Time stopped meaning anything. There was only the next six inches. The next pull forward. The next stab of pain in his ribs.
His head brushed something—a low beam or a collapsed section. He had to flatten himself completely, cheek pressed against the icy wood, and worm underneath it. Splinters caught in his jacket. His ribs screamed. He pushed through.
The chute made a slight bend. He followed it, blind, trusting the structure to hold.
Then he saw a lighter patch ahead. Not much. Just a slightly less absolute darkness. The exit.
Joe slowed his approach. The last thing he needed was to crawl out into a spotlight or directly in front of a guard.
He eased forward, inch by inch, until he could see out.
The chute ended abruptly behind a large equipment shed, up against the wall. There was a square opening which the logs must have been pushed through.
Joe listened. Wind. Nothing else.
He pulled himself out of the chute slowly, and into the building. He lay there for thirty seconds, controlling hisbreathing, letting his eyes adjust, listening for any sign he'd been spotted.
Nothing.
He rose to a crouch, his back against the shed wall.
The bunkhouse was next to the shed. Light showed in one window. He could hear voices inside. Two men, talking quietly. One laughed at something. The sound carried in the cold air.
Joe moved along the back of the equipment shed, staying in shadow. The bunkhouse was a wood frame, single story. One door on the side facing him. One window with light. Probably one or two more windows on the other sides.
Between the bunkhouse and the equipment shed was pure darkness. Perfect concealment.
He reached the bunkhouse wall and pressed himself against it beside the door.
The voices were clearer now. Two men, definitely. One was talking about a truck that needed a new battery. The other said something about the cold. Bored guards killing time.
Joe tested the door handle slowly. It turned. Unlocked.
Why would it be locked? They thought they were secure. They thought the perimeter was solid.
Besides, who in the hell was crazy enough to be out in this kind of weather, at this time of night?
Joe took one breath opened the door and went in fast.
The interior was exactly what he'd expected. One room. Two bunks against the far wall. A small table in the center with two chairs. A propane heater in the corner, glowing orange.
Gear was piled near the door. Packs, cold weather clothing and an axe.
Two men.
The one at the table was in his thirties, heavy build, wearing thermal underwear and an unbuttoned flannel shirt. He had a rifle disassembled on the table in front of him, cleaning suppliesspread out. His sidearm was in a holster hanging on the back of his chair.
The one on the bunk was younger, maybe twenty-five, thin and wiry. He was lying on his side, reading a paperback. His rifle leaned against the wall beside the bunk, three feet away.
The axe leaned against the wall just inside the door. Firewood axe, single-bit head, hickory handle worn smooth from use. For splitting kindling for the stove.
Both men's heads snapped toward the door as Joe came through.
Joe's hand closed on the axe handle as he moved. The weight felt good. Familiar.
The one at the table reacted first. His hand started toward the holster on the chair, fingers reaching, eyes going wide.
Joe crossed the distance in two strides and swung.
