The axe blade caught the man just above the bridge of his nose with a sound like a hammer hitting a watermelon. The steel bit deep, splitting bone and brain, driving down through the frontal lobe and into the sinus cavity. The man's body went rigid. His hand froze halfway to the gun. Blood sprayed across the table, across the disassembled rifle parts, across Joe's forearm.
The man's weight pulled backward. The axe stayed embedded in his skull, lodged so deep Joe had to brace his boot against the man's chest to keep him from toppling the chair.
The body slumped. The axe handle jutted up at an angle, still vibrating slightly from the impact.
The second man was already moving. He rolled off the bunk, scrambling, his paperback hitting the floor. He didn't go for the rifle. He went for the back door—a narrow exit Joe hadn't seen from outside, half-hidden behind a stack of gear.
Joe saw the knife on the table. Hunting knife, fixed blade, six inches. He grabbed it as the younger man yanked the back door open.
Cold air rushed in.
Joe moved fast despite the fire in his ribs. Three steps. Four. The man was halfway through the door when Joe caught him by the collar and hauled him backward.
The man twisted, tried to break free. Joe drove him face-first into the doorframe. Cartilage crunched. The man's legs buckled but he stayed upright, hands clawing at the frame, trying to pull himself through.
Joe grabbed a fistful of hair, yanked the man's head back, and drew the blade across his throat.
The knife was sharp. It opened the flesh in one clean motion, severing both carotid arteries and the windpipe. Blood erupted in a hot spray, pulsing in rhythm with the man's heartbeat. It hit the doorframe, the floor and Joe's hand.
The man made a wet, gurgling sound. His hands went to his throat, trying to hold the wound closed. Blood poured between his fingers. His legs gave out. He slid down the doorframe and collapsed half in, half out of the bunkhouse, his body twitching as his brain realized it wasn't getting oxygen anymore.
It took almost ten seconds for him to stop moving.
Joe stood over him, breathing hard, his ribs screaming. The knife was slick in his hand. He wiped it on the dead man's jacket and set it on the table.
Joe pulled the second man's body fully inside and shut the door. No point advertising.
He moved to the table and looked at the first man. The axe was still embedded in his skull, the handle angled up like a flag. Joe didn't bother pulling it out.
He turned his attention to the gear. The first man's sidearm was still in the holster on the chair. Joe took it, a .45 auto, and tucked it into his waistband. He found the rifle the first man had been cleaning. An AR-15, decent condition. He located themagazine and bolt assembly, reassembled the weapon quickly, and loaded it. Thirty rounds.
He checked the dead men's packs and found two more magazines.
He took those too.
Better than the pistol. Much better.
He stood in the center of the room, catching his breath, his left side a mass of pain. He flexed his fingers until they steadied.
Killing them had been quick, but best of all, silent.
The sniper was next.
The one who'd killed Simmons. Joe knew the shooter was out there.
He moved to the door and looked out across the compound. The sawmill was sixty yards away, its bulk dark and angular against the sky.
The sniper nest was barely visible.
Joe checked the AR-15 one more time. It was a good weapon with a full magazine and decent optics.
Joe stepped out of the bunkhouse into the cold. The wind hit him immediately, cutting through his jacket.
The sawmill waited across the yard.
He moved, rifle ready, staying low.
31
