Page 89 of Cold Target

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.