Chapter 14
CHRIS
The ranger station sits in the valley like a cancer, and I'm about to cut it out.
Sierra crouches beside me behind the pine screen, her breath misting in the cold air.
Below us, the station shows all the signs of an active operation—vehicles running, fresh tire tracks in the snow, movement through windows.
Two guards patrol the perimeter, both armed with tactical rifles, moving in coordinated patterns.
Professional. Disciplined. Healy's not taking chances.
I pull out my thermal scanner, sweep the building. Three heat signatures on the ground floor, two more upstairs. Five hostiles inside, two outside. Seven total against two of us.
I've faced worse odds. Barely.
"Seven confirmed," I whisper to Sierra. "Two outside, five in. Healy's upstairs in what looks like a command room."
She nods, already pulling out her laptop. "Once we secure him, I need sixty seconds at his terminal. I'll broadcast everything—voice analysis, financial records, intercepted communications—to every federal agency simultaneously. Barrett, DOJ, Homeland, FBI. Everyone gets it at once."
"What if his system is encrypted?"
"It will be. But I've been studying the network's communication protocols and I can crack it." Her eyes meet mine, fierce and certain. "Trust me."
I do. Against all logic, against every instinct that's kept me alive for the past year, I trust this woman completely.
"Here's the plan," I say. "I trigger the north perimeter alarm, draw the guards away from the main entrance.
You can slip in through the side window on the east wall.
Move through the first floor, secure any hostiles quietly if you can.
I'll come in through the front after the guards are down, link up with you, we take the command room together. "
"What about the men inside?"
"They'll respond to the alarm. That gives you your window.
" I check my rifle, my pistol, count magazines one more time.
Fifteen rounds in the pistol. Twenty-eight in the rifle.
Three spare mags. Four grenades. "Stay low, stay quiet.
If this goes loud before we're in position, abort and fall back to the rally point. "
"I'm not leaving you in there."
"Sierra—"
"No." She grips my arm, her fingers tight through the fabric. "We go in together, we come out together. That's the deal."
"All right," I say. "But you follow my lead on tactics."
"Deal."
We move down the slope, using terrain and tree cover to mask our approach. The snow helps—muffles sound, hides tracks. I lead us in a wide arc to the north side of the station, where the alarm system's junction box sits exposed on an exterior wall.
The guards are on the south side now, cigarette break. Sloppy. Healy's getting complacent, thinking he's safe out here.
He's wrong.
I pull a small charge from my pack, shaped for noise not damage. Set the timer for thirty seconds, place it against the junction box. Sierra's already moving toward her entry point, low and fast through the snow.
The charge detonates with a sharp crack that echoes across the valley. The alarm screams, piercing and urgent. Lights flash inside the station.
The guards react immediately, weapons up, moving toward the north side at a run. Professional training, poor tactical awareness. They're focused on the alarm, not on cross-checking their six.
I let them pass my position. Wait until they're ten yards beyond. Rise from cover with my rifle up.
Two shots. Both guards drop.
I'm moving before they hit the ground, sprinting toward the main entrance. Through the window I see shapes moving—three men rushing toward the north side alarm, leaving the entryway clear.
Perfect.
I breach the door fast and quiet. The interior is exactly what I expected from an old ranger station—main room with a stone fireplace, hallway leading to offices and sleeping quarters, stairs to the second floor.
Documents cover every surface, maps marked with routes and coordinates, radio equipment broadcasting encrypted traffic.
A command center. Healy's been running his operation from here for months, maybe longer.
Movement in the hallway. One of the men returning from checking the alarm. He sees me, reaches for his weapon.
I'm faster. Two shots center mass. He goes down.
The gunfire alerts the others. Voices shout, boots pound. This is about to get loud.
I take cover behind an overturned desk as muzzle flashes erupt from the hallway. Return fire tears through the room, shattering windows, splintering wood. I send controlled bursts back, forcing them to keep their heads down.
Where's Sierra?
A door to my left swings open. Sierra appears, weapon up, and she puts three rounds into the closest hostile. He drops. She moves to cover beside me, breathing hard.
"Two down on the first floor," she reports. "Where's Healy?"
"Upstairs. Command room." I reload, chamber a round. Down to two mags plus what's in the weapon. Need to make shots count. "Let's move."
