As though a camera flash had gone off, the area flared bright green in the NV scope. A second later, the thump of Ernie’s handgun report reached him. Nathan knew sound traveled at close to one thousand feet per second, which meant Ernie was roughly three hundred yards away. He tried to spot Harv or Grangeland, but couldn’t see them.

Directly in front of him, a long strip of brush would make a perfect ambush location. It dawned on him like a slap in the face. He hadn’t removed the keys from his SUV or Grangeland’s Crown Vic. If Ernie circled back… He silently cursed himself for being so careless and scanned the plowed field between his position and the parked vehicles. No sign of Ernie. If Nathan positioned himself down in the wash, he wouldn’t be able to see the vehicles. He gambled that Harv had Bridgestone in sight. If Ernie made a beeline for their SUV, Harv would intercept him. He slid down the sandy bank, limped in a crouch over to the strip of brush, and shouldered Ernie’s rifle.

“Got you,” he whispered. Bridgestone was running along the eastern bank of the wash, ducking for cover every so often and pointing his gun back at his pursuers. Nathan spotted Harv and Grangeland about fifty yards behind, advancing in leapfrog movements. It looked like they were trying to flank him. He had to let Harv know he was here. He stepped out from the cover of the brush and waved Ernie’s gun back and forth like a flag. He kept repeating the gesture for ten seconds. When he shouldered the weapon and peered through the scope, he saw Harv waving in recognition. Nathan returned the wave and pointed to the place where he planned to ambush Bridgestone. Harv gave him an “okay” hand signal. He watched Harv turn his head toward Grangeland’s position and she closed the distance. They huddled in a crouch for a few seconds before Grangeland sprinted to the western side of the wash and began working her way forward through the underbrush. Two more flashes lit the landscape. Grangeland dived for cover, but Hary didn’t move. The man’s got nerves of steel, Nathan thought. Although Ernie was firing blindly, he could still score a lucky hit.

In a two-story farmhouse, five hundred yards to the west, the porch lights snapped on. The locals were responding to the gunfire. It was only a mater of time before sheriff deputies or the FBI SWAT team from Pete’s Truck Palace arrived. The situation could get sticky. Friendly fire would become a serious problem. As if sensing Nathan’s thoughts, Harv let loose with three quick shots. Through the NV scope, he watched Bridgestone duck for cover, then begin a full sprint toward Nathan’s position. Harv fired again.

Attaboy, Harv, drive him home.