When I reach the ladder, I stop and crouch even further down. I can see them—Cargill and Bala and some of their goons. They are standing around a large crate with the lid removed, but I’m too far away to see into the crate. I unclip the night vision binoculars from my belt and raise them to my eyes. The focus isn’t perfect, and the lamps are like flares in the night vision lenses, but now I can see more clearly what’s in the crate—long-barreled rifles, probably AR-15s. Then I move the binoculars slightly and Bala’s face swings into view. He doesn’t look happy. Neither do the two men next to him. Cargill is facing Bala, and while I can’t see his expression, his body language suggests a salesman faced with an irritating customer. If I know Cargill, he’s haggling over the price.

I lower the binoculars and put them back on my belt, then step onto the ladder and start to climb down. The ladder is bolted to the wall and doesn’t creak, which is good. Still, I feel like a bug pinned to a display card—if anyone is close enough and looks up, I’ve got nowhere to hide.

Hand over hand, my face eight inches from the wall, I slowly make my way down. When I’m halfway down, below the tops of the highest stacks of crates, something stirs the hairs on the back of my neck. I turn my head to the left and I see an unshaven dude in jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt sitting on the floor, leaning back against a stack of crates. He’s staring at me like a kid who’s just walked in on his mom doing the mailman. He’s ten yards away, too far for me to tackle or kick or even spit on. He also has a MAC-11 in his lap, a nasty little automatic weapon that could unzip my torso with one burst.

I don’t have time to think. It’s jump or swing. I hold onto the ladder with my left hand and swing away from the rungs like a door opening, my left hand and foot the hinges. With my right hand I reach for my CZ. It’s a futile gesture. There is no way I can draw it in time before he raises his weapon and shreds me.