We fight our way to the stairs, trading fire with the remaining defenders. One tries to rush us from a side room—I catch him with a grenade, the blast throwing him back into the wall. Another comes down the stairs firing blind—Sierra drops him with a headshot that would make a sniper proud.
Then we're on the stairs, moving up, clearing corners. My ears ring from the gunfire. Smoke fills the building from the grenade blast. The whole place smells like blood and burned powder.
The command room door is closed. Locked. Probably reinforced.
I don't care.
I plant a breaching charge, step back, detonate. The door blows inward in a shower of splinters and smoke.
Sierra moves through first, weapon up. "Healy. It's over."
I follow her in, taking the opposite angle, rifle trained on the room's occupant.
Healy stands behind a desk cluttered with computer equipment, radios, and tactical maps. He's older than his photos—mid-fifties, gray at the temples, lean and hard from years in the field. The kind of man who climbed the federal ladder by stepping on bodies.
He looks at Sierra, then at me. His eyes widen slightly in recognition.
"Calder." His tone stays level despite the rifle pointed at his chest. "You were supposed to be dead."
"Yeah. I get that a lot."
He reaches for the pistol on his belt. Slow. Deliberate. Testing to see if we'll shoot.
"Don't," Sierra says. "Hands where I can see them."
Healy raises his hands, but the smirk on his face says he's not worried.
"You think this ends with me? I'm a cog, Calder.
The network is bigger than you can imagine.
Bigger than federal agencies. We move millions through these mountains every year.
People, drugs, weapons. You take me down, someone else steps up tomorrow. "
"Maybe," Sierra says. "But you're the cog I'm going to break."
His eyes shift to her, calculating. "You're the linguist. Vale, right?
The cop who burned her cover in Chicago.
" He leans forward slightly. "Wait. I can give you names.
The whole supply chain, ports to distribution.
But I need protection—witness security, new identity. That's the only way this works."
Rage floods through me, hot and immediate. This man sent my team to die. Orchestrated the ambush that killed Martinez and Bishop. Forced me to abandon everything—my life, my sister, my identity—to survive.
And he thinks he can bargain.
"You sent my team to die," I say quietly. Dangerous. "You fed intel to the traffickers. You murdered good people. There's no deal."
"You think you're different? Everyone cuts deals. That's the job."
"Not this time."
Healy's expression shifts. The calm mask cracks, showing something desperate underneath. "You're making a mistake. The network will come for you. They'll come for everyone you love. Your sister—what's her name? Bryn? She'll be the first."
I take a step forward, finger on the trigger.
Sierra touches my arm. "Chris. Don't."
The door behind us explodes inward. Three men pour into the room, weapons blazing. Healy's reinforcements from outside, finally responding to the chaos.
I shove Sierra behind the desk as bullets tear through the air. Return fire immediately, dropping the lead attacker. Sierra comes up beside me, her pistol barking sharp reports. We fight side by side, covering angles, moving as one unit.
One hostile goes down. Two. The third takes cover in the hallway, blind-firing around the corner. I pull my last grenade, cook it for two seconds, throw it down the hall. The explosion silences his weapon.
My rifle locks empty. I drop the magazine, slam in my last spare. Forty-five rounds left total between pistol and rifle.
"The upload!" I shout over the ringing in my ears. "Get to the terminal!"
Sierra doesn't argue. She holsters her weapon, scrambles to Healy's computer setup. Her fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up systems, breaking through firewalls.
Healy uses the distraction to lunge for his desk drawer. I see the movement, react. Tackle him across the desk, both of us crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and rage.
He fights dirty. Goes for my eyes with his fingers, drives his knee toward my groin. I block, absorb the hits, give back worse. This isn't about technique anymore. This is about settling accounts.
I land a solid punch to his jaw. His head snaps back. He returns with an elbow to my temple that makes stars explode across my vision. We grapple, rolling across broken glass and spent brass casings.
Behind me, Sierra's voice: "I'm in! Uploading now!"
Healy hears it too. Desperation makes him strong. He gets a hand on my throat, squeezes. I drive my forehead into his nose. Cartilage crunches. Blood sprays.
He releases my throat. I don't release him.
I get him in a chokehold, arm locked around his neck. Proper technique. Cuts off blood flow to the brain. He thrashes, claws at my arm, tries to throw me off.
I hold on.