Werner looked over at his fellow agent, but said nothing. They had gone over all their options the night before when they had been planning the arrest. Since they were dealing with a felon suspected of being armed and dangerous establishing the possibility that there could be gunfire, Werner had made the decision to take Doherty in the commercial district where an inordinate number of strangers would not be noticed and at a time when there would be few civilians around. The plan, as envisioned then, called for Doherty to be apprehended after he had left his shop, locked the door, and was alone on the street with nothing more than the 9mm automatic pistol he carried. “Even if he does make an effort to resist,” Werner had stated, “he’ll be outgunned and in a position where the chances of collateral damage will be all but nonexistent.”

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!”