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.