Bartley was in the Explorer with two of the team members, one holding the heavy tactical shield ready for deployment, the ram at his feet. There were four men in the Escalade behind, between them they had two Baker Batshields: one in the driver compartment, the other in the passenger compartment.

Under a misting rain, the two cars rolled slowly under the white arch, all lights off, clinging to the hope that they’d be attacking by surprise. They’d begin with the protection of the cars, before switching to tactical shield equipment and field cover.

They moved in several hundred yards before Bartley called the stop. He radioed back deployment instructions to the car behind, then slipped out onto the road.

The men gathered behind the front car. They could hear Norteño music from the bunkhouses; the buildings were lit but no one was outside, maybe because of the damp.

Bobby Bartley thought to himself: This just might work…

This would be a direct approach uphill, with little cover if a true firefight broke out, so stealth was key. A sniper would stay down by the cars to lay down cover fire as necessary. Behind the Escalade, he’d be almost invisible to shooters up at the bunkhouses; from his protected position, the sniper would be strong support against an enemy who held higher ground.

The other six men would move up as two three-man elements. They’d fan out across the field, and converge on the first bunkhouse; Bartley’s element would stack up by the bunkhouse door, then he’d lead a standard breach-bang-and-clear operation. Bartley would go in right after the flashbangs, and he’d be shooting from the get-go—the rest of the team was so wired they’d read the shots as an attack and complete the sweep.

With the first bunkhouse secured, they’d move on to the second. Bartley stressed that the bunkhouse closest to the farmhouse should be approached with extreme caution, since it contained the meth lab, and would house large tanks of highly explosive chemicals.

If a firefight broke out, the shooters would likely evacuate Bunkhouse B and move first to Bunkhouse A, then progress to the farmhouse. SWAT would secure the bunkhouses sequentially, then hit the farmhouse, which was where, Bartley announced, Nash said they were holding him; it was likely this was where they’d meet greatest resistance.

The seven men gathered into a circle, dropped to one knee, and bowed their heads. Bartley led them in prayer. Then they shook hands, nodded solemnly at each other, divided up, and began to move.

The men moved silently, crawling up the slope, spreading out and moving toward their assigned targets. The steady rain helped hide them, but the grass beneath them was slippery and muddy.

One by one, they took position, almost unable to believe their luck had held. They settled, lay still, all looking to Bartley for the signal.

Then Bentas, who’d been waiting patiently, hidden behind the lower field slop trough, stepped up behind the sniper and shot him in the back of the head.

Bentas moved quickly into the sniper’s position, tucked the rifle stock into his shoulder, and peered through the scope.

The SWAT teams were on the edge of panic; in a fraction of a second, they’d learned their arrival was expected, lost the security of sniper cover-fire, and had their flank completely exposed.

Bentas now began to fire on the SWAT team members arrayed on the hill, as shooters in the bunkhouses opened fire, pinning them down so that Bentas could pick them off.

Bartley gave the order to scatter and ran quickly across the slope, trying to reach cover before the new sniper destroyed the entire mission. He scrambled across the grass toward one of the pens.

As he reached the enclosure, the corrugated metal surround by his head banged as the bullets smashed into it. From inside the structure, Bartley could hear the frantic grunting of pigs, hear them running wildly inside. Someone was firing at him in short bursts; he couldn’t tell whether it was the shooter down on the road or someone in the bunkhouse. He kept his head down and crawled to the enclosure entrance.

Inside the pen, the pigs were panicking, shrieking in terror, slamming into each other, and smashing against the metal surround until it shook. Bartley lifted the gate and pushed back as the pigs stampeded out, shoving and squealing.

He raised his weapon and fired once up at the roof; the stream of hogs veered briefly away from him, but within seconds they were battering him again as they poured out past him.

Within seconds of his discharging his weapon, the shooters focused their attention on Bartley, and the metal structure was raked by a blizzard of bullets, the rickety panels shredding apart, clanging like a bell.

There was a pop and then a hiss as an incendiary flare streaked up into the sky over the field; the whole area was flooded with silver light, and in an instant Bartley saw all his men scattered across the field. They huddled under the shields, lying flat to minimize their exposure, returning fire toward the bunkhouse shooters. But the shields didn’t cover them completely, and under the white-metal light, Bartley saw quick puffs of red, saw limbs jerk, and heard screams as bullets hit arms and legs.

The charging pigs now spread out in panic, careening across the field, running in all directions. A shooter targeted the pigs trying to flee the enclosure; in the bright light, the pigskin washed pale gray, each hit triggering a spray of blue-black blood. The wounded pigs fell at the entry, kicking and struggling, blocking the path of those still inside, rushing now in a chaotic, churning mass through the small space, terrified by the roar and rattle of bullets smashing into the enclosure. The frenzied animals were still battering Bartley as he tried to edge along the wall.

As the flare drifted lower, and the lower slope lit up down to the road, Bartley saw the man behind the cruiser, sighting calmly through the sniper rifle. Bartley quickly knelt against the concrete base of the enclosure, extended the stock of his MP5, cradled the gun against his shoulder, and aimed. He held the man’s head and torso neatly in the circle of the sight, breathed out fully, paused, then squeezed the trigger, spraying a full burst of fifteen bullets in his direction.

Bartley lowered the gun as the flare died out; he couldn’t see the man anymore, but there was blood spattered across the hood and roof of the cruiser; he’d blown out the windshield, too.

He yelled out, “Sniper from the road is down!”

A fresh hurricane of semiautomatic and submachine gunfire clattered through the enclosure as Bartley dropped into the muck. He rolled onto his back, pulled out his phone, and dialed 911.