Chapter 35 #2
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.
Kinsman leaned slightly against one of the steel support beams, his good hand resting on it as if for balance.
The beam was part of the reinforced section, one of the main supports holding up this part of the chamber.
It was thick and industrial, bolted into the rock and the concrete footer with hardware that looked like it could hold up a bridge.
But Joe saw something else.
The base of the beam wasn't solid. There was a gap, a deliberate space where the concrete had been poured around a mechanical assembly. A release mechanism. Hydraulic, maybe, or pneumatic. The kind of thing you'd install if you wanted to be able to drop a support on command.
Kinsman’s hand was resting on the lever and he saw Joe looking.
"Step away from that," Joe said.
Kinsman's smile widened, just a fraction.
"They were never going to stop," Kinsman said. "You know that. The system doesn't work. The people in charge don't care if we live or die."
"So you kill thousands of innocent people to make a point?”
"I kill thousands to save millions," Kinsman said. "I force a reset. I make them start over. Build something real this time. Something that can't be bought. Can't be corrupted."
"You're insane."
"I'm a realist."
Joe's finger tightened on the trigger.
"Last chance," Joe said. "Step away."
Kinsman looked at him for a long moment. Something passed across his face. Not regret. Not quite. Something different. Something that might have been respect.
"You were always the best of us, Joe," Kinsman said quietly.
He kicked the lever.
The release mechanism snapped open with a metallic clang that echoed through the chamber.
The support beam dropped six inches, the hydraulic cylinder hissing as it vented pressure.
The mine answered immediately.
A deep, grinding crack rolled through the rock, the sound of stone giving up, of weight finding a new path. The ceiling above the beam sagged, a visible depression forming, dust pouring down in streams.
Kinsman laughed once, the sound sharp and bitter.
Joe shot him.
The first round took him in the center of the forehead, snapping his head back.
The second round hit half an inch to the right, the double-tap automatic, drilled into muscle memory years ago.
Kinsman's body dropped, the smile erased, the laugh cut off mid-breath.
The ceiling kept moving.
A section of rock the size of a car broke free and crashed down where Kinsman had been standing, the impact shaking the floor, sending a shockwave of dust and debris rolling outward.
Joe didn't look back.
He grabbed the case and ran.
The tunnel behind him was already collapsing, the partial blockage from the first blast now giving way completely as the support structure failed. Rock poured down in a cascade, filling the space, the sound like continuous thunder.
Joe ran low, the case clutched against his chest, the rifle slung across his back.
A beam snapped overhead and swung down, missing his head by inches. He ducked under it and kept moving, his boots slipping on loose rock, his injured ribs screaming with every step.
The tunnel narrowed and he heard timber give way.
The slope was upward now, toward the entrance, toward the outside. His legs burned and his lungs were on fire. Every breath was dust and smoke.
Light ahead.
Faint. Gray. The color of pre-dawn sky.
The entrance.
Joe sprinted, the case banging against his leg, his vision narrowing to that pale rectangle of light.
The entrance collapsed behind him as he hit the snow, the mouth of the mine folding shut with a roar that shook the ground, a blast of air and dust exploding outward, washing over him, covering him in a layer of gray powder.
Then silence.
Joe lay face-down in the snow, chest heaving, the case still clutched in his hand.
He didn't move for a long moment.
When he finally pushed himself up to his knees, he turned and looked back.
The mine entrance was gone. Buried. Sealed. A pile of broken rock and twisted metal where the opening had been, steam rising from the rubble as the cold air met the heat from below.
Behind him, the mountain had closed its mouth.
Joe stood slowly, his legs shaking, his body one continuous ache.
He looked down at the case in his hand.
Operation Cold Target.
Five devices.
Five targets.
He turned and started running as best he could toward the truck, his boots crunching through the snow, the sky above him beginning to lighten with the first gray promise of dawn.