Jury of One by David Ellis Page A

door. They’d been here before, probably stood by the door, measured the angles of viewpoint. They’d known exactly where to stand to avoid detection.
    They didn’t take the stairs with the boy initially, because Shelly would have seen them. The plan was to get the boy inside her place, at which time they would sneak up the stairs and wait for the door to open again, as the boy was leaving. She hadn’t looked through the peephole, but had she done so, ten-to-one they were just outside its range as well. They were waiting to pounce the moment they heard the chain open, the moment the door opened even an inch.
    They had given this boy enough information to bullshit his way in. He knew Alex, knew the cop. But he hadn’t provided any detail whatsoever. They had busted the junkie and made him help them, probably in exchange for a walk.
    She’d been smart but not smart enough, not sufficiently careful. She was living the one lesson she never told her students, because there was no point in doing so: No matter how careful you are, if someone wants at you bad enough, he’ll probably get there.
    The impact threw Shelly against the wall but she managed to keep her feet. Two men stormed in, wearing black ski masks and long coats, rubber gloves. The first man came at her, his hands raised. She gave a short kick into his crotch. He doubled over; she grabbed at the back of his coat and used his momentum to propel him forward, past her to the carpet.
    The second man held a revolver with a silencer poised at her face. He shook his head slowly. He was in the doorway, with a foot jammed against the door to keep it open. She looked at his feet, then measured the distance. She was off balance againstthe wall, too far from the man for a kick, and she couldn’t close the door on him even if she could reach it. She ignored the sounds behind her, the painful grunt of the first intruder. She measured the distance again.
    “You’ll be dead before you take a step,” said the man. His voice carried well through the mask. “And so will Alex.”
    She heard the man behind her get to his feet. A moment later, a weapon was pressed against her temple.
    Alex,
he’d said. This guy knew the name of her client. As a juvenile, his identity had been kept confidential. Not reported in the press.
    In the space of no more than ten seconds, they had entered and subdued her. And made virtually no noise doing it. They were either hard-boiled crooks or cops.
    Or both.
    The one in the doorway looked behind him to be sure the junkie had high-tailed it. Then, with his revolver still trained on her, he closed the door and locked the chain. He approached her with the gun aimed at her face. There were now two guns within inches of her nose.
    “Open wide,” he said.
    She locked her jaw, grit her teeth, but he pushed the silencer hard against her mouth until she had no choice. If she resisted, it could go off.
    “Here’s the good news,” he whispered. His eyes—the only part of his face exposed—were a dark brown, narrowed into slits. “I’m not going to kill you.”
    Shelly had already figured as much. If they wanted her dead, they would have killed her by now. They’d shown too much skill to be sloppy on this point.
    “This gun here”—he pushed the weapon deeper into her mouth, almost gagging Shelly—“this is my insurance against you trying any more of that judo shit. Won’t be my fault the gun goes off.” He grunted, or laughed, it was hard to differentiate. The tough part was over, now he was confident. “Oh, yeah, lady lawyer, we know all about you.”
    Shelly was frozen. Her mind instinctively turned to her myriad of options, body locations for kicks and knee thrusts and punches. If it were a fair fight, she was sure she could handlethem together. But there was nothing she could do with a gun in her mouth.
    They had done their homework. They would deliver their message and get out.
    The second man whispered into her ear. “You sure are a