Page 72 of Cold Target

She'd watched him disappear into the tree line, moving low and fast, using the terrain.

And then he was gone.

That had been two hours ago.

She knew he was out there. Watching. Planning. Doing exactly what she'd expected him to do.

The sniper nest was bait, positioned in the most obvious spot in the compound with the highest point and the best sightlines. It was the place any trained operator would immediately identify as the primary threat.

Reacher would see it. He'd scout the perimeter, identify the weak points in the fence, probably near the collapsed barn where the chain-link sagged and the sightlines from the sawmill were partially blocked.

He'd wait for the roving guard to complete his circuit. Then he'd slip through, move low and fast toward the sawmill, and try to neutralize the sniper before pushing toward the mine.

It's what she would do.

It's what they'd been trained to do.

Identify the threat. Eliminate it. Move to the objective.

Joe thought like a soldier because he was a soldier. He'd approach this the way they'd taught him at Benning, the way they'd drilled into him in Ranger School, the way he'd executed a hundred times in the field.

And that's why she'd have him.

Her position gave her a clear view of the approach to the sawmill. When Joe moved, he would have to cross open ground. Maybe twenty yards of exposure between the fence and the base of the sawmill.

He'd move fast, staying low, using what cover he could.

But there was no cover from her angle.

She'd have a clean shot. Two hundred yards, maybe less depending on his route. Slight downward angle, accounted for in her scope's adjustment. She'd put the crosshairs on his center mass and squeeze.

One shot.

The same way she'd dropped Simmons.

Joe would be the same. And he deserved it, especially considering how he’d abandoned her during the firefight. Kinsman had told her the truth. That it was Reacher who left her to die.

Reacher had pulled out. She'd heard it over the radio—frantic chatter, then silence. She'd dragged herself into cover, tourniquet on her leg, desperately plugging her other wounds, waiting for the second bird.

It came and carried her out through hostile territory, to an entirely different location. She almost died and was shuttled through multiple makeshift hospitals and then dumped unceremoniously and discharged.

It had nearly broken her.

Until Kinsman found her.

He had shown her what loyalty looked like. And when he'd reached out, when he'd told her what he was building, what he was planning, she'd said yes without hesitation.

Not because she believed in manifestos or militias or whatever rhetoric Kinsman used to recruit the others.

Because she believed in him.

And because Joe Reacher had left her bleeding in the dirt.

Mave shifted slightly, easing the pressure on her left leg. The ache flared and subsided. She scanned the tree line through her scope, moving slowly from left to right, looking for movement, for shapes that didn't belong, for the telltale signs of someone trying to stay hidden.

Nothing yet.

But he was there.