soon enough, the asshole on the other end of the radio won’t be worried about it, either.
* * *
—
Nothing had changed. In fact, things had gotten worse.
The temperature had continued to fall, the trail had gotten steeper, and the last three hundred feet was just as Cory had promised—a steep, hand-over-hand climb over tall, jagged granite stones.
But his singular mission had focused all of Jack’s depleted energy, driving his blister-bitten steps one after the other up the steepening incline like a shot of pure adrenaline. All that mattered now was stopping whatever the hell was going on up top and seeking vengeance for the young girl murdered down below. He knew the killing couldn’t change the past, but it might change the future for somebody up there—if he succeeded.
If not, his death was a penance.
Either way was fine by him.
The light rain that began thirty minutes ago turned to ice crystals that whispered against his jacket. He counted at least a dozen different voices on the radio, probably all contract killers like the one already dead on the trail below. He killed the radio. No point in making any more noise than he had to.
It was dark now, the crescent moon well hidden behind a bank of heavy clouds, but enough to see a few feet ahead of him. He was a hundred feet below the tabletop summit. Diesel motors rumbled above, no doubt the source of incandescent light glowing above the rocks. Convenient for Jack. The first sentry he spotted was silhouetted by the generator light that didn’t reach down to him.
The sentry smoked a cigarette listlessly. Jack climbed higher, carefully navigating the slippery granite beneath his frozen hands, trying not to kick anything loose beneath him and give himself away. He worked his way up and around a hundred feet to the left, out of the man’s line of sight. Jack peeked up cautiously between the rocks.
His heart sank.
The tabletop summit was a temporary mining operation. Or, more accurately, a revitalized one. New equipment was scattered among old facilities—rusted tin roofs, weathered lumber. The whole area was about two football fields long and three wide.
On one end of the summit was a wooden structure over a shaft of some sort, Jack presumed. Dozens of miners milled about, carrying heavy sacks lifted up from the shaft or pushing rock-laden wheelbarrows over to sorting and washing tables. Two guards with rifles stood in the mouth of a nearby cave, sheltered from the freezing rain beginning to fall, cursing and cajoling.
On the other side of the camp stood a half-dozen temporary prefab buildings. Housing facilities for the guards, Jack guessed. One building was brightly lit. A belching stovepipe on the roof told him it was probably the mess hall. A huge steel propane tank behind the building confirmed it. A giant lean-to, little more than a corrugated tin roof on poles, might have been for equipment storage, or shelter for people treated worse than cattle.
Careful to avoid detection, Jack caught sight of oxygen and acetylene tanks for welding, assorted tools, and plastic storage tanks for water and fuel. Even a mini–Bobcat excavator. Everything he saw could have been hauled up here by the big Russian chopper he saw yesterday.
A woman screamed. Jack’s head swiveled. A laughing guard was dragging a young girl by the hair into one of the shacks. Another guard whistled and egged him on, shouting in Ukrainian.
Jack’s body tensed. He wanted to charge forward now. But even his rage couldn’t override his training. He needed to finish counting targets, then formulate his plan.
And then it would be time.
79
The light, frozen rain had warmed to a liquid downpour. A biting wind swept the plateau.
Forty-two miners huddled in threadbare rags, shivering together around a cookpot simmering over a jerry-rigged gas burner beneath the giant lean-to. A lone guard hovered near them. An Indian woman ladled the pot’s contents into tin bowls as miners shuffled past her, sitting down exhausted on the cold, hard ground to eat.
Jack crouched beneath the rim in the drenching rain, hidden behind the rocks. He had a plan. All he needed was the opportunity.
Suddenly, he heard it.
A dinner bell clanged on the steps of the mess hall trailer. Eight armed men ambled in that direction.
So far, Jack had counted twenty men guarding the compound. He didn’t stand a chance.
But he didn’t have a choice.
Time to roll.
* * *
—
Fried steaks sizzled on the grill, filling the trailer with the sweet smell of burnt fat and cigarettes.