“He wants to talk about what you told the feds.”

“I have nothing to say to him,” I said.

I threw my head forward, striking his nose with my forehead.

He cried out and fell back, his hands releasing my wrist.

I scrambled away, my hands finding the wet, cold floor.

I stood up, my knees shaking.

Frank was on his knees, holding his bleeding nose.

He reached for the crowbar on the floor.

Before he could lift it, the kitchen was flooded with bright white light.

The beam of a high-powered flashlight hit Frank directly in the face.

“Federal agents,” a voice shouted from the back porch.

“Drop the weapon.”

It was Agent Miller.

He was standing in the doorway, his service pistol held in both hands.

Behind him, two other agents in dark windbreakers moved into the room.

Frank dropped the crowbar.

He put his hands on his head and lay flat on the floor.

One of the agents knelt on his back and pulled his arms behind him.

The metal cuffs clicked into place.

Miller lowered his weapon and looked at me.