Page 113 of Ground Truth

But Greta seemed more than capable. All he could do now was trust that he’d made the right call.

Flint waited at least three full beats after his test fire.

Almost simultaneously the two shooters realized what he’d done. Both released a volley of rounds in his direction.

He fired again and this time they both fired back immediately.

Which was all good.

Now he knew exactly where they were.

One was behind the corner of the shed closest to Flint.

The other was on the far side of the backyard.

“One thing at a time,” Flint muttered under his breath.

He dropped and rolled, hoping to reach the old tractor he remembered was parked about halfway between his position and the shooter before the guy could duck out from around the corner to fire again.

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Chapter 54

When Flint reached the old tractor, he crouched on the right side, putting the engine between him and the first shooter. He was chilled to the bone now. His clothes were wet and clinging like an ice cube sticks to dry skin.

He’d made several tactical choices. Educated guesses, really. Based on training, experience, and thirty-four years of living by his wits.

If he guessed wrong, the outcome would be disastrous. But he had to move forward or sit and wait to die.

Which just wasn’t his style.

Not even remotely.

He expected the enemy to be wearing his thermal vision equipment instead of mounting a scope on his weapons. Mostly because they were shooting with handguns and not rifles.

Which meant the thermal vision was at least partially covering their eyes and interfering with peripheral vision.

Which also meant the shooter had to come out some distance from his cover, turn his head, and scan for Flint’s body heat amid the fog and the interference from farm equipment and other junk strewn about the backyard.

His body would be exposed. He might be wearing body armor to compensate. But body armor had its vulnerabilities, too.

Flint readied the shotgun and settled to wait.

He imagined the shooter listening hard and hearing no movement.

The shooter would want to take a look.

Human nature coupled with superior equipment, bone-chilling cold, and overwhelming forces would lure him out.

It was only a matter of time.

In the end, Flint didn’t need to wait long.

The shooter turtled his head from behind the building. He scanned the yard as well as he could. The fog provided plenty of cover on its own, but the building and his equipment limited his sight lines as well.

Weapon ready, the shooter stepped forward and leaned his body a little farther from the corner of the shed. The teakettle invaded the quiet with its piercing screams.

He rotated his head, giving the infrared a sweeping arc to cover the area.

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