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Durazo left the trail and cautiously climbed toward the ridge. Lightning shattered the darkening sky, and the rain was back in full force. He removed the lens cover from the rifle scope, smacked the bottom of the ammo clip to make sure it was well seated, and pushed the firing lever to the red position. A burst of three rounds would fire with each trigger pull. Durazo took advantage of the tall foliage and moved parallel to the trail. The din of the storm covered the noise he was making, and allowed him to move quickly. Only a hundred yards to the top of the cliff, and so far – nothing. He took cover behind the trunk of a large tree and scoured the ridgeline as a bolt of lightning sizzled across the sky.

Something moved in the boulders just below the crest. Or, was it his imagination? No, the shadow at the base and to the far side of the largest boulder fifty yards away didn’t fit. Ojeda Sanchez! Had Sanchez seen him? No clear shot. But if Durazo moved, even a hair, he could give his position away. He inched the rifle up to his shoulder and peered through the scope. Water pouring across the lens made squiggly rivulets and distorted the crosshairs. He focused on the spot where he had seen movement, and slowly dropped to one knee. He pulled the butt of the rifle tight against his shoulder and waited for the next bolt of lightning to outline the target.

The ridge was illuminated for a scant moment. Sanchez fired! Bullets raked inches above Durazo’s head, and tree splinters peppered his face. Durazo answered with two quick bursts from the .308.