The first man through the doorway wore a dark suit and carried a document in one hand.
Behind him were two uniformed military personnel and another man who moved with the calm precision of someone who had already assessed every angle of the room.
The man in the suit looked at Michael’s gun.
Then he looked at the cuffs cutting into my wrist.
Then he looked down at me on the floor.
“General Mitchell,” he said, “do you require medical assistance?”
I kept my eyes on Michael.
“Secure the weapon first.”
No one shouted.
That almost made it worse for him.
A shouted order gives a man like Michael something to push against.
Calm leaves him alone with what he has done.
“Chief Harris,” the man in the suit said, “place the firearm on the floor. Now.”
Michael hesitated.
For one long second, the kitchen balanced on the edge of his ego.
