Chapter 42 Talon
Talon
After all the excitement of the past few hours, it’s good to be on my own again.
Out here in the forest… it’s the only place I’ve ever felt completely comfortable.
At home. No second-guessing what to say, no trying to read between the lines or wonder if someone is being honest—or, more often than not, lying.
It’s not that I don’t like people. I do.
I just find them… hard work. I wish I didn’t.
I wish I was more like Luke. He moves through the world so easily, especially around women.
If it hadn’t been for him, I’d probably still be a virgin.
With his help, I’d managed to get past my shyness enough to talk to a few women in the local bars, and we’d gotten lucky together a few times.
That’s all behind me now. I don’t want anyone but Sierra. For all his flirting, I don’t think Luke does either.
It’s strange, thinking about how things have turned out between the four of us—Sierra, Luke, Reid, and me. That hike up to the waterfall had been the turning point. After that, everything just seemed to fall into place.
That said, I don’t think I could ever give this up. Not completely. The mountains are part of me. My family is here, in a way I can’t explain. Maybe Sierra can spend time out here with me as well as at the retreat. We haven’t worked out the details yet, but I’m sure we will.
Life might not change as much as I once thought. Reid and Luke running the retreat. Mez working with my hands—furniture, engines, whatever needs fixing.
Speaking of which, the new engine for Sierra’s Chevy should arrive tomorrow. It’ll take time to get it fitted properly, but I don’t mind. It’ll be a job worth doing.
My phone vibrates, pulling me from my thoughts. I glance down. Reid.
I answer immediately.
“Yeah?”
“Tal, you there?” His voice is tight. Not like him.
“I’m here. What is it?”
“It’s Sierra. She’s been taken.”
For a second, the words don’t make sense.
“Taken? What do you mean?”
“Barnes. Amanda’s husband. Him, or someone working for him. They took her.”
A cold weight settles in my chest.
“How do you know?”
“They left a note. I called the number—spoke to him. He admitted it. It wasn’t him who came for her, though. One of his men. Must’ve drugged her—no one heard anything.”
My jaw tightens.
“How long ago?”
“Twenty, maybe thirty minutes. Not long, and we don’t think he had a vehicle.”
That’s actually good news. It means he can’t have gone far. Especially if he’s carrying an unconscious Sierra. There might still be time…
“So, he’s still in the forest,” I say.
“Exactly. We thought—”
“I’m on it.”
I end the call, pocket my phone, and grab the tire lever leaning against the wall.
At the door, I hesitate, glancing at the gun cabinet. Rifle? Shotgun? Both?
No, too much risk. One bad shot and I hit her.
I leave them where they are.
The tire lever will have to do.
The forest feels… different. Quiet. Still.
Almost oppressive. The sunshine of the past few days after that storm has finally given way to dark clouds, and the air feels cold and clammy, like I’m walking in mist. It’s darker too, the evening just beginning to close in, and due to the cloud cover, it’s darkening earlier than usual.
Good. I know these trails better than anyone else, so I have the advantage. Let it get as dark as it likes.
The fence is new and difficult to climb along the west perimeter, and our tracks in and out are to the road are to the south.
He won’t try either of those, he’d be too exposed.
Hmm… that leaves north or east. North is very steep, heading up into the mountains.
North would be tough, especially carrying an unconscious body. East then.
I sniff the air, a faint easterly wind. Good, that means noises will be coming from the east, so assuming he’s somewhere ahead of me, making his way east, I’ll hear him before he hears me, all things being equal. Assuming I’ve guessed his direction correctly, of course.
There are two main trails heading east, and either is as likely as the other.
It doesn’t really matter, though—they both come out at Devil’s Pond, about three miles away, where they merge into a single track that runs across our border onto the Monroe property.
From there, it’s only a short distance to the highway, where no doubt they’ll have a vehicle waiting.
I have to stop them before they get off our land.
The more northerly trail is in better condition—straighter, flatter—so that’s the one he’ll take. Fine. I’ll take the other. It’s more winding, with a couple of steep sections, but over that distance, and without the weight he’s carrying, I think I can beat him to the pond—if I move fast enough.
I turn onto the track and pick up my speed as best I can. It’s narrow and overgrown, rocky in places. Bushes claw at me, fallen trunks force me to climb or detour.
I grit my teeth and settle into a rhythm—jog the flatter stretches, climb where I have to, push through the thicker undergrowth—always angling east.
Somewhere to my north, he’s doing the same.
How fit is he? How well does he know these trails? I don’t know.
Then a worse thought hits me.
What if he hears me? What if he panics? What if he decides to cut his losses—
I shut it down, but it’s already there.
What if he kills her?
Right there, so she can’t identify him. She might have seen him before he knocked her out. She might have come around since.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I need to be fast and quiet. He can’t know he’s being followed. I don’t want him spooked—not while Sierra’s life is in his hands.
