Page 53 of Cold Target

The bartender nodded at whatever was being said on the other end, then hung up the phone and went back to wiping down the bar.

Outside, the snow kept falling, covering everything, erasing tracks, turning the world white and silent.

23

Joe drove north on a narrow highway with trees tight to both shoulders.

Snow flurried against the windshield, thin and dry, not sticking yet. The road shone under the headlights like black ice, even where it wasn't.

The heater rattled but barely worked. His breath fogged in the cab. His hands ached from gripping the wheel too tight for too long. He'd been driving for hours, stopping only for gas and bad coffee, pushing through the fatigue that made his eyes burn and his thoughts drift.

The forest pressed in from both sides, dense and lightless. No signs of human life except the road itself, a thin ribbon of snow and icy asphalt cutting through wilderness that didn't care whether he made it through or not.

The cold seeped in through the door seals. The windshield wipers scraped across glass with a rhythmic squeak that had become almost hypnotic.

The memory came back without warning.

They'd been operating out of a joint facility—one of those temporary arrangements where uniforms didn't match andnobody was quite sure who outranked whom. Concrete floors. One bulb hanging from exposed wire.

A woman was seated on a chair in the center of the room, wrists tied behind her back with zip cuffs, ankles bound. Local asset. Or suspect. Or both.

She was young. Maybe twenty-five. Dark hair, wild and messy. Her shirt was torn at the shoulder. There was a bruise forming on her cheekbone, purple spreading into yellow at the edges.

Her eyes were wide. Not crying. Just staring at nothing, breathing shallow and fast through her nose.

Joe had been just outside the doorway when he heard a commotion.

He stepped in far enough to see the man in mismatched fatigues standing too close to the woman. The man was from a different unit and a different command. The guy's hands were already at his belt, thumbs hooked, pushing his pants down like he'd done this before and expected no consequences.

He was smiling. Like he was about to enjoy a meal he'd been thinking about all day.

"Nobody's coming," the man said to her. "You understand that, right? Nobody gives a shit what happens to you in here."

The woman tried to shrink in on herself but couldn't. The chair was bolted to the floor.

She made a sound. A small, broken noise that came from somewhere deep in her chest.

The man reached down and adjusted himself through his underwear. Took a step closer. His boots scraped on concrete.

"You're gonna enjoy this," he said. "I know I will."

Joe was about to intervene when Kinsman went past him.

"No," Kinsman said.

Not loud. Not angry.

Just a word. Flat and final.

The man turned, half-smiling, half-annoyed. His pants were halfway down his thighs. His hands were still at his waist.

"Wait your turn, asshole," he said.

Kinsman didn't answer.

The man's smile faded. "She’s not your fucking problem."

“She is now,” Kinsman replied as the man hitched up his pants.