Jake reached for the blinking extension, but movement outside drew his attention to the front windows. People seemed to be gathering, even as they tried to stay out of sight. One of them had a gun.

Shit!

The lobby doors exploded open, releasing a flood of heavily armed men into the reception area. Jake instinctively jumped to his feet and yanked open the top right-hand drawer of his desk, snatching out his snub-nosed. 44.

“Federal officers, don’t move!”

The words boomed like a cannon. Jake jumped as his stomach fell. He moved to drop the revolver back into the drawer but hesitated. Then it was too late.

“Gun!”

He watched in horror as a dozen submachine guns swung around to bear down on him.

Mae shrieked as men in blue windbreakers pushed her to the floor and assumed shooting positions, aiming their stubby weapons through the Plexiglas window at her boss. Jake just stood there, unmoving, with his chrome-plated magnum pointing at the ceiling.

“Put it down!” the lead gunman commanded.

The voice startled Jake almost as much as the command itself. Somewhere under that helmet and SWAT gear was a woman.

Two of the cop’s cohorts darted out to flank their target and get a better angle. “Put the gun down! Now! Let me see those hands! Now!”

He didn’t know what to do. His stomach cramped with fear. If he tried to shoot, they’d drop him in an instant. Ultimately, his hands decided for him. As he gently laid the weapon on his desk, he wondered how they’d found out.

“That’s it,” the leader encouraged him. “Right. On the desk, just like that. Now keep your hands where I can see them, and come to the door.”

Jake faced his palms forward at elbow height, his fingers splayed wide, as he sidestepped from behind his desk and toward his office door. Slow, deliberate movements were his single best insurance policy against a catastrophic trigger-pull.