Chapter 29
Mave Condor had been in position for four hours.
She lay in a natural depression between two massive granite outcroppings, about thirty feet up the hillside, screened by the skeletal remains of a fallen birch tree.
The rocks formed a shallow V that broke the wind and hid her silhouette.
Snow, dead leaves and pine needles covered the ground beneath her.
She'd added more when she'd first settled in, building a hide that looked like nothing but forest debris.
The cold had stopped bothering her around hour two.
Now it was just background. Like the ache in her left leg. The one that had been torn open in Central America, along with parts of her body, throbbed in weather like this.
She'd learned to compartmentalize it.
Her rifle rested on a compact bipod, the barrel extending just past the edge of the fallen tree. A Remington 700 in .308, suppressor attached, scope zeroed at two hundred yards. She'd checked it twice after setting up. The cold affected ballistics.
She wore a white parka over her tactical gear, the hood pulled up, a thin balaclava covering everything but her eyes. Her gloves were fingerless on the right hand. Her left hand stayed covered.
Beneath the parka, she had four layers. Enough to keep her core warm. Enough to stay functional.
Through the scope, she had a clear view of the compound below. The sawmill dominated the center, its corrugated metal roof reflecting faint starlight. The sniper nest visible up there, a dark shape against the lighter metal.
But it was empty.
A decoy.
The bunkhouses sat dark and quiet. The mine entrance was a giant black hole in the hillside beyond, that faint glow deep inside barely visible from her angle.
She'd been watching for movement in the trees.
She'd seen the truck earlier.
It had been just after midnight, after she’d just gotten into position, based on intel she’d received and the orders that followed.
Mave had been scanning the access road through her scope when the headlights appeared. A truck, moving slowly. It had stopped at the edge of the compound, maybe fifty yards from the fence.
The driver's door opened.
Mave adjusted her scope, bringing the figure into focus.
Joe Reacher.
She'd recognized him instantly. He'd stepped out of the truck and stood there for a moment, looking toward the compound.
Whether he was doing it on purpose, she didn’t know, but he kept the truck between himself and the compound.
Mave had no shot.
And then he was moving. And there were trees between them, thin cover but enough to complicate the shot. She didn't take a shot unless it was clean. Wounding wasn't good enough.
She'd watched him disappear into the tree line, moving low and fast, using the terrain.
And then he was gone.
That had been two hours ago.
She knew he was out there. Watching. Planning. Doing exactly what she'd expected him to do.
The sniper nest was bait, positioned in the most obvious spot in the compound with the highest point and the best sightlines. It was the place any trained operator would immediately identify as the primary threat.
Reacher would see it. He'd scout the perimeter, identify the weak points in the fence, probably near the collapsed barn where the chain-link sagged and the sightlines from the sawmill were partially blocked.
He'd wait for the roving guard to complete his circuit. Then he'd slip through, move low and fast toward the sawmill, and try to neutralize the sniper before pushing toward the mine.
It's what she would do.
It's what they'd been trained to do.
Identify the threat. Eliminate it. Move to the objective.
Joe thought like a soldier because he was a soldier. He'd approach this the way they'd taught him at Benning, the way they'd drilled into him in Ranger School, the way he'd executed a hundred times in the field.
And that's why she'd have him.
Her position gave her a clear view of the approach to the sawmill. When Joe moved, he would have to cross open ground. Maybe twenty yards of exposure between the fence and the base of the sawmill.
He'd move fast, staying low, using what cover he could.
But there was no cover from her angle.
She'd have a clean shot. Two hundred yards, maybe less depending on his route. Slight downward angle, accounted for in her scope's adjustment. She'd put the crosshairs on his center mass and squeeze.
One shot.
The same way she'd dropped Simmons.
Joe would be the same. And he deserved it, especially considering how he’d abandoned her during the firefight. Kinsman had told her the truth. That it was Reacher who left her to die.
Reacher had pulled out. She'd heard it over the radio—frantic chatter, then silence. She'd dragged herself into cover, tourniquet on her leg, desperately plugging her other wounds, waiting for the second bird.
It came and carried her out through hostile territory, to an entirely different location. She almost died and was shuttled through multiple makeshift hospitals and then dumped unceremoniously and discharged.
It had nearly broken her.
Until Kinsman found her.
He had shown her what loyalty looked like. And when he'd reached out, when he'd told her what he was building, what he was planning, she'd said yes without hesitation.
Not because she believed in manifestos or militias or whatever rhetoric Kinsman used to recruit the others.
Because she believed in him.
And because Joe Reacher had left her bleeding in the dirt.
Mave shifted slightly, easing the pressure on her left leg. The ache flared and subsided. She scanned the tree line through her scope, moving slowly from left to right, looking for movement, for shapes that didn't belong, for the telltale signs of someone trying to stay hidden.
Nothing yet.
But he was there.
The roving guard completed another circuit and disappeared into the bunkhouse for a few minutes of warmth.
The compound sat quiet.
Mave relaxed her shoulders. Checked her sight picture. Let her breathing settle into the rhythm she'd need when the moment came.
Sooner or later, Reacher would move.
And then she would stop him.
Permanently.