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.

By then even Tim Werner was convinced that their suspect had somehow managed to elude them. Yet, he dare not take any chances. With the history of members of militia units displaying behavior that was both irrational and unpredictable, Special Agent Werner could not risk that John Doherty was still in there, ready to die for his beliefs. Having already made too many miscalculations that night, Tim Werner was unprepared to make any more. Leaving one man to cover each of the exits, he quickly mustered the bulk of his task force on the main street well away from the front of the shop. There, they waved down the approaching fire engines and, to the surprise and shock of the firefighters, held them back.

While local officials bitterly argued with Werner and his agents, the gun shop erupted into flames. Above the poppop-pop of small arms ammunition going off, bystanders, drawn to the scene, could hear oaths and curses being exchanged between local officials hell bent on doing their jobs and federal officials equally determined to keep them at arm’s length until they were sure that there was no longer any danger to them.

Among this growing crowd of on lookers stood two men. Both wore dark glasses and baseball caps pulled down low. “I’m going to miss that place,” John Doherty stated dryly as he watched the flames from his store leap over the space between it and the building next to it.

Sporting a grin, his companion slapped him on the back. “I’ve got the feeling our friends in the Justice Department aren’t going to give you the chance to miss it.”