“I’ll stay on the thermal imager.”

He followed the rail fence, taking slow, deliberate steps, avoiding the thickest areas of dead leaves. With a little luck, he might hear an approaching dog crunch through the dry ground cover before it lunged for his throat. So far, he hadn’t seen any signs of canine activity. No worn trails or droppings. Through sporadic breaks in the landscaping, he caught glimpses of what looked to be a mansion. All of its second floor windows were dark. He couldn’t see the ground floor windows along the north side of the house, but the glow they produced revealed a large, open area, presumably a paved parking area surrounded by trees.

A hand signal brought Harv up to his position. They knelt. He nodded toward the body several yards away. “Good guy or bad guy?”

“Probably a good guy. Montez could be long gone.”

“I’m gonna check him.”

He approached slowly and crouched down. The image in his NV scope revealed a single bullet wound to the back of the head. He didn’t bother checking for a pulse. This man wasn’t Hispanic. He looked African-American and wore black SWAT-type clothing with tactical body armor.

“Dead body found,” he whispered. “Single shot to the back of the head. Never saw it coming. If there were any dogs, it’s a good bet they’re dead too. We—”

They both heard it.

Cars doors closing—up at the house.

Then an engine started. Someone was leaving.

The vehicle’s headlights snapped on, turning the surrounding area painfully bright through his NV scope.

“Harv, form up.”

Within seconds, Harv joined him at the dead man. “That could be Montez.”

“Let’s move.”

The twin headlight beams swept through the trees as the vehicle turned around and started down the driveway. They both took off at a dead run.

They weren’t going to make it.

They had to cover more than a hundred and fifty yards. An Olympic sprinter couldn’t do it, especially over this terrain.

Ignoring the low branches whipping against his face, Nathan dug deeper for more energy and angled toward El Camino Real to gain speed from running downhill.

He stole a glance to his left and saw it. A light-colored van, probably white was halfway down the driveway already and he still had seventy yards to cover.

“You got a shot?” Harv asked.

“No.”

Fifty yards.

“Harv, beeline for El Camino Real. If the van turns right, you might get a shot. Dalton’s daughters could be in the van. Tires only.”

“Copy.”