Gunfire erupted all around them, the high-pitched whistling of deadly bullets sailing through the air drowning out his every thought.
Sparks of lightning lit up the early morning sky, so bright he could see it through closed eyes.
Then there was shouting, more footsteps breaking nearby branches, the ratcheting of replacing empty clips with new, full ones, before the shooting continued at an accelerated pace.
The ground was shaking, sending tremors through his injured body. Somewhere in the back, Mike heard yelping, cries of pain, the dull thud of bullets hitting flesh and bone, instead of tree trunks and dirt.
He flattened himself out even more, pressing his chest into the ground, his head protected by his arms, nose to the rich, moist ground below, legs cocked sideways, as if any extra inch above the suspected line of fire could quadruple his chances of getting shot.
Then, without a warning, the frightening mayhem ended, the air filled with the heavy smell of gunpowder and blood, the sound of falling twigs and groaning trees surrounding him.
Mike raised his head carefully, then peeked over what was left of the forest and devastated underbrush, when suddenly a boot appeared next to him.
Flinching violently, he tucked his head back down before the message could be sent from his eyes to his brain, reminding him that he was looking at a set of standard police issued leather boots.
With his body shaking from overwhelming emotions, pain and exhaustion, he looked up at the owner, a man in his mid-fifties wearing a bullet-proof vest with FBI insignia, his gloved index finger pressed against his lips, urging him to be quiet.
Nodding slightly, Mike sat up on his elbows and glanced over toward the ravine, which was now covered with men in combat gear, the road down below a sea of red and blue strobe lights, engulfed in the most beautiful sunrise he'd seen in a long time.