“Move!” one of the men shouted. “Get the stuff! Get the—” Too late. From the slope came a line of officers on snowmobiles, fanning out in practiced formation. Their engines roared as they closed in fast. One of the poachers bolted.
Another grabbed a duffel bag and tried to run but slipped in the snow. Caleb shielded his eyes as a flare lit the sky, bathing the camp in harsh, red light. The flare hissed above them, casting shadows that danced across the wrecked tents and broken crates.