Both armored goons come through the door, one sidestepping to the left, the other to the right, to flank me. They’re good—careful not to get in each other’s line of fire. And I mentally kick myself in the hoop. For a few seconds there when the door first opened, they couldn’t have fired without a very real risk of greasing the biff. Unless she’s got some kind of magical protection up, of course. I guess, on second thought, my instincts were right.