But when I get hold of him…
Despite the cool evening air, sweat runs into my eyes. I wipe it away and keep moving, pushing as hard as I can, every step measured, every sound controlled.
Suddenly, I hear movement in the bushes behind me. Twigs snapping. Foliage shifting. Breathing.
I spin, the tire lever raised in my right hand—and as I do, my left ankle catches on a tree root.
“Shit!”
I go down hard, slamming onto my right side, my head cracking against the ground, the breath driven out of me.
I roll, forcing myself to look—
The bushes part.
A group of deer bursts through, seven or eight of them, startled and wide-eyed, rushing past me in a blur of movement. They barely register me as they leap over a fallen trunk and vanish into the gloom.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, dragging in a breath as my heart hammers in my chest.
They must have already crossed my enemy’s path and been startled by him.
I push myself up, testing my ankle. It protests, but holds.
Good enough.
It’ll have to be.
Bruised and muddy, breath rasping, I grab the fallen tire lever and set off again, forcing myself back into rhythm, heading east as fast—and as quietly—as I can.
At last, I see a lighter patch of sky up ahead of me, marking the clearing where the two paths meet at Devil’s Pond. Instinctively I slow my pace, trying not to make a sound. My ears strain for any unusual noises up ahead or to my left, where I expect to find my foe and his precious cargo.
Nothing.
Have I beaten him to the little glade? Reaching the edge of the track, I peer forwards into the gloom as best I can.
No movement. The water in the pond is pitch black—I doubt much sunlight penetrates here, even on a cloudless day, which this is not, and it’s too early in the evening for moonlight.
The water is dead, still, featureless. No movement.
No reflections. No fish stir in the depths.
No waterfowl paddle on its surface. Yet I feel watched.
My presence unwanted. The place feels… ominous.
Seems that Devil’s Pond is well named. This is not a place that makes me want to linger.
I shake my head, pushing aside any mystical nonsense. I have a job to do, and I’ll only get one chance. I need to get it right. I scan the clearing, quickly weighing my options. Time is against me. He could arrive at any moment, and I need a plan.
Then I hear it again.
Twigs snapping. Vegetation shifting. Stones rattling underfoot.
And something else—beneath the rasp of effort.
Muttered cursing.
He’s here.
Too late for careful plans.
I slip silently behind a large juniper bush.
No doubt in reality it’s only a few seconds, but the waiting behind my juniper bush feels like hours as the labored breathing and muttered cursing come nearer and nearer.
At last, the bushes part, and a man dressed in black half strides, half stumbles into the clearing, sweating and gasping. He’s about my height, but far bulkier—two hundred and seventy pounds at least, even in the dim light.
Jesus Christ. He’s a monster.
He dumps the heavy bundle from his shoulders and drops onto a large rock, panting. The bundle lands with a thump, and I hear Sierra’s voice, muffled, as if partially gagged.
“Fuck you, you bastard. Couldn’t you have just lowered me down?”
“Shut ya mouth, or I’ll shut it for ya,” the man snaps. “D’ya think I wanted to carry you all this goddamn way?”
“Do you think I wanted to be carried here against my will? Take me back. There are laws, you know. Take me back, you fucking bastard, or I’ll make you wish you’d—ouch!”
He lashes out with a vicious kick.
That’s it.
The mist drops. Everything goes red.
With a roar, I hurl myself at him.
He reacts fast—flinging up his left arm as my right comes down with the tire lever. The blow glances off his shoulder with a hard crack instead of smashing his skull, and he roars in pain, staggering back.
Then he turns fully, eyes blazing.
“Ah, so this is the ‘mountain man’ they told me about.” He sneers. “Look at you. Filthy. Been playing in the river? You’re no mountain man. You’re just another asshole to put in his place. Now come here, so I can deal with you properly…”
As he speaks, he draws a long, ugly knife from his belt and advances, stance wide, muscles coiled, smile vicious.
I glance left and right. The bushes are thick. No room to move.
Knife versus tire lever.
One of us isn’t walking away.
But we’ve both forgotten about Sierra.
As he steps forward, she lashes out with her bound legs, catching him clean and sending him crashing sideways. The knife spins from his hand—there’s a splash as it disappears into the black water of the pond.
I’m on him before he can recover.
The tire lever comes down hard on his right arm. There’s a sickening crack.
He howls.
I hit him again—this time with my fist—driving it into his face.
Once.
Twice.
He goes limp.
I’m already moving, dropping the lever and rushing to Sierra as she writhes on the ground.
“You alright?” I gasp.
“Of course I’m alright,” she giggles, her voice slurred, still thick with whatever he gave her. “I told him he was making a mistake coming out here. Told him he was making a mistake… but he wouldn’t listen.” She smiles up at me. “I knew you’d come for me, Talon.”
Even in the fading light, I can see her smile.
“Now untie me and put me to bed,” she murmurs. “I am very, very sleepy.”