The searchlights of the chopper cut through the rain, washing the entire study in a blinding, white glare.

The gunman holding me hesitated, looking up at the ceiling.

“What is that?” he muttered.

The sound of sirens in the distance changed.

The high-pitched wail of federal tactical vehicles began to drown out the local police sirens.

“They’re here,” I whispered.

But the grip on my arm didn’t loosen.

The man pulled a knife from his tactical vest and pressed the cold steel against my throat.

“Tell them to back off,” he whispered in my ear. “Or you won’t live to see them cross the threshold.”

Ryker stepped out from behind the fireplace, his gun raised, his face deadly calm.

He looked the gunman directly in the eye.

“You have five seconds to drop that knife,” Ryker said.

“I’ll slit her throat, Steel,” the man threatened.

The helicopter searchlight swept over us again.

The front doors of the mansion were suddenly kicked open with a massive crash.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

“FBI! Drop your weapons!” a voice commanded from the corridor.