Chapter 30
Joe studied his approach.
The obvious route was toward the collapsed barn, then across a short section of open ground to reach the nearest building.
He knew he could make it. But leaving himself exposed was not a good plan.
There had to be another way, and eventually he found it.
Higher up the hillside, maybe forty yards to his left, he could make out the remains of an old logging chute. A long wooden trough, maybe three feet wide, that had once been used to slide cut timber down from the upper slopes.
Most of it had collapsed or rotted away, but sections remained. By now, it was mostly a skeletal framework of weathered planks and rusted metal brackets, overgrown with brush and half-buried in decades of leaf litter.
He traced its path with his eyes. It ran diagonally down the hillside, angling toward the compound from the north side. The end was hard to see in the darkness, but it looked like it terminated somewhere near the equipment sheds, well inside the fence line.
More importantly, the angle of approach would put buildings between him and the sawmill.
The chute was tight. Maybe two and a half feet across at most, partially collapsed in places, filled with debris. With his broken ribs, crawling through it would be agony.
But it would get him inside without crossing open ground, and while he was inside the chute, for all intents and purposes, he would be invisible.
Out of sight.
Joe waited until the roving guard disappeared into the bunkhouse, then moved.
He stayed low, using the rocks and trees for cover, working his way up and left along the hillside. The snow had stopped but the wind still cut through the trees, masking the sound of his movement.
The entrance to the chute was partially hidden by a fallen pine. He had to push through dead branches to reach it, moving slowly to avoid noise. Up close, the structure looked even worse. The planks were rotted, sections sagged and the inside looked like hell.
Joe crouched at the opening and looked in. Darkness. A tunnel of splintered wood and rusted metal disappearing down the slope. The smell of rot and dead animals drifted up from inside.
He got down on his belly and crawled in.
The space was tighter than it had looked. His shoulders barely fit. The wooden sides pressed in on both sides, rough and splintered. He had to keep his arms extended in front of him, pulling himself forward with his forearms and pushing with his toes.
Every movement sent fire through his left side. The broken ribs ground together, sharp and insistent. He clenched his jaw and kept moving.
The chute angled downward, steep enough that he had to brace himself to keep from sliding. Old debris littered the bottom—chunks of rotted wood, frozen leaves, something that might have been a dead animal once. His hands found ice, then splinters, then more ice. The cold bit through his gloves.
He moved six inches. Then another six. Then another.
The wind howled outside, shaking the framework.
He kept going.
The darkness was absolute. He couldn't see his hands in front of his face. He moved by feel, testing each section before committing his weight to it. Some of the planks were solid. Others felt soft, ready to give way. He distributed his weight carefully, moving like a snake, slow and deliberate.
Time stopped meaning anything. There was only the next six inches. The next pull forward. The next stab of pain in his ribs.
His head brushed something—a low beam or a collapsed section. He had to flatten himself completely, cheek pressed against the icy wood, and worm underneath it. Splinters caught in his jacket. His ribs screamed. He pushed through.
The chute made a slight bend. He followed it, blind, trusting the structure to hold.
Then he saw a lighter patch ahead. Not much. Just a slightly less absolute darkness. The exit.
Joe slowed his approach. The last thing he needed was to crawl out into a spotlight or directly in front of a guard.
He eased forward, inch by inch, until he could see out.
The chute ended abruptly behind a large equipment shed, up against the wall. There was a square opening which the logs must have been pushed through.
Joe listened. Wind. Nothing else.
He pulled himself out of the chute slowly, and into the building. He lay there for thirty seconds, controlling his breathing, letting his eyes adjust, listening for any sign he'd been spotted.
Nothing.
He rose to a crouch, his back against the shed wall.
The bunkhouse was next to the shed. Light showed in one window. He could hear voices inside. Two men, talking quietly. One laughed at something. The sound carried in the cold air.
Joe moved along the back of the equipment shed, staying in shadow. The bunkhouse was a wood frame, single story. One door on the side facing him. One window with light. Probably one or two more windows on the other sides.
Between the bunkhouse and the equipment shed was pure darkness. Perfect concealment.
He reached the bunkhouse wall and pressed himself against it beside the door.
The voices were clearer now. Two men, definitely. One was talking about a truck that needed a new battery. The other said something about the cold. Bored guards killing time.
Joe tested the door handle slowly. It turned. Unlocked.
Why would it be locked? They thought they were secure. They thought the perimeter was solid.
Besides, who in the hell was crazy enough to be out in this kind of weather, at this time of night?
Joe took one breath opened the door and went in fast.
The interior was exactly what he'd expected. One room. Two bunks against the far wall. A small table in the center with two chairs. A propane heater in the corner, glowing orange.
Gear was piled near the door. Packs, cold weather clothing and an axe.
Two men.
The one at the table was in his thirties, heavy build, wearing thermal underwear and an unbuttoned flannel shirt. He had a rifle disassembled on the table in front of him, cleaning supplies spread out. His sidearm was in a holster hanging on the back of his chair.
The one on the bunk was younger, maybe twenty-five, thin and wiry. He was lying on his side, reading a paperback. His rifle leaned against the wall beside the bunk, three feet away.
The axe leaned against the wall just inside the door. Firewood axe, single-bit head, hickory handle worn smooth from use. For splitting kindling for the stove.
Both men's heads snapped toward the door as Joe came through.
Joe's hand closed on the axe handle as he moved. The weight felt good. Familiar.
The one at the table reacted first. His hand started toward the holster on the chair, fingers reaching, eyes going wide.
Joe crossed the distance in two strides and swung.
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 the magazine 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.