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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.
    “Take a look at your five o’clock position, two hundred yards. My partner has a rifle trained on you. If we’d wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be talking right now.” He figured it would take about five seconds for the spotter to verify his claim. It happened faster than that. What the agent saw must have caused her some concern. Nathan knew what seeing a sniper lined up on you felt like, he’d just seen it a few minutes ago.
    “Very slowly, I want you to step out from behind that tree.”
    “You aren’t going to shoot, are you?”
    “That depends entirely on you.”
    “Okay, I’m coming out. I’m wearing a sidearm. Don’t shoot or we both die.” He slowly pivoted from behind the trunk and faced the spotter, holding his arms out to his sides. Nathan watched her whisper something into the boom mike of her combat helmet. He knew she was strung tight from the claymore detonations. He also knew she was now facing a large, menacing man in a woodland combat uniform with his exposed skin painted in black, green, and brown. Nathan’s sidearm closed the deal. In essence, she was face-to-face with a special forces soldier whose colleague had a sniper rifle trained on her. Harv wouldn’t hesitate to shoot if she made a wrong move. He hoped she’d be delicate with her actions. Nothing sudden. Nothing threatening.
    “Place your hands on the top of your head and lace your fingers together. Please do it now.”
    She’d said please . A good sign. Nathan complied.
    She whispered something into her boom mike again, probably responding to the other team members who were on their way. Nathan glanced to the right and saw three camouflaged figures advancing in leapfrog progression again. He figured he had twenty seconds before being surrounded. “I need to give my partner an all-clear sign.”
    “Please don’t move,” she said, her tone more relaxed.
    Nathan saw her backup was seconds away, and security came with numbers. He kept his hands atop his head and turned to face the first SWAT member to arrive. Under his olive-colored helmet and clear protective goggles was a four-part expression of pure intensity: one part curiosity, three parts anger. His woodland combat uniform had turned tannish gray from being blasted with dust and debris. Charred pine needles clung to his backpack. He’d been up front when the mines detonated. Had to be hell on earth. His MP5 aimed from the hip, the SWAT member stopped ten feet short. With a bloodstained hand, he issued a crisp signal for the others to advance. Two more SWAT figures appeared in front of Nathan, seemingly out of nowhere. They too were covered with dust and burned pine needles. A hand signal was given to the woman near the fallen tree branch and she assumed a sentry’s demeanor again.
    “Are you McBride?” the man asked.
    That question spoke volumes. Ortega had gotten the word out. This man knew he would be here, but the woman who shot the hell out of the ponderosa hadn’t.
    Nathan nodded.
    “All right. Let’s do this delicately. I want you to ask Mr. Fontana to stand down.”
    “I need to give him a hand