Chapter 13
SIERRA
Four vehicles wind up the mountain road through heavy snow, and I'm in position.
My rifle rests against the cave wall beside me, magazine seated, safety off.
The secondary exit where I'm posted offers a narrow view of the western approach—rocky terrain, sparse tree cover, perfect for flanking maneuvers.
Chris positioned me here specifically because he knows they'll try to come around.
The headlights disappear as the vehicles stop below the ridge line. Close enough to approach on foot, far enough to deploy without giving away exact positions. At least twelve men, probably more. We're outgunned and outmanned.
We're going to fight anyway.
My shoulder throbs from last night. The fresh bandage shows a small dark spot, but the bleeding stopped. The wound is the least of my concerns right now.
Chris's voice crackles in my ear, low and controlled. "Four tangos visible from my position. Standard tactical sweep. More behind, staying with vehicles."
"Copy." My pulse pounds in my throat, but my hands stay steady on the rifle. I've been in dangerous situations before—interviews with violent suspects, the warehouse firefight in Chicago—but never like this. Never with automatic weapons and professional killers in mountain terrain.
Never with so much to lose.
Movement catches my eye. Three figures detach from the tree line, moving low and fast toward the cave's main entrance. Good discipline—proper spacing, covering each other's advance, weapons up and ready.
The crack of Chris's rifle shatters the dawn quiet.
The lead man drops mid-stride, weapon clattering against rock. The other two scatter into cover, return fire erupting in a sustained burst that echoes through the mountains. Muzzle flashes strobe in the half-light, bullets sparking off stone near the cave entrance.
Training kicks in. I drop lower behind cover, control my breathing, scan my sector for threats. The sound hammers my eardrums even with protection—louder than the warehouse firefight in Chicago, more sustained. Cordite stings my nostrils. But my hands stay steady on the rifle.
These aren't street thugs with pistols. These are professionals with tactical rifles and military discipline. Different battlefield, higher stakes.
"Contact," Chris's voice cuts through the chaos, calm and controlled. "Two more breaking wide left. Watch your sector."
I shift position, scanning the western approach through the rifle scope. There. Two figures moving through the deadfall, using the terrain to mask their advance. They're trying to flank Chris's position, get an angle on the cave entrance.
"I see them," I whisper into the comms.
"Take the shot if you have it."
I center the crosshairs on the lead flanker's torso, exhale, squeeze.
The rifle kicks hard against my injured shoulder. Pain lances through the wound, white-hot and immediate. But I see the target stumble, grab his leg, go down behind a fallen log. His scream cuts through the gunfire.
"Hit," I report, already shifting to track the second flanker.
He's moving faster now, using his partner's position for cover, trying to close the distance. I squeeze the trigger twice more—miss high, then miss left. He drops into a depression and disappears from view.
"Lost visual on flanker two," I say.
"Stay on him. I'm occupied."
The suppression fire at the main entrance intensifies. They're trying to pin Chris down, keep him from engaging the flanker. Smart tactics. These men move with precision—military training, not street muscle.
Movement flickers at the edge of my peripheral vision. The wounded flanker is crawling, trying to reposition for a shot at my location. Blood trail marks his path through the snow.
I send three rounds downrange in quick succession. The first two impact near his position, forcing him flat. The third catches him in the shoulder, spinning him sideways. He drops his weapon, clutching the wound, and scrambles back toward the tree line.
"Flanker one retreating," I report. "Wounded."
"Good shooting." Chris's voice crackles in my ear. "One down at main entrance. Two still in play."
The firefight settles into a rhythm—bursts of gunfire, brief pauses for reloading, the acrid smell of burned powder drifting on the cold air. My ears ring despite the earplugs. Each muzzle flash sears afterimages across my vision.
The second flanker makes his move. He charges from cover, sprinting toward my position with his weapon up. Too close. Too fast.
I empty my magazine—seven, eight, nine rounds stitching across the ground in front of him. He veers left, diving behind a boulder fifteen yards out. Close enough that I can hear his labored breathing.
"Chris." My voice comes out tight. "I need you."
"Thirty seconds."
The flanker pops up, fires a burst that tears through the brush beside the cave exit. Splinters of rock explode around me. I press flat against the cave wall, fumbling for my spare magazine with trembling fingers.
The magazine seats with a satisfying click. I rack the bolt, chamber a round, swing back to my firing position.
