The wood panel explodes above my head, and I drop to the ground and lie pressed against the wet stone steps, sucking in oxygen, my heart pounding, my arteries pumped with adrenaline. I want to scramble to my feet and make a run for it, but I force myself to stay motionless. Here, I’m hidden by the yew trees and shrubs in my front yard. Standing, I’m an easy target. My face is a few inches from my copy of The Washington Post in its plastic wrapper to protect it from the rain. Another giveaway I hadn’t yet returned home from police headquarters. I must do something about that problem in the future. Assuming I have a future. I’d parked my car in front of my house rather than in my garage, where it would normally be tucked away. It’s a 1964, fire-engine-red Corvette convertible. That might as well be a billboard advertisement: This is where Marko Zorn lives. Come and get me. I’m an idiot. This is a quiet neighborhood of single-family homes, most built in the 1920s, with large yards and wide front porches where people once sat and drank iced tea on warm days. It’s a typical…