Page 49 of Rising Tiger

Asha took cover behind a parked car and crawled forward to maximize the protection of the vehicle’s engine block. With a good mental picture of where her attackers were, she raised her arm over the hood of the car and began firing.

When her pistol ran out of ammo and she felt the slide lock back, she pulled her arm down.

In one fluid motion, she ejected the spent magazine, flicking it to the side, and slammed in a fresh one. She then released the slide lock, seating a new round in the chamber and rendering the weapon hot.

Though running Glock 17 mags in her Glock 19 meant they stuck out a bit beneath the weapon’s grip, they allowed her to carry two additional rounds, which might end up being the difference between life and death. With her only spare mag the one now in her pistol, she had seventeen rounds with which to end this gunfight. Unsurprisingly, she suddenly wished she had brought a lot more.

But the idea of leaving her apartment with more than “one in the gun” and an additional magazine on her belt hadn’t even occurred to her this morning.

Despite her outrage over the terrorist attacks in Mumbai, and how underprepared the first responders had been, she had stopped carrying multiple extra mags a while ago. She, like many others who had upped their game in the aftermath, had grown complacent. Dragging that extra weight around was a hassle. Ultimately, the Mumbai attacks had been an exception, ahorrificexception, but not the rule.

Which begged a fair question—for how long should one be expected to leave their home every day, kitted out for war?

Of course, the answer was highly personal and depended upon what one could “reasonably” expect to encounter.

Never in a million years would she have expected something like this. Not here. Not so close to her apartment.

But right now, none of that mattered. This was an active-shooter scenario andshewas the target. She needed to outthink these people and hurt them before they could hurt her.

Staying low, she tried to retreat, but the moment she did, her attackers began firing again, showering her with broken glass from the car she was hiding behind.

There was no way that they could have anticipated my move. They had to have seen me. But how?

She rapidly scanned her surroundings until she saw it—one of the side mirrors on the truck had been tilted in such a way that it allowed them to see her the moment she went to make her move.

Willing to expend one of her precious rounds, she took aim, pressed her trigger, and blew the mirror clean off.

But instead of moving the way she had originally intended, she reversed and pushed forward, taking the fight to them, rather than waiting for them to bring it to her.

A person standing near the door of a kitchen shop tried to peer out, and Asha waved for him to get back inside. The presence of civilians only made the situation more dangerous. She didn’t want any civilians being harmed. Her remaining two attackers, however, were a different story.

Pressing forward, she continued to stay low and searched for any advantage she could find—a side-view mirror such as the bad guys had used, a reflective car windshield, a storefront window, anything. There was nothing.

Worse than nothing, the gunfire had been so loud that her ears were ringing. Someone could have come up right behind her and she wouldn’t have heard them.

Pausing her advance, she stuck her gun under her left armpit and spun her head to look over her shoulder.Fuck.

Without even taking time to aim, she began firing.

The truck driver had come up from behind and was about to take herout. Instead, she stitched a racing stripe of 9mm rounds from his balls up to his bulbous, pockmarked nose, dropping him dead onto the pavement. That left only one more.The motorcyclist.

“Where the hell are you?” she whispered under her breath.

Then she saw something. A flash, in a puddle, just beyond the bumper of the car she was hiding behind.

Dropping to the pavement, she tilted her Glock to the side, aimed it underneath the vehicle, and held her breath.

For a moment, it felt like everything had stopped. There was no breeze, no traffic, no people, nothing. Until a boot came into view.

When the second appeared, she exhaled and pressed her trigger—shattering the motorcyclist’s left ankle. She fired two more times, hitting him in the opposite ankle and shin.

Unable to bear any weight, the assailant fell over into the street. As he did, Asha continued to fire.

She shot him again and again. In the chest, the clavicle, the throat, and once through the side of his helmet.

Standing up, she crept out from behind the safety of the parked car and looked down on her attacker, lying in a pool of blood in the street. As she did, the man tried to raise his weapon and fire back.

Asha then shot him through his visor. Twice. They were the last two rounds in her Glock.

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