Chapter 18
Joe stood at the register while the waitress rang up the check.
Two burgers, two coffees, one slice of pie. She worked the old mechanical register with practiced efficiency, the keys clacking under her fingers.
"Eighteen forty," she said.
Joe pulled a twenty and a five from his wallet. "Keep it."
She nodded once. Joe pocketed the receipt and turned toward the door. Simmons was already standing, moving stiffly, one hand pressed lightly against his ribs.
They were almost to the exit when Joe stopped. “Take a look,” he said.
He gestured toward the wall. The same collection of photographs he'd glanced at when they first walked in—faded images of logging crews, mining operations, winter scenes with snow piled higher than the buildings.
Local history.
The kind of thing you see in every small-town diner and don't really register.
One of the photos was larger than the others, mounted in a simple black frame. A logging camp from the 1920s or '30s. Rough wooden buildings. Stacks of timber. Men in wool coats standing in front of a massive saw blade.
Along the bottom, someone had written in white ink, now faded to pale gray: Porcupine Mts. 1927.
When they'd walked in an hour ago, Joe had seen it. Registered it the way you register wallpaper or background noise. Just part of the scenery. But it had lodged somewhere in the back of his mind, sitting there quietly while he ate and made his phone call and worked through the case with Simmons.
And then it had all clicked into place.
"What?" Simmons asked. “Logging camp. So?”
"Porcupine Mountains," Joe said.
Simmons squinted at the faded writing. "Okay. What about them?"
Joe didn't answer. He just looked at the photo for another few seconds and then
he turned and walked out.
The truck's engine turned over with a low rumble. Joe let it idle for a moment, warming up, while Simmons buckled in carefully, favoring his left side.
The snow was falling harder now. Light flakes drifting through the headlights, swirling across the empty parking lot.
Joe pulled onto the road. The tires crunched over fresh powder. The heater kicked in, blowing cold air that would eventually turn warm.
They drove in silence. The road stretched ahead, dark and empty. Trees pressed close on both sides, their branches heavy with snow.
Finally, Simmons spoke. "You going to tell me what that was about?"
Joe kept his eyes on the road. The windshield wipers swept back and forth, clearing snow. "I saw that photo when we walked in. Didn't think anything of it. Just another old picture on a diner wall."
Simmons waited.
"But it stuck," Joe said. "Somewhere in the back of my head. And after I talked to Sorenson—after I said Kinsman's name and started thinking about tracking him down—it connected."
He paused. Checked the rearview mirror. Nothing but darkness and falling snow.
"Panama," Joe said. "Years ago. We were running ops down there before Just Cause went official. Kinsman was with me."
Simmons shifted in his seat, listening.
"We were in the jungle. Eastern side of the country, near the Colombian border. Bad area. Cartel territory. We were tracking a weapons shipment—Soviet hardware moving through Panama into Central America."
Joe's hands were steady on the wheel, but his mind was back in the heat and the green darkness of the jungle.
"We had a local guide who had turned informant. He was supposed to get us close to the staging area so we could observe and extract."
The truck's headlights cut through the falling snow.
"The bastard sold us out," Joe said. "Led us straight into an ambush. Ten, maybe twelve hostiles. AKs, RPGs, the works. They had us pinned in a ravine. No cover. No way out."
Simmons was quiet.
"Kinsman was twenty yards to my left," Joe continued. "I was trying to figure out how we were going to survive the next sixty seconds. Then Kinsman moved to higher ground. Found a position behind some rocks. And he started shooting."
The memory was vivid.
"Ten men," Joe said. "Maybe twelve. I lost count. But Kinsman dropped every single one of them. Headshots. All of them. Moving targets. Bad angles. Jungle cover. Didn't matter. One shot, one kill. Over and over."
The windshield wipers kept their rhythm.
"When it was done, we extracted. Got back to base. I asked him where the hell he learned to shoot like that."
Joe could still remember Kinsman's answer. The way he'd said it. Casual. Matter of fact.
"He said when he was a kid, his grandpa had an old camp up in the mountains. Logging and mining operation. They'd go up there every summer, every hunting season. His grandpa taught him to shoot."
"At the time, I thought he meant out west," Joe said. "That's what I assumed. Most guys who talk about mountains and hunting camps are from Colorado, Wyoming, Montana."
Joe took a corner and he felt the truck slip slightly, before straightening it out.
"But the task force briefing said Kinsman grew up in Michigan. Which means when he said, 'the mountains,' he wasn't talking about the Rockies."
"He was talking about the Porcupines," Simmons finished.
"Maybe."
They drove in silence for another minute. The hotel was getting closer. Joe could see the glow of its sign through the trees ahead.
"It's a long shot," Simmons said.
"It is."
"Could be nothing. Could be he was talking about somewhere else entirely."
"That’s a definite possibility."
Joe pulled into the hotel parking lot. Put the truck in park. Left the engine running.
Simmons looked at him. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking I need to go up there," Joe said.
"To the Porcupine Mountains."
"Yeah."
Simmons was quiet for a moment. Then: "That's six hours away. At least."
"I know."
"And you want to go alone."
"I do."
Simmons started to protest, but Joe cut him off.
"You're injured," Joe said. "Cracked ribs, maybe broken. Concussion, probably mild but still there. You need rest. And you need to be here in case Winthrow calls with new orders."
"Joe—"
"There's an enemy presence here," Joe continued. "The CI was murdered. You got jumped. But I don't think it's leadership. I think it's local militia. Low-level guys. Sympathizers. They're watching us, but they're not the ones running the operation."
He looked at Simmons directly.
"The real players are somewhere else. And I think Kinsman might be in those mountains. He’s the reason I was brought in."
Simmons held his gaze. His face was bruised and swollen.
"How long?" he asked.
"Forty-eight hours. Maybe less. I drive up, search the likely areas for an old logging camp or mine and then drive back. If I find something, I call it in. If I don't, we regroup and try something else."
Simmons thought about it. Joe could see him weighing the options.
Finally, Simmons nodded. "All right. But you need to check in every twelve hours. If Winthrow finds out we split up, she could make our lives miserable. Or should I say, more miserable."
Simmons opened the door. Winced as he stepped out and he stood there for a moment in the falling snow, looking at Joe through the window. Then he turned and walked toward the hotel entrance.
Joe watched him go. Made sure he got inside safely.
Then he put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the road.
The Porcupine Mountains were six hours north. Maybe more in this weather. The snow was getting heavier, the roads getting worse.
But Joe had driven in worse. And he'd tracked men through worse terrain.
He turned onto the highway. Pointed the truck north. And drove into the darkness.
Joe pressed the accelerator. The truck picked up speed.
He had forty-eight hours.
He intended to use every one of them.