The line of windows behind the long wooden table imploded, showering us in a deadly rainfall of a thousand tiny glass daggers. Four black-clad figures on rappel lines swung into the room, machine guns strapped to their backs. They wore some type of modified night vision glasses.

Baruch flipped the sofa, and pretty much threw Ms. Clara and Leo into the crawl space underneath.

Bullets scattered like seeds of destruction. Wood chips flew and shredded books shot up into the ...