Rifle at the ready, he moved forward, he and the others arrayed in a tactical L with the other two in front of the tent and Marc off to one side. The safety mask they’d made him wear was hot and annoying as hell, partially blocking his peripheral vision. Out here, he couldn’t afford to miss anything. There were old prospecting pits and mounds of mine tailings that offered excellent cover, not to mention trees, boulders, and fallen logs.
If he got shot, Darcangelo would never let him live it down.
He stopped, motioned toward the boulders, bringing the others to a stop. Deputy Marcs and a Deputy US Marshal named Ali Ahmad nodded in understanding. They took cover behind the trees, the deputy and DUSM focused on the tent while Marc watched the outcropping, finger on the trigger.
“US Marshals!” Ahmad shouted. “You are surrounded! Come out of the tent slowly with your hands over your head!”
“Don’t shoot!” a woman’s voice called from inside the tent. “I’m coming out, and I don’t have a gun.”
Marc left her to the other two and kept his attention on his scope.
Motion.
Someonewasup there, inching closer to the edge, probably waiting for the woman in the tent to distract them and draw them into the open.
Not a chance.
Through his limited peripheral vision, he saw Deputy Marcs step out from behind the tree, weapon raised as she moved in on the suspect emerging from the tent.
The guy on the rock lifted his head to take his shot.
Marc fired.
Pop!
Yellow paint splattered on the guy’s safety helmet.
One down.
Another pop.
Deputy Marcs had fired, too. Marc glanced over and saw the woman from the tent sink onto the ground, paint on her shoulder, a Glock in her right hand.
Motion.
The barrel of a rifle nudged through the brush at the rim of a prospecting hole behind Deputy Marcs.
With no time to think, Marc pivoted, dropped to one knee, and fired.
Pop!
More yellow paint.
Deputy Marcs and Ahmad spun to look behind them and saw the man who might have killed them—if he been a real crook.
“Shit.” Deputy Marcs scanned the surrounding mountainside.
“Two headshots, Hunter.” McBride came up behind them. “You’re on a roll.”
“Don’t feed his ego.” Darcangelo followed a step behind McBride. “He’s hard enough to live with as it is.”
They debriefed the action on-site as a group, sharing feedback, which was mostly positive. The DUSMs who’d played the bad guys—two men and a woman—ribbed each other about getting killed, yellow paint on their US Marshals Service T-shirts. Then, through the trees, came the sound of shouting.
Pella stood near the vehicles with two men dressed in wildland firefighter gear.
McBride glanced back over his shoulder. “Let’s take a ten-minute hydration break. There’s a Porta-Potty back by the vehicles if anyone needs it.”
Marc shouldered his rifle and made his way with the others back toward the parking area, Darcangelo on one side, Deputy Marcs and Ahmad on the other, McBride a few paces ahead.