Chapter 31
Time stretched. Minutes became an hour. Then longer.
The cold worked its way deeper, through the layers of clothing, through the insulation, into muscle and joint.
Mave flexed her fingers inside her gloves, keeping the blood moving. She'd learned that in the mountains. You couldn't let the cold win. The moment you stopped fighting it, it owned you.
She scanned the compound. Still nothing.
Reacher was taking his time. She respected that. He would die, that was for certain, but he wouldn’t make any dumb mistakes.
Mave waited and realized the guard should have made another round by now.
She waited. Watched the bunkhouse door.
Nothing.
Five more minutes passed.
Still nothing.
She considered it. The guard was overdue. An hour and twenty minutes since the last circuit.
But it was cold. Brutal cold. The kind that made you stupid, made you cut corners. And maybe the men figured no one was coming. Not tonight. Not in this weather.
Maybe they'd decided to stay inside where it was warm, where the coffee was hot, where they could pretend they were somewhere else.
Mave didn't blame them.
She would have done the same if she wasn't the one who had to be out here.
She settled back into position. Checked her sight picture again. The approach to the sawmill was clear in her scope. Forty yards of open ground. No cover. No concealment.
Reacher would have to cross it.
And when he did, she'd drill him center mass. Drop him before he knew what hit him.
The way she'd dropped Simmons.
She exhaled slowly, watching her breath dissipate.
Any minute now.
"Take your hands off the rifle, slowly."
The voice came from behind her.
Mave's heart kicked once, hard, but her hands didn't move. Training overrode panic. You didn't grab for a weapon when someone already had the drop on you.
You didn't make sudden moves.
You stayed calm and you looked for the opening.
She lifted her hands away from the rifle. Slowly. Palms visible.
"Turn around, slowly," the voice said.
She knew the voice.
Mave turned, keeping her movements careful and controlled. Her right side rotated away from him as she came around.
Joe Reacher stood three feet away, a rifle leveled at her chest.
His eyes narrowed. "Mave?"
"Reacher," she said.
He studied her. His face was harder than she remembered. Older. There was blood on his jacket, dark stains she could see even in the dim light. He was hurt, maybe, but steady.
"You and Kinsman," Joe said finally. "Why?"
"He saved my life."
"He saved mine, too," Joe said.
"You left me to die," Mave said. "He didn't."
"You got it wrong," Joe replied.
"No, I don't think so." Her right hand moved fractionally, sliding toward the opening of her coat. Her body was angled. He couldn't see what she was doing and didn’t know about the pistol in her waistband. "Kinsman told me what you did."
A brief look of confusion crossed Reacher’s face, and then, understanding. "He didn't tell you the truth," Joe said.
"You expect me to—"
"Don't do it, Mave."
Her hand closed on the grip of the pistol. She drew fast, smooth, the way she'd practiced ten thousand times.
Two shots cracked the night.
Mave's head snapped back. She dropped without a sound, her body folding onto the frozen ground between the granite outcroppings.
Joe stood over her for a moment, the rifle still raised.
Then he lowered it.
He bent down, picked up her sniper rifle, checked the chamber. Loaded. Quality optic. Good weapon.
He slung it over his shoulder.
Joe looked at Mave one last time. He hadn’t known her well, back in the Army. The last time he’d seen her was the firefight in the jungle.
Apparently, she had survived and Kinsman had found her and conned her into believing in him.
Joe turned and walked back into the darkness.