The downed branch where the spotter was crouched was thick, nearly two feet in diameter. Its structure fanned out to the spotter’s left while the meaty part of its splintered end faced Nathan. He judged the distance between them again: twenty-five yards, give or take. The spotter was down on one knee, sweeping the area in a back-and-forth motion with his upper body, gun at the ready. Every fourth or fifth sweep, he’d keep the arc of his motion going and look behind him. Nathan studied him for about thirty seconds and formulated a plan. Precious seconds were passing and he didn’t have the luxury of conducting a prolonged surveillance. And he sure as hell didn’t want to get sprayed with MP5 fire, so it was all about timing. He needed to make his presence known at the exact moment the man was lined up on his position. If he timed his move too early or too late, it would be interpreted as unintentional. The most likely result would be a horizontal maelstrom of copper and lead traveling at 800 miles an hour. Not a pretty picture, especially if you’re on the business end of those slugs.

Here goes.

Nathan timed it perfectly. When the man swung toward his position, he leaned out from behind the tree and said, “Don’t shoot.” He said it loudly and forcefully, somewhere between a command and a request. A tense movement of shock and surprise raked the spotter’s body with a predictable result.

He ducked behind the ponderosa a split second before the MP5 erupted. With his back to the trunk, he felt a continuous vibration as dozens of  bullets slammed home. Pulverized chunks of bark shot out from either side of the tree as if sprayed with a fire hose. When the gunfire stopped, he knew he had two or three seconds while the shooter ejected the spent magazine, slammed another home, and cycled the bolt.

“Hold your fire. I’m on your side.”

“Bullshit.” The unmistakable voice of a woman. He knew she’d already communicated with the rest of her team and he figured he had less than thirty seconds to get control of the situation before being surrounded by angry FBI SWAT agents who were—as Harv suggested—going to shoot first and ask questions later. What he said next was perfect for the situation he faced.

“My name is Nathan McBride,” he shouted. “I’m not one of the bad guys. I fired that warning shot before the claymores went off.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You’ve got a pair of field glasses?”

No response.