get up there."

I'm already moving, feet hitting the cold floor as I reach for my boots and clothes. Emma's side of the bed is empty—she took the late shift at the hospital in Palmer and won't be home until morning.

"Copy. En route."

The roads are slick with black ice, treacherous even for someone who's driven these mountains his whole life. My grandfather wore this badge. My father wore it. Now me. Three generations of Blackwaters keeping this town safe, and tonight the mountain feels wrong in my bones.

Mountain Pass Road snakes along the ridge, a narrow strip of asphalt with a guardrail that's seen better decades and a drop-off that doesn't forgive mistakes. I take the curves faster than I should, emergency lights painting the snow in red and blue.

Then I see it.

My truck skids to a stop. The guardrail is twisted like gnarled branches snapped in a storm. Fresh gouges in the asphalt catch my headlights—black streaks leading straight to the gap in the rail.

No.

My chest tightens. Something cold crawls up my spine that has nothing to do with the January wind.

I know this road. Know every curve, every dangerous spot. And I know what kind of car leaves tracks this narrow in fresh snow.

Please. Not her. Anyone but her.

But even as I'm thinking it, praying it, I'm moving toward the edge. My boots crunch through ice. The drop-off opens up below me, and there—maybe thirty feet down the embankment—a Subaru rests on its roof against a boulder.

Blue. Emma's shade of blue.

The headlights are still burning into the snow.

The world stops.

Everything slows—my heartbeat, my breath, the way my hands shake as I grab the radio. "Dispatch, ETA on medical?"

"Ten minutes out, Sheriff."

Ten minutes. Emma might not have ten minutes.

The rappelling gear is always in my truck. Always. Because this is Alaska, and mountain roads eat cars like candy, and I've pulled bodies from wrecks more times than I want to count.

Never thought I'd be pulling my wife.

The descent takes seconds that feel like hours. Snow and rock under my boots, the rope burning through my gloves. The Subaru's roof is caved in on the driver's side, metal crumpled like tinfoil. I drop the last few feet and hit the ground running.

"Emma!"

No answer.

The driver's door is jammed. I wrench it open with strength born from panic, and there she is. Hanging upside down in the seatbelt, blonde hair matted with blood, face too pale in the emergency lights filtering down from the road.

"Emma, baby, I'm here. I've got you."

I check for a pulse. Find one. Weak, thready, but there. Thank God. Thank God.

She's breathing. Shallow, labored, but breathing. I don't move her—can't risk spinal damage—but I hold her hand, press my fingers to her wrist, count every heartbeat like a prayer.

"Stay with me. Help's coming. Just stay with me."

Her eyes flutter open. The eyes that made me fall in love with her twelve years ago. She tries to speak, and blood bubbles at her lips.

"Rhys..."

"Don't talk. Save your strength."

"Wasn't... accident." Her voice barely a whisper. "Forced... off road. Black truck. They—"

She coughs, and more blood comes. Too much blood.

"Emma, don't. Just hold on."

Her hand tightens on mine. "Love you. Always... loved you."

"I love you too. You're going to be fine. You hear me? You're going to be fine."

But she's not, and the mountain takes her.

Her fingers go slack in my grip. One moment holding on, the next just weight. Her chest stops moving. The pulse under my thumb—gone.

Sirens wail in the distance. Too late.

I stay with Emma as the sun rises over the ridge, painting the snow in shades of pink and gold that she'll never see. The paramedics have to pry my hand from hers. Someone—maybe it's my deputy—guides me back up the embankment.

Two weeks later, the investigator's report lands on my desk. Brake line failure. Three words stamped in the summary box: Accidental vehicular death.

They close the case.

But Emma said it wasn't. Her last words: forced off the road, black truck.

I request a full forensic investigation. Get stonewalled. File reports that disappear. Push harder and get warned off by people who shouldn't care about a rural sheriff's dead wife.

That's when I know. Someone killed Emma. Someone powerful enough to bury the evidence. And they think I'll just let it go.

Three years later, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors in hand. The beard reaches my chest now. Hair touches my shoulders. I should cut it. Should clean up. Should look like the sheriff this town deserves.

I set the scissors down and walk away.

Emma's wedding ring stays in my pocket. Third-generation law enforcement. Third-generation Blackwater wearing a badge in these mountains.

First one who failed to protect what mattered most.

