Jeff leans forward and stares at his screens before turning and peering through his binoculars again. He can't see Steve, and it's making him nervous, but they're still on radio silence and he can't risk breaking their cover just because he's got an itch. Except that it isn't an itch, it's his gut.

"Something's wrong," he mutters to himself. He's already mobilizing, ready to move to the van ASAP as soon as he's heard from his boy. "Where the hell are you?"

The comm crackles to life with the sound of gunfire and heavy breathing. "Winchester, I need an extraction. Now."

He's got the gear and is already halfway down the stairs. "Copy, Blondie. What's your position?" He starts throws the gear in the back of the truck, and his gut twists the longer it takes Steve to answer. He starts the engine and heads in the general direction Steve was meant to be coming from. "Blondie, what is your position?"

For a long moment, all he hears is static. Then, "Fuck!"

Jeff's blood runs cold -- the comm's are dead.