“You got it. I'll find out everything I can and try to get word to you somehow."
Joe hung up the phone and stood there for a moment, his hand still on the cold metal. The wind drove snow across the empty street. Somewhere up in the hills, there might be some answers.
He walked back to the truck, climbed into the driver's seat and pulled the stolen pistol from his waistband, checking it in the dome light. Glock 19. Fifteen rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber.
Joe started the engine and the heater rattled to life, blowing cold air. It had already cooled off in that short amount of time. He put the truck in gear and pulled out of the lot, heading toward the hills.
The road climbed steeply, switchbacking up the ridge. The road was packed hard with ice. The truck's tires spun once, caught, and pushed forward.
Joe drove with both hands on the wheel.
After twenty minutes of driving, he almost missed the mine entrance. It was just a dark mouth in the hillside, timber supports framing it like broken teeth. A brand-new chain-link fence surrounded it, topped with gleaming barbed wire.
Surrounding the entrance were buildings sagging under the weight of snow. It was like a logging and mining camp designed for Halloween.
A sign hung on the fence: DANGER - NO TRESPASSING.
Even the sign was new.
Joe stopped the truck fifty yards away and killed the lights.
He sat in the darkness, watching.
He thought about Simmons and how he’d been killed. Joe scanned the hills above the mine.
Someone was watching, he knew.
Joe checked the Glock one more time, tucked it back into his waistband, opened the door and stepped out into the snow.
28
The forest swallowed him within twenty yards.
Joe moved through the pines with deliberate care, each step placed with intention. The snow was six inches deep here, maybe more in the drifts, and it muffled sound but left tracks. Nothing he could do about that. He kept to the shadows where the canopy was thickest, where the snow was thinner and the ground harder.
The terrain climbed. Steep hillside, rocky and uneven beneath the snow. He used the trees for handholds when he needed them, pulling himself up the grade. His boots found purchase on exposed roots and stone.
Through the trees ahead, maybe two hundred yards upslope, he saw light.
Not much. Just a faint glow filtering through the darkness, diffused by distance and falling snow.
He slowed.
His movements became more deliberate and he tested each step before committing his weight. He used the tree trunks for cover, pausing behind each one to scan ahead before moving to the next. His right hand stayed near the Glock under his jacket.
The lights grew brighter as he climbed.
The slope began to level out. He was nearing the ridgeline. He moved even more slowly now, crouched low, using the terrain and vegetation for concealment.
He found his vantage point thirty yards from the top of the ridge.
A rocky outcrop jutted from the hillside, partially screened by a dense stand of spruce. The trees grew right up to the rocks, their branches creating a natural blind. Joe worked his way into the position, settling onto the cold stone behind the screen of branches.
His ribs protested. He ignored them.
He looked down at the compound below.
The old mine and logging camp spread out across a natural shelf in the hillside, maybe three acres of relatively level ground carved out of the forest decades ago. The mine entrance itself was on the upslope side, built into the rock face—a dark opening framed by weathered timber supports and the skeletal remains of a headframe. The wooden tower rose forty feet, its crossbeams and pulleys still intact but rusted and sagging.
