Page 39 of Cold Target

"Porcupine Mountains," Joe said.

Simmons squinted at the faded writing. "Okay. What about them?"

Joe didn't answer. He just looked at the photo for another few seconds and then

he turned and walked out.

The truck's engine turned over with a low rumble. Joe let it idle for a moment, warming up, while Simmons buckled in carefully, favoring his left side.

The snow was falling harder now. Light flakes drifting through the headlights, swirling across the empty parking lot.

Joe pulled onto the road. The tires crunched over fresh powder. The heater kicked in, blowing cold air that would eventually turn warm.

They drove in silence. The road stretched ahead, dark and empty. Trees pressed close on both sides, their branches heavy with snow.

Finally, Simmons spoke. "You going to tell me what that was about?"

Joe kept his eyes on the road. The windshield wipers swept back and forth, clearing snow. "I saw that photo when we walked in. Didn't think anything of it. Just another old picture on a diner wall."

Simmons waited.

"But it stuck," Joe said. "Somewhere in the back of my head. And after I talked to Sorenson—after I said Kinsman's name and started thinking about tracking him down—it connected."

He paused. Checked the rearview mirror. Nothing but darkness and falling snow.

"Panama," Joe said. "Years ago. We were running ops down there before Just Cause went official. Kinsman was with me."

Simmons shifted in his seat, listening.

"We were in the jungle. Eastern side of the country, near the Colombian border. Bad area. Cartel territory. We were tracking a weapons shipment—Soviet hardware moving through Panama into Central America."

Joe's hands were steady on the wheel, but his mind was back in the heat and the green darkness of the jungle.

"We had a local guide who had turned informant. He was supposed to get us close to the staging area so we could observe and extract."

The truck's headlights cut through the falling snow.

"The bastard sold us out," Joe said. "Led us straight into an ambush. Ten, maybe twelve hostiles. AKs, RPGs, the works. They had us pinned in a ravine. No cover. No way out."

Simmons was quiet.

"Kinsman was twenty yards to my left," Joe continued. "I was trying to figure out how we were going to survive the next sixty seconds. Then Kinsman moved to higher ground. Found a position behind some rocks. And he started shooting."

The memory was vivid.

"Ten men," Joe said. "Maybe twelve. I lost count. But Kinsman dropped every single one of them. Headshots. All of them. Moving targets. Bad angles. Jungle cover. Didn't matter. One shot, one kill. Over and over."

The windshield wipers kept their rhythm.

"When it was done, we extracted. Got back to base. I asked him where the hell he learned to shoot like that."

Joe could still remember Kinsman's answer. The way he'd said it. Casual. Matter of fact.

"He said when he was a kid, his grandpa had an old camp up in the mountains. Logging and mining operation. They'd go up there every summer, every hunting season. His grandpa taught him to shoot."

"At the time, I thought he meant out west," Joe said. "That's what I assumed. Most guys who talk about mountains and hunting camps are from Colorado, Wyoming, Montana."

Joe took a corner and he felt the truck slip slightly, before straightening it out.