The flanker is moving again, using the boulder for cover as he advances. Ten yards now. Close enough to rush my position if I give him an opening.
I squeeze the trigger. Miss. He flinches back.
Another shot. The round sparks off the boulder edge, fragments peppering his cover.
Movement behind me—Chris appears from the cave's interior, moving fast and silent. He hand-signals: stay down. I drop flat as he brings his rifle up, braces against the cave wall, fires twice in rapid succession.
The flanker jerks, stumbles, goes down hard. Doesn't move again.
"Clear," Chris says, breathing hard, blood streaking his face from a graze above his left eyebrow. "Main entrance secure. Three down, one wounded and retreating."
I push to my feet, legs trembling with adrenaline. "The others?"
"Pulled back to regroup. They know they walked into a killbox." He moves to the fallen flanker, kicks the weapon away, checks for a pulse. "This one's gone." Chris strips two magazines from the body and slings the rifle across his back—same kind as ours which means more rounds we can use.
The gunfire has stopped. Eerie silence settles over the mountain, broken only by the wind and the distant sound of the wounded man's screams from the tree line.
Chris keys his comms. "This is Calder. Hostile force engaged and neutralized. Multiple casualties. Anyone still out there, you have one chance to walk away."
No response. The forest watches us with a thousand hidden eyes.
"Check the perimeter," Chris says. "I'll look for survivors."
I move through the cave system, rifle ready, clearing angles and shadows. My shoulder screams with each movement, but I push through it. Pain is temporary. Dead is permanent.
The main entrance shows the aftermath of the firefight—spent brass casings littering the stone, bullet impacts scarring the rock walls, one body sprawled in the snow with a massive chest wound. I don't look too closely at his face.
Beyond, two more bodies lie in the killing field Chris created. Professional hits—tight groups, no wasted ammunition. The man was a sniper before he was an undercover operator. It shows.
"Clear," I report, moving back to where Chris has zip-tied a survivor's hands behind his back.
The wounded flanker from the tree line lies propped against a rock, clutching his bleeding shoulder.
Blood pools beneath him, bright red against the white snow.
His tactical gear marks him as professional—plate carrier, multiple magazine pouches, quality weapons.
Not cheap muscle. Someone invested real money in this team.
Chris kneels beside him, applies a tourniquet to slow the bleeding. "You're going to live if you cooperate. Going to bleed out if you don't. Your choice."
"Go to hell." The man's voice is strained with pain.
"Already been there." Chris tightens the tourniquet another turn. The man screams. "Who sent you?"
"I don't—"
Chris applies pressure to the shoulder wound. The scream cuts off into a whimper.
"I don't have time for this," Chris says quietly. Dangerous. "Neither do you. Who sent you? Where's Healy?"
I crouch beside them, let the man see my face. "We know about the corruption network. We know about the smuggling. We know Healy's involved. The evidence is already in motion—uploaded to secure servers with failsafes. You're done. The only question is whether you die here or live to make a deal."
The man's eyes dart between us, calculating odds. Pain and fear war across his features. Chris applies more pressure to the wound.
"Healy," the man gasps. "He's at the old ranger station. Twenty miles north of here. Coordinating the operation."
"How many men?"
"Six. Maybe eight. I don't know for sure."
"What operation?" I lean closer. "What's moving through tomorrow?"
The man hesitates. Chris's hand moves to the wound again.
"Wait, wait!" He's panting now, face gray with shock. "High-value shipment. Healy's overseeing transport personally. If you miss it, the network goes dormant for months. Relocates. You'll never find them again."
Chris and I exchange glances. This is it. The final piece. If we take down Healy and intercept the shipment, we can expose the entire network. Everyone involved. Justice for all of them.
"We go after him," I say. "Now. Before he knows his team failed."
"We're outnumbered and under-equipped. Two of us against eight of them."
"We have the element of surprise. We have the truth." My voice is hard. Final. "And I'm not letting him walk away."
He looks at me—really looks at me. Takes in the blood on my clothes, the fierce set of my jaw, the rifle I'm holding like I was born to it. Something shifts in his expression. Acceptance. Pride.
"All right." He checks his weapon, counts remaining ammunition. "Then let's move."
"Wait." I touch his arm. "We need to call this in. Barrett needs to know where we are, what we're doing."
Chris's expression goes hard. "No. Too risky."