Over the handheld radio that Zimmerman held, agents stationed around the store began to check in as the deadline expired. Rather than answering, Zimmerman continued to stare at Werner. “Well?”

Convinced that his reasoning for making the arrest here, away from the active neighborhood where Doherty lived with his wife and three children, was still sound, Werner shook his head. “We’re going in,” he announced. “Pass the word.”

Though he disagreed, Zimmerman didn’t hesitate. Even as he reached over to open his door, he mashed down on the push-to-talk button of the radio. “We’re going in.”

From vehicles and alleyways eight FBI agents sprang into action. Among them they had enough weaponry to take on a small army. Moving swiftly, they took up positions that covered every known exit from the gun store. Only after all teams had reported in that they were set did Tim Werner lift the bullhorn he held and call out from behind the front of the van he had been waiting in. “John Doherty, this is the FBI. Come out with your hands on your head.”

For several anxious moments the agents surrounding the shop held their breath as they waited for Doherty to emerge. When he failed to materialize, Werner repeated his demand. “John Doherty, we have you surrounded. There is no escape. Come out slowly with your hands on your head.”

Again there was no visible response. As the seconds grew into one minute, and then two, Werner’s fear that he had blundered by pressing this action grew.

Next to him Albert Zimmerman was becoming unnerved by the lack of response from the store. “He isn’t in there,” Zimmerman stated as he continued to aim his shotgun at the door of the shop. “The bastard has given us the slip.”

Too committed to back off or admit defeat, Werner shook his head. “No, he’s there. He’s just waiting for us to come after him.”

Turning, Zimmerman shouted, “He’s not there, damn it. We blew it!”

Angered as much by the possibility that he had screwed up as by Doherty’s refusal to come out, Werner grabbed the radio out of Zimmerman’s pocket. “French,” he called over the radio, “fire a round of gas into the shop.”

While Special agent Ellen French gave Werner a “Wilco” and prepared to fire a canister of CS gas through a rear window of the store, Zimmerman glared at Werner. “You’re making a big mistake, Tim,” he warned.

“We have our orders,” Werner snapped.

“Isn’t that what the Nazis kept claiming at Nuremberg?” Zimmerman countered.

Already unnerved by the turn of events, Werner wasn’t in the mood for arguments. “Shut up,” he commanded, “and cover the front door.”

Without another word Zimmerman complied. Together he and Tim Werner watched the front of the building for any sign of Doherty. For fifteen minutes they watched and waited. They waited when the smoke detectors broke the early evening silence as the CS began to fill the building. They watched as a faint orange glow appeared on the other side of the store door. They were still there, with their weapons held at the ready, as the first fire engine came thundering down the street in response to the automatic alarm that had been tripped by the growing fire.