The seepage had left mineral stains, rust-colored streaks that ran down the stone like old blood. In some places, ice had formed where the water met the cold air, creating crystalline formations that caught the light.
But the floor had been cleared. Debris removed. The path was level and deliberate. Someone had put in real effort here. Graded it. Made it passable for equipment.
Twenty feet in, the changes became obvious.
New timber shoring reinforced the old framework. The wood was fresh, maybe a year old, properly treated and installed with galvanized bolts and steel brackets. Someone had done serious work here.
The new wood still had that raw lumber smell, sharp and clean against the mineral dampness of the rock.
LED work lights were strung along the left wall, clipped to a cable that ran the length of the tunnel. They cast a cold white light that pushed back the darkness but created hard shadows.
It was the kind of lighting you'd see at a construction site.
Thirty feet in, he passed a junction box mounted to the rock. Heavy-gauge cable ran from it, disappearing deeper into the mine. Power for something bigger than just lights. The box was new, industrial grade, with a weatherproof seal.
The ventilation hum was louder now. He could feel air moving. Not much, but enough. A steady current flowing past him, drawn deeper into the mine by fans he couldn't see yet. They'd installed a system to keep the air breathable. That meant people spent significant time down here.
The tunnel sloped downward, gradually. The grade was gentle but consistent, maybe five degrees. He was descending into the hillside, following the old mining operation deeper into the earth.
Fifty feet in, he saw the first sign. White letters on a red background, bolted to a timber support: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.
Like this was a legitimate facility.
Joe knew instinctively it was how Kinsman operated.
The air was warmer now. The ventilation system was pulling heated air from somewhere. He could smell cigarette smoke, stale but recent.
The tunnel continued for another hundred feet, the LED lights marking his progress like a runway.
The tunnel opened up and Joe stopped at the edge, pressed himself against the wall. The stone was cold against his shoulder, damp enough to soak through his jacket.
The space ahead was larger. Much larger. An old mining chamber, maybe, or a natural cavity they'd expanded. The ceiling was at least twenty feet high, disappearing into shadow despite the work lights. The walls curved away into darkness, the stone here darker than in the tunnel, almost black. Iron ore, probably. The reason they'd dug here in the first place.
But it wasn't the space that mattered.
It was what was in it.
Crates. Stacked along the far wall. Military green, stenciled with numbers and codes. At least a dozen of them, maybe more. Each one four feet long, two feet wide. Heavy, from the way they were stacked. The kind of crates that held serious equipment.
A workbench was covered with tools laid out in organized rows. Wrenches. Screwdrivers. Wire cutters. A soldering iron. Radio equipment on another table.
A coffee maker sat on a smaller table, its pot half-full, the heating element keeping it warm. Styrofoam cups. A box of MREs. This wasn't a temporary setup Joe realized, people lived here.
Ahead, Joe was about to follow a slight bend in the tunnel when he caught a glimpse of movement. He ducked back, and then carefully peered around the corner.
Four men were visible. There could be more out of sight, deeper in the mine where the chamber narrowed into another tunnel.
Two were beyond the workbench, talking. One was gesturing with his hands, explaining something technical. The other was nodding, arms crossed. Both wore tactical pants and fleece jackets. Both had rifles slung over their shoulders.
One was walking toward the far side of the chamber, where another tunnel opening led deeper into the mine. He was carrying a clipboard, reading something as he walked. Older. Forties, maybe. Gray in his beard. The other man was drinking coffee.
They were armed but not on alert. They were relaxed. Comfortable. The way people get when they've been in the same place too long, doing the same routine.
They didn't know the guards up above were dead, and that Mave was, too.
They didn't know he was here.
Joe moved around the opening, found a position behind a support timber where he could brace the rifle. The timber was solid old growth, at least a foot thick.
