"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.