Ten feet away stood the group of Germans. One had a pistol drawn, hanging loosely at his side. But there were only five of them.

Again he used hand signals to communicate with his team. Five enemy. Missing one.

The Germans were arguing with each other, but Nate had no idea what they were saying. He wished he’d gotten his language training in German.

Then the man with the pistol pulled back his slide, loading a round in the chamber.

Nate’s pulse raced. Now was the time. He had to make the call.

He motioned again to his team. Pistol. I. Sniper.

The men knew what to do. It was why he’d picked them.

Steadying his breath, Nate took aim.

Feeling the pulse in his trigger finger, he willed himself to stare down the barrel, imagining the path of the bullet as it traveled fourteen hundred feet per second.

Between heartbeats, he pulled the trigger.

Almost as soon as Nate felt the recoil, the armed man collapsed, a bullet buried in his head.

Nate’s team immediately yelled, “FBI, hold your hands up!”

One of the Germans who'd begun to raise his arms suddenly swiveled toward the team; he was taken down immediately. Two shots in the chest from two different agents. A gun clattered to the floor, and the agents swarmed the rest of the Germans.

The sounds of his men yelling echoed off the large shipping containers as Nate rushed toward the wide-eyed hostage. But just as he reached her, a blinding flash followed by a deafening explosion rocked his senses. A flashbang. Before he could recover, someone barreled into him, knocking him off his feet.

Still blind from the flash, Nate punched wildly at his attacker. His fist struck flesh, a gun went off, and he felt a serrated knife plunge into the back of his leg.

He screamed.

Seeing only the blur of a face, he aimed his thumbs at the man’s eyes. Now it was his attacker who screamed. Nate’s vision was slowly returning, and he saw a long scar running down the man’s cheek.

Another shot rang out, and the attacker wrenched himself away and vanished.

With the knife still buried in the back of his leg, Nate blinked the tears out of his eyes as he strained to get a clear image of his surroundings. He grabbed a nearby support beam and levered himself to his feet.

“Three down, two in custody,” one of the agents yelled.

“Where’s that scar-faced fuck?” Nate shouted back.

“Sir?”

“The guy who threw that flashbang. Big scar on his cheek. The asshole who stabbed me!”

A metal door slammed behind them, and two of the agents took off in pursuit.

Nate turned his attention back to the hostage. Dark hair framed a bruised, swollen face. She looked scared… defeated. He pulled the gag from her mouth.

“They were going to kill me!” she sobbed.