A massive black armored truck crashes through the gate at high speed, tearing it from its frame and sending it spinning aside like a piece of plywood. The two armed men at the door of Clint’s house immediately raise their guns as the truck speeds forward and skids to a stop just in front of the steps.

“Oh, shit!” Clint bellows, dropping his cigar. It’s then I see, imprinted on the side of the truck, the bright yellow letters that read F.B.I.

Gunshots ring out into the night as a door on the back of the truck opens and armed men, fully suited up in tactical gear, leap out, flooding...