Shadow of Misty Mountain (Misty Mountain #7)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

TRAVIS

S omewhere in the Hindu Kush Mountains

Five Years Ago

The snow is falling sideways. Wind screaming like it’s got a vendetta. But I hear the footfalls. Crunch, crunch, stop. Then again. Crunch, crunch, stop. He’s circling.

“Three clicks west, high ridge,” I murmur into the comm, my voice low, calm. “Target’s hunting. He’s smart. He knows we’re here.”

“No eyes yet,” comes Hammer’s voice. Steady, but clipped. “Visibility’s shit.”

I scan through the scope. Snow blinds everything except the red blinking on my HUD—heat signal, far edge of the cliff. There. He’s prone. Sniper.

I don’t hesitate.

Bang.

“Shadow, what the?—?”

“Sniper’s down.” I lower my rifle, shift my weight behind the rock. “They’re boxing us in. Move. Now.”

“I thought command said they wouldn't be in position for another hour—” Viper starts, but I cut him off.

“Command was wrong. Or lying.”

That earns silence. It’s not the first time in the last month that what we've been told doesn't match boots-on-the-ground reality.

“Shadow, extraction?” Reese asks.

“Still ten out. Hold your ground. Push east, then drop. We’ll cut down to the ravine, regroup at marker Bravo-Four.”

“We going silent?”

“We go dark,” I confirm. “Now.”

I’m up and moving before they answer. My boots grip the icy rock like they were born for it. My mind shifts into that space where there’s no past, no future. Just the now. Just the mission.

A flash of movement.

Gunfire rips through the whiteout—sharp, controlled bursts. I duck and roll behind a tree trunk thick with frost, draw my sidearm. I don’t need eyes on them to know who’s been hit. The comm crackles, then dies.

“Reese?” I say, but I already know.

Gone.

Fury hits me like a blow to the gut. I push it down. Later. I’ll grieve when this is done.

I circle wide, cutting through the storm like a blade. When I reach Hammer’s position, I drop to my belly and slide beside him.

“We’ve got three incoming. One heavy, two light. Eastern arc.”

“Copy. I’ve got the flank.”

“No, I’ve got it,” I say.

He looks at me. “You’re team lead. If you go?—”

“I go where I’m needed.” I cock my pistol, then my rifle. “You hold. Keep Viper alive.”

He nods once. That’s all it takes.

I vanish into the snow, moving low and fast. Heart steady. Breathing tight. I don’t miss. I don’t waver. That’s why they called me Shadow. Because by the time you see me, you’re already dead.

I take the first two before they register what’s happening. The third—bigger, meaner—fights. But he’s slow. Clumsy. I wrap my arm around his throat and whisper, “Wrong mountain,” before I snap his neck clean.

Then it all goes sideways.

A flash grenade blinds me. I hit the ground hard, ears ringing. Boots slam down beside me. A voice I know too well growls in my ear.

“Thought you’d be smarter than this, Holt.”

It’s Carlton.

I blink away the white and stare up at the man who was supposed to have our backs. My commanding officer. The one who sent us into this op blind.

“You set us up,” I rasp.

He crouches, cool as you please, like this isn’t a battlefield soaked in blood. “Collateral damage. Politics are messy. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand betrayal just fine.”

He chuckles. “You always were too righteous for your own good. Good soldier, though. A damn good killer. Shame you won’t make it out of here.”

I lunge—too slow. His boot connects with my ribs. Pain explodes. My weapon’s gone. My team’s scattered or dead.

He leans down. “Your team's gone, Travis. You just don’t know it yet.”

“You’ll burn for this,” I growl.

“No, you will,” he says, his voice smooth and venomous. “But not before you take the fall. And when the story breaks? It’ll be your face, your name. Not mine.”

Then he walks away.

Misty Mountain, Colorado

Present Day

That night plays on repeat in my mind. Every time I close my eyes. Every time the wind howls through these trees, reminding me of what I left behind. Or what was taken.

The world thinks I’m dead.

Better that way.

Let them think that. Travis Holt dead after a disgraceful op gone wrong.

They don’t know the truth.

Carlton’s rising fast—D.C. darling, golden boy with blood on his hands. I’ve got enough proof to bury him. But truth? Truth doesn’t matter without power. And I gave mine up the day I walked away.

Now, I write fiction that’s too close to fact. Watch the forest instead of war zones. Keep a shotgun by the door and my past locked tight.

Some nights I wonder if I’ll ever stop waiting—for the knock, the shot, the final reckoning.

Some battles don’t end just because you walk away… and I’m done running.