"How many are in there?" Cal whispered.
A bowl-like unit that resembled a small satellite dish was secured to the roof of the van. Aimed at the hangar, it was used to amplify sound.
"Two," one of the men said, sounding annoyed that the question was even asked. He didn't look at Cal.
Suppressing his anger, Cal fell silent.
"Raffair," one young man barked to the other. It was a word he'd just heard on his headphones. "Any idea?"
"Guy's name?" the other suggested. Cal wasn't even listening.
Two. If their source was right, this would be a big bust. With only two men in the makeshift warehouse and more than a dozen DEA agents converging on the place, there wasn't much doubt who was going to come out on top. And Cal was stuck sitting in a van with three wet-behind-the-ears kids.
Grumbling, he pulled the headset down around his neck.
Probably just as well. Maybe everybody was right. Maybe at his age, it was time to get out. Rubbing his hands for warmth, he glanced over at Smeed.
The kid was sitting anxiously by the half-open rear door. He hadn't bothered to reholster his gun. It was sitting on his thigh. Every once in a while, he'd switch hands, wiping the sweat from his palms across his knee.
Smeed was cleaning off the latest cold perspiration when Cal Dreeder heard a distant pop. It was echoed on the headset around his neck.
Cal's eyes widened. A gunshot.
It was followed by another. All at once, a chorus of soft pops filled the freezing woods like winter crickets.
Smeed shot to his feet. "What's happening?" the young agent asked, gun raised. A gloved hand reached for the door.
"Stay put," Cal snapped, whipping his headset back to his ears.
Cal was instantly assaulted by the closeness of the gunfire. Between shots, men shouted.
It was an overlapping gibberish, back and forth. Although he couldn't make out what was being said, he'd heard enough. The number of voices shocked him.
"There's more than two," he said, his heart thudding.
The agents manning the equipment shook their heads in helpless confusion. "There were only two," one said, his eyes registering the first hint of panic.
"It's an ambush," Cal muttered hotly to himself. That was all Randy Smeed needed to hear. Gun in hand, the young agent hopped from the back of the van.
"Hold it!" Cal shouted, ripping away his earphones.
Too late.
A sudden grunt from outside. The door slammed shut.
Cal was diving for the door when he heard the muffled shots. Too close.
"Damn," Cal swore. He wheeled to the two stunned agents. They were like ice statues, frozen in their seats. "Draw your weapons," he ordered.
The men behind him dutifully dragged guns from holsters. Depositing their headsets on their eaves-dropping equipment, they stepped woodenly up behind Cal.
"Cover me," he snapped.
But as he reached for the handle, Cal froze. He cocked an ear. Listening intently, he wiped a sheen of cold sweat from his upper lip with the cuff of his windbreaker.
"What is it?" one of the young agents whispered.
Cal's voice was flat. "Gunfire's stopped."
So scared were they, the men hadn't realized it. Straining, they tried to make out the familiar pop of weapons' fire. There was none. The woods had fallen silent.
Cal Dreeder knew that could mean only two things. The DEA had either won or lost. Judging from the number of nongovernment voices on the squawk box, he had a sick feeling it was the latter.
In an instant, the air within the van seemed to grow noticeably hotter. More difficult to breathe. "We've got to get out of here," one of the men said, his voice tight. It was the young agent who had scowled at Cal's drug comments not an hour before. Cal shot the man a withering look.
There was only one real option, and Cal Dreeder wasn't happy with it.
There was no access to the cab from the rear. Someone would have to physically step outside the van and walk around to the front.
Smeed was dead. The bullets that had doubtless ended his young life had been fired right outside the door.
Yet there was silence now.
Maybe they'd retreated. Maybe if they gave Cal enough time, he could-
There came a wrenching from the rear of the truck.
"Ready!" Cal growled, falling back.
He aimed his gun at the door. The other agents followed suit, their faces sick.
When the door sprang open, Cal caught a glimpse of a hulking figure with a crowbar. Squeezing his trigger, the DEA man buried a slug in a spot below the edge of his stocking cap.
As the man collapsed, another sprang into view. This time, Cal's shot was wide. His opponent's was not.
The bullet caught Agent Cal Dreeder dead center above the bridge of his nose. With a meaty slap, it formed a deep black third eye between the fifty-four-year-old agent's shocked baby blues.
Cal toppled onto his back. Even as he fell, more scruffy faces appeared at the rear of the van.
The other two agents fired wildly. One shot clipped an assailant in the shoulder. The rest missed completely.
The shots fired into the van were far more accurate. In a matter of seconds, the last two agents joined Cal Dreeder in a bloody heap on the van floor.
Silence flooded the woods once more. The bodies were left where they fell. The gunmen hurried away from the van, back to the big building with the sickly yellow light.
THE VAN WOULD BE discovered at dawn the next morning. By that time, the five hundred million dollars of cocaine that had been stored in the old hangar would have already been shipped to a safer location.