Unaccounted for.
Not destroyed. Not secured.
Missing.
And Kinsman had found them.
Joe closed the case and turned when he heard a sound behind him.
Boots on rock.
Slow. Uneven.
Joe turned, the rifle coming up.
Kinsman stood at the far end of the chamber, half in shadow, half in the dim glow of Joe's flashlight.
He looked like a man who'd been dragged through a war.
His left arm hung useless at his side, the shoulder dislocated or broken, the sleeve of his jacket torn and soaked with blood. His right leg was worse—his pants were shredded below the knee, the fabric dark and wet, and when he shifted his weight, Joe saw the white gleam of bone through the torn flesh.
Blood ran from a gash across his forehead, sheeting down the side of his face, dripping from his jaw. His tactical vest was scorched and torn, one of the plate carriers cracked straight through. A shaft of metal was buried in his stomach, protruding as if someone had tried to pin him to the wall.
His entire lower body was covered in blood.
Too much blood.
Kinsman’s face was gray, the skin drawn tight, his lips pale.
But his eyes were clear.
Kinsman was six-two, broad through the shoulders, built like a man who'd spent his life carrying heavy things over long distances. His hair was dark, cut short, going gray at the temples. His face was hard and a scar ran from his left eyebrow to his hairline, old and faded.
Joe felt something twist in his chest. Something old and complicated. Loyalty and betrayal, gratitude and rage, all of it tangled together in a knot he couldn't untie.
"You always did make a mess," Kinsman said.
His voice was rough, strained, but steady. The voice of a man who'd been hurt worse than this and kept talking.
Joe didn't lower the rifle.
"Why?" Joe asked.
Kinsman smiled. It was thin and humorless, more grimace than grin.
"You think this happened all at once?" Kinsman said. "You think I woke up one day and decided to burn it all down?"
"I think you decided killing innocent people was acceptable," Joe said.
Kinsman shook his head slowly, the movement careful, like it hurt.
"They decided for me," he said. "I always followed their rules. Did the right thing. One day, I realized they weren’t following their own rules. They had none. All my life had been a waste."
The mine groaned.
Dust sifted down from the ceiling, a thin stream that caught the light and disappeared into shadow.
“You could have retired. Volunteered at a homeless shelter. That seems like a better idea than blowing up half the country with nuclear bombs,” Joe said.
