I lower the Glock and toss it on the runner, far out of reach. I’m trying to avoid a misunderstanding that ends with a blistering array of rounds going through my body, then through walls and into the body of someone I cannot bear to lose.
I put my hands behind my head.
The boots come down the hall in a tight grouping. Four-man entry. Vests, helmets, rifles up. The lead man rounds the corner with his muzzle on my forehead at fifteen feet and roars at me to get on the ground.
“Get on the ground. Hands where I can see them. Hands!”
“They’re up,” I say, so calm it surprises even me. “They’re up. I am unarmed. There’s a weapon on the floor at my feet.”
I sink. Knees first. Then, as I start to tilt forward, the cops surge up and knock me forward until I’m plastered against the floor. My ar
