The surface guards were the first problem.
The mine itself was the second problem. The real problem.
Going into those tunnels meant going into Kinsman's stronghold. It would be a controlled space with limited exits, an unknown layout and unknown numbers.
Not ideal.
Joe watched the roving guard complete another circuit and waited for the right moment.
And when it came, there would be no hesitation.
29
Mave Condor had been in position for four hours.
She lay in a natural depression between two massive granite outcroppings, about thirty feet up the hillside, screened by the skeletal remains of a fallen birch tree. The rocks formed a shallow V that broke the wind and hid her silhouette. Snow, dead leaves and pine needles covered the ground beneath her. She'd added more when she'd first settled in, building a hide that looked like nothing but forest debris.
The cold had stopped bothering her around hour two.
Now it was just background. Like the ache in her left leg. The one that had been torn open in Central America, along with parts of her body, throbbed in weather like this.
She'd learned to compartmentalize it.
Her rifle rested on a compact bipod, the barrel extending just past the edge of the fallen tree. A Remington 700 in .308, suppressor attached, scope zeroed at two hundred yards. She'd checked it twice after setting up. The cold affected ballistics.
She wore a white parka over her tactical gear, the hood pulled up, a thin balaclava covering everything but her eyes. Her gloves were fingerless on the right hand. Her left hand stayed covered.
Beneath the parka, she had four layers. Enough to keep her core warm. Enough to stay functional.
Through the scope, she had a clear view of the compound below. The sawmill dominated the center, its corrugated metal roof reflecting faint starlight. The sniper nest visible up there, a dark shape against the lighter metal.
But it was empty.
A decoy.
The bunkhouses sat dark and quiet. The mine entrance was a giant black hole in the hillside beyond, that faint glow deep inside barely visible from her angle.
She'd been watching for movement in the trees.
She'd seen the truck earlier.
It had been just after midnight, after she’d just gotten into position, based on intel she’d received and the orders that followed.
Mave had been scanning the access road through her scope when the headlights appeared. A truck, moving slowly. It had stopped at the edge of the compound, maybe fifty yards from the fence.
The driver's door opened.
Mave adjusted her scope, bringing the figure into focus.
Joe Reacher.
She'd recognized him instantly. He'd stepped out of the truck and stood there for a moment, looking toward the compound.
Whether he was doing it on purpose, she didn’t know, but he kept the truck between himself and the compound.
Mave had no shot.
And then he was moving. And there were trees between them, thin cover but enough to complicate the shot. She didn't take a shot unless it was clean. Wounding wasn't good enough.
