Nate's hunting rifle, the one he'd been holding prior to the blast, lay on the grass. The explosion must have knocked it out of his hands. But where was Nate? The concussion would have sent him flying, perhaps into the cornfield? No. That was too far. It might have knocked him fifteen or twenty feet if he was close, but that probably would have killed him, or at the very least, rendered him unconscious.
Dak's senses tingled. His heart tore at his ribcage as it pumped hot blood through his veins.
He retreated another ten feet, leaving only portions of the house visible through the smoke swirling around the yard. Then he turned and picked up his speed, circling around the farmhouse toward the driveway. Dak hedged his bets that if Nate wasn't in the yard and was somehow alert enough to move, he would try to escape or, more likely, regroup.
Fifteen
Brown’s Ferry
For several minutes, Nate wasn't sure what had happened. He'd been standing on the lawn in front of his farmhouse, counting down the minutes and seconds until he could begin his hunt.
Then something happened.
The ringing in his ears, dreadful and high-pitched, wouldn't stop. He felt warm, but as his vision cleared, he could see his body wasn't on fire, despite feeling like his skin was burning.
He rolled over and saw the fire, the black and gray smoke churning toward the sky above his roof, carried high on a gentle Kentucky breeze.
When he pushed himself up, the world tilted in his vision and he felt himself being tugged back toward the ground as though gravity had doubled.
What happened?
Another look at the propane tank and he knew the answer. An explosion? How?
In his mind, he ran through the possibilities. There were only two plausible ones. The first was an accident, something that went wrong in the pipes or in the tank itself. That was extremely unlikely. He'd recently had maintenance done on the entire system due to the approaching winter. If there were issues with the tank or the lines, the expert would have addressed them.
That meant only one thing.
Sabotage.
Nate spun around in a drunken fog, scanning the cornfields that surrounded him. He remembered having a rifle, but he didn't see it. The pistol remained on his hip, though, and he could shoot the legs off a fly from a good distance with that.
Even in the haze clouding his memory, and even his judgment, Nate knew he was way too out in the open if it truly had been sabotage.
He stumbled away from where he'd been thrown by the blast, hurrying around the corner of the house even as the flames sparked on the grass behind him.
Nate leaned against the corner wall for a breath, then another. His head throbbed, and the ringing hadn't weakened.
Guns, he thought.
He knew he needed to get more of his weapons, but they were inside the house. If someone had sabotaged his propane tank, they may have done something to the house. But who would do this? Who would target him? And how would they?
His train of thought halted as the answer bubbled to the surface. It could be only one of two people: Bo or Dak.
Bo had no reason to come after Nate. He had several million reasons, actually, but Bo wasn't stupid. He couldn't take the risk of coming here and squaring off with Nate. Bo knew everyone on his team feared Nate Collier in some way.
No, Nate thought, it had to be Dak.
Dak Harper had every reason in the world to want Nate dead. He didn't have to replay the events that transpired in the Iraqi cave. Nate and the other members of their team had betrayed Dak, leaving him for dead.
That, it turned out, was a huge mistake.
Nate had always known that. Given the circumstances, there wasn't much else they could do. They'd been forced to seal the cave and hurry back to base, having completed the mission, but with a casualty.
Fortunately, Bo had the foresight to have a plan. Bo informed the colonel of Dak's betrayal, and how the team had barely managed to escape before being stabbed in the back. The colonel bought it, and Dak became the target of condemnation.
Nate shrugged off the unproductive thoughts. He had to get a rifle out of his house. He kept an AR-15 in the downstairs closet, just a few long strides from the door. The rifle was equipped with a red dot sight. It wasn't a scope, but it would do.
He waited for several seconds, even after deciding to make a run at the rifle. It was his best hope for survival.
Nate took a long breath, then darted around the front corner of the house, not stopping to look around as he ripped open the screen door and burst into the building. He rushed to the closet, anticipating an explosion or a gunshot—some harbinger of his demise.
Nothing happened.
He scanned the kitchen, his eyes jumping from point to point. He stood perfectly still for at least ten seconds, listening for the slightest sound: a breath, a creak, the crack of a joint.
Again, nothing.
Nate scurried to the closet and flung it open. The black rifle sat on the ground, propped against the wall. The muzzle leaned against the left interior corner. It wasn't the proper home for such a fine weapon, but he kept it there for a reason. If anyone ever had the idiotic idea to invade his home, he'd have more than just a pistol to handle the job.
A shotgun sat in the opposite corner. But he wasn't going to need that. His plan isn't for an up-close kill. If Dak were responsible for the explosion, Nate would have to take him out from a distance. The red dot sight on the rail of the AR-15 would be good enough. He could take out minuscule targets from a good distance with it, and he had every confidence that hitting a human would be even easier.
With the rifle in hand, Nate crept toward