HARLOW

Chicago, Illinois

Two Years Ago

"Talk to me, Daniel. Tell me what you need."

My voice stays calm, steady, even though my heart is trying to break through my ribs. Fifteen years of experience for moments like this. Crisis Negotiation Unit. The best of the best. I don't fail.

Daniel Reeves stands in the center of the store, one arm locked around a sobbing woman's throat, the other holding a Glock to her temple. He's sweating despite the November cold, eyes wild with desperation.

"I need you to back off!" Spittle flies from his mouth. "All of you! Get back or I swear to God—"

"Okay. Okay, we're backing up." I raise my hands, take two steps back. Behind me, the tactical team shifts, but they hold position. Good. "See? We're giving you space. Now tell me what you need to make this right."

Through my earpiece, my partner Baker's voice: "Harlow, HRT has the shot. Green light whenever you're ready."

I don't acknowledge. Can't. Daniel's twitchy enough without seeing me talk to voices he can't hear.

"I just wanted the money." Daniel's voice cracks. "The money. That's all. But she had to press the button, call you people—"

"I know. I know it wasn't supposed to go like this." I edge closer, just inches. "But here's the thing, Daniel. You haven't hurt anyone yet. This is still fixable."

"Fixable?" He laughs, high and broken. "I'm going to prison."

"Maybe. But prison's better than dead. And that woman you're holding? She's got two kids at home. A husband. They need her to come home tonight. You can make that happen."

Something shifts in his face. The gun wavers.

"Harlow, subject is showing signs of agitation. Recommend you pull back."

I ignore Baker. I'm close now. Close enough to see the tears tracking down Daniel's face. Close enough to make this work.

"Let her go, Daniel. Put the gun down. We'll talk this through. I promise."

His arm loosens around the hostage's throat. The gun drops an inch.

That's when everything goes to hell.

The hostage jerks, trying to break free. Daniel panics, gun swinging wild. The tactical team sees the threat and moves.

"Wait—" I start, but it's too late.

Gunfire cracks through the store like thunder. One shot. Two. Daniel goes down.

The hostage screams and runs. Safe. She's safe.

But something's wrong.

I turn, and Baker is on the ground. Blood spreading across his vest, too high. Neck shot. Arterial spray painting the concrete.

"Officer down! Officer down!"

I'm moving before my brain catches up, dropping to my knees beside him. My hands go to his throat, trying to stop the bleeding that won't stop. Can't stop.

"Baker, stay with me. Medic! I need a medic!"

His hand finds mine. Squeezes once.

"Not..." His voice is wet, bubbling. "Your fault."

Then nothing.

Those warm brown eyes that smiled at me over coffee this morning, that promised we'd talk about the future after this case closed—they go fixed. Staring past me at nothing.

The light just stops.

Medics swarm. They pull me away. Someone wraps a blanket around my shoulders. Someone else guides me to an ambulance.

The review board meets three days later. Justified shoot. Daniel's gun discharged when he went down. Ricochet caught Baker in the throat. One bullet in the wrong place at the worst possible moment.

But I know the truth.

If I'd pulled back when Baker told me to. If I'd let HRT take the shot earlier. If I'd been faster, smarter, better—

Baker would still be alive.

I turn in my resignation six weeks later. Can't do it anymore. Can't stand in a room and promise people I can save them when I couldn't save the man I loved.

The FBI tries to change my mind. Offers counseling, extended leave, desk assignments. I decline all of it.

For eight months, I drift. Therapy appointments I barely remember. A studio apartment in Arlington that feels like a tomb. Job offers from private security firms that I let pile up unopened because the thought of being responsible for anyone's safety makes my hands shake.

Then an email arrives. Private security position in Alaska. Remote mining site in Whitewater Junction. Twelve-hour shifts patrolling a facility in the middle of nowhere. Company housing included—a small cabin on the property.

No hostages. No negotiations. No one depending on me to be perfect.

I'm on a plane three days later.

My new boss hands me the security schedule—twelve-hour shifts patrolling, nothing else required.

"Sounds perfect," I tell him.

He doesn't ask why someone with my credentials would take a job this far below my pay grade.

I don't tell him I wake up screaming every night with Baker's blood warm on my hands. Don't tell him his last words loop through my head on repeat: Not your fault.

He was wrong.

But at least here, when the nightmares come, no one's close enough to hear me fall apart.