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say , and John didn’t feel an ounce of pity, especially if they had done what he thought they had.
    “I’m afraid I can’t hand my weapon over,” John informed him. “I’m assuming you caught these men ransacking your cabin.”
    The men in green fatigues looked confused. “ These boys are insurgents who are about to be executed,” the first one said. “We’re here by order of the president. Charged with bringing law and order back to the county.”
    And suddenly John realized he’d been wrong. He’d assumed because of their dark cargo pants that the men kneeling on the ground were responsible for the attacks against the locals, but now it was crystal clear who the real threat was.
    Pushing off with his forward foot, John raced to the back of the truck right as the first one opened fire. Bullets tore through the open driver’s side door. Splinters of rock and asphalt jumped at his feet. Brandon stuck his hand out the window and rattled off a handful of shots, all of which went wide.
    Now behind the truck, John dropped into a prone position. With a clear view from under Betsy, he aimed and then squeezed the trigger three times. The first man with the fatigues was struck in the chest and dropped at about the same time as the second took off sprinting toward the forest’s edge.
    Mo ving to the corner of the truck, John settled into a kneeling position and tracked the man through his Trijicon ACOG as his target ran over uneven ground. He was having difficulty keeping the sights on him. Soon the man was climbing the side of the hill next to the road. Taking a deep breath, John fired five rounds. The first four narrowly missed, kicking up dirt around the fleeing man’s legs. The fifth took the top of his head off.
    “Darn it,” John blurted in frustration. He hadn’t wanted to kill him. Least not before he had a chance to ask him some questions. But moving targets were some of the hardest to hit. It was an element of prepping most didn’t take into account. Of course firing at a range was important since, like all muscles, marksmanship had a tendency to atrophy if neglected. But most shooters tended to practice by firing on static targets, often paper cutouts or AR500 steel plates, rather than at a dynamic range where movement was incorporated into the drill. He made a mental note to address this deficiency in his tactical training as soon as possible.
    The other men in dark cargo pants were on their feet now, contemplating whether or not to run. One of them had a mohawk. He wound up and began kicking the body next to him.
    “Enough,” John shouted. He was still trying to assess the situation and abusing the dead, no matter what they’d done, wasn’t part of his ethos. He rapped on the side of the truck. “You two okay in there?”
    Gary’s weak voice came back after a moment’s hesitation. “I think so.”
    Brandon opened the passenger door, the pistol out in front of him. “Did I hit anyone?” he asked.
    John edged closer, his AR in the low ready position.
    Brandon ’s question was met with laughter from the one with the mohawk. “Not even close, kid. But I think you gave a squirrel in that tree over there a heart attack.”
    His buddy next to him also chuckled.
    “You did fine,” John told Brandon before turning back to the men in the black pants. “You wanna tell me who they were?” he asked, ignoring any pleasantries.
    “How about you cut these zip ties off us first?” the blond guy next to Mohawk said.
    John looked down at the dead man and slid his rifle away with the tip of his boot. He told Brandon to collect the other man’s weapon.
    “Where I come from, the guy with the gun makes the decisions. They called you two insurgents.”
    Mohawk grinned. “We been called worse. Domestic terrorists is my personal favorite. Let’s just say we’re part of a movement against anyone who thinks they can come along and take what’s ours.”
    “ They’re here on behalf of the Feds,” the blond