They took off their bulky ghillie suits and started down the mountain. Two minutes later, they reached the bottom of the incline. Not wanting to appear threatening in case they were spotted, Nathan had slung his rifle over his shoulder. There wasn’t much he could do about his Sig Sauer secured in his waist holster, because he wasn’t willing to approach an FBI SWAT team who had just been trashed by several dozen antipersonnel mines without being armed. Without a doubt, they were thoroughly pissed off.

Harv took out his scope and scanned the area ahead. “I’ve got a spotter at one o’clock, two hundred yards. Are you sure about this? Those guys are high-strung. They’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Wait here.” Nathan handed Harv the rifle and shucked off his backpack. “I’ll make the approach. Just don’t let anyone shoot me.”

“I’ve got your six.”

Nathan worked his way through the trees, covering the 200 yards in just under a minute. Twenty-five yards from the SWAT spotter, he ducked behind the thick trunk of a ponderosa and looked back toward Harv. He had to lean several feet to his left to get a clear view. Harv gave him the okay sign. Now came the really tricky part. He was pretty sure how he’d handle it. The SWAT spotter had positioned himself behind a fallen tree branch, which gave him solid chest-high cover from the front and broken cover to his right. This was a small man, he could see that right away. An old adage flashed through his head. How did it go? God made men different sizes, but Sam Colt made them all equal, something like that. Well, this guy was a little more equal. Nathan’s pistol was no match for a fully automatic MP5 in the right hands, and he figured this guy knew how to handle one. Hell, the guy was a damned expert with the thing, of course he knew how to handle it.