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Sean’s right arm again. Stretched forward, now holding his black Glock.
Not the two-handed thing you see hundred-pound actresses do in movies. Confident, single-handed grip.
Steady, not a hint of shake. Good for you, Sean.
Tentative entry.
Flashlight sweep over a sparsely furnished living room.
No one.
Same for an open-view kitchen/dining area.
Several flashlights beaming, searching. A few books on the floor, a folding bridge table hosting additional volumes and a bottle of wine.
Two cheap folding chairs.
Acid-green beanbag in the corner.
Your basic lonely-guy setup. But I doubted Deeb had the capacity for loneliness.
Sean’s gun-arm continued leading him through the front of the apartment then right.
Heading toward a closed door.
As he reached for the knob, the door swung open and the momentary shift in balance twitched the Glock.
When you’re not prepared, bad stuff can happen.
Sean was ready. Motionless gun-arm, rigid as a length of rebar.
Aiming at Conrad Deeb. On his feet, wearing an Oxford T-shirt and sweatpants.
Positioned just inside the door.
Wide awake.
Smiling.
Not a trace of surprise.
Welcome to the party.
Sean: “Mr. Deeb, you’re under arrest. Put your hands at the back of your head.”
Deeb: “Of course, Officer.”
“Turn slowly.”
“My pleasure, Officer.”
Deeb appeared to comply as Sean got close enough to cuff him. Then his right hand dove into the waistband of the sweatpants.
Out came something brown.
It rose, arced downward toward Sean’s head.
Sean’s left hand grabbed Deeb’s wrist and twisted hard, evoking a cry of pain from Deeb.
