Rising Tiger: A Thriller (44)

A rain had fallen overnight, slicking the streets and sidewalks like they were all part of a movie set. The lingering humidity amplified the fragrance of the flowers and the fruit trees along her route. Delhi, especially for those in tune with their senses, had so much to offer.

She moved deliberately, but with grace. More panther than automaton.

Her training, as all good training should be, had become second nature. She knew what to look for and how to look for it. The most dangerous threat wasn’t the one you never saw, but rather the one you could see but failed to recognize. Because that threat came from a practiced, prepared enemy—one who had done their homework, had leveraged everything to their advantage, and had come to win.

That was why, when she saw the scene up ahead, her hand instantly moved to her weapon.

For anyone else, it would have appeared to be a terrible accident. A truck had struck a motorcycle, and the motorcyclist was badly injured. Except, it was all wrong.

Based on the direction of travel and the angle of impact, the motorcycle’s handlebars, as well as its rear wheel, would have been pointed in a different direction. The truck’s front bumper was damaged, but not where it should have been. There was also no motorcycle paint on the truck and no truck paint on the motorcycle.

In fact, the motorcycle, in her rapid processing of the scene, didn’t seem to have any signs of damage whatsoever. It was as if someone had laid the bike down, and the driver next to it, just to make it look like an accident had taken place.

It was at that moment that she heard the sound—the hollow thwump of a Kevlar-encased beanbag round being fired from a twelve-gauge shotgun.

She had been so locked on the accident scene that she had failed to notice the figure behind the parked car across the street.

Whoever he was, he was a decent marksman. The riot-control round hit her dead center, in the middle of her chest, and knocked her over backward to the ground.

When she hit, she hit hard, cracking the back of her head against the pavement. She didn’t see stars; she saw black. Practically pitch black.

But there was a little pinpoint of light and she clung to it, forcing her conscious mind, which was suddenly powering down, to pay attention to and follow it. And through absolute sheer force of will, she prevailed.

To anyone watching, it would have looked like the Terminator rebooting. Sure, she had gotten knocked on her ass, but shaking the cobwebs from her brain, she had gotten right back up.

Leaping onto her feet, Glock in hand, she began firing.

She started with beanbag. As he worked his way across the street, and before he could fire another round, she put two bullets into his chest and one into his forehead.

The sound of gunfire sent people scurrying, and Asha flipped her attention to the “accident” only a couple of car lengths ahead.

Not to her surprise, the heretofore injured motorcyclist was on his feet and moving in her direction. In his hand was a MAC-10 pistol. Next to him, with an Indian Army standard-issue CAR 816 “Sultan” battle rifle, was the driver of the truck. They both raised their weapons and began firing at the same time.

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, a horrific exception, 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 and she was 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.