“You’re mine, McBride.” He steadied his weapon and saw the top half of a handgun atop a fallen tree. As if looking at a gift from heaven, Leonard watched in abject fascination as his enemy revealed himself. Slowly rising from behind the fallen trunk, the hood of a ghillie materialized like a ghost emerging from a grave. He caught the glint of a pair of field glasses inside the dark recess of the hood.

He added a click of elevation, took in a lungful of air, and blew half of it out. Placing the crosshairs directly between the lenses of the field glasses, Leonard smiled and pulled the trigger.

* * *

The supersonic crack announced the bullet’s arrival. Nathan figured he had a good chance of actually seeing the muzzle flash. He’d been betting on Leonard being in the location he called Bench, but that was clearly wrong. He’d been watching the long slab of limestone nearly continuously. Nothing. No movement at all. No muzzle flash. If Leonard had been on that formation of flat rock, he would’ve seen the muzzle flash. He swung his rifle east toward the rock spire and looked at his second pick. Ledges.

Got you.

Near the left edge of the sandy bowl, half-concealed by a small patch of brush, he saw Leonard working the bolt of his rifle, chambering another round. Only his head and shoulders could be seen. Nathan took one click off the elevation knob and steadied his rifle.

* * *

Sudden realization hit Leonard. Hit him hard. If McBride had been a Marine scout sniper, there was no way in hell he’d be sloppy enough to reveal his position by bumping against a bush, firing handgun shots, and letting his field glasses show.

He chambered another round and scanned left and right for the real Nathan McBride.

Assuming McBride had fired the handgun at arm’s length, he searched both sides of the fallen trunk but saw nothing until a very slow movement caught his eye on the left edge of his scope, farther and higher than he had imagined McBride could be.

He centered the crosshairs on the movement and felt a chill rake his body.

Impossible!

Well-concealed near the top of an enormous root ball, Nathan McBride was lined up on him.

Perfectly.

The movement he’d seen was McBride’s left hand, waving good-bye.

In slow motion, he saw McBride’s rifle wink.

Half a second after the muzzle flash burned his retina, he sensed an impact on his forehead.

* * *