AMIRA by Matthew Betley (feel good books to read .TXT) 📕

John never hesitated, crouched down, and fired the 1911 into the air, which served two purposes – to suppress the two shooters and force the remaining bystanders near the gunfight to fling themselves to the floor.  He fired several times, praying the vaulted glass ceiling several stories above wouldn’t come crashing down upon all of their heads.

Logan leapt into action at the first shot, sprinting towards the glass wall and the exit to the walkways outside that led to the Riverview Ballroom.

The slide on John’s 1911 locked back, the magazine empty.  John ducked down, ejected the magazine, inserted another, and pulled the slide, releasing it.  He stood up to engage the shooters but held his fire and smiled at the sight of Amira charging the two men from the side.  Get those fuckers, babe. 

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John’s fire had forced Omar and the second shooter to back against the wall of the free-standing convenience store and hide behind a large Christmas tree.  Amira had crouched down and skirted along a row of fallen tables until she was behind a plastic Roman architecture support column for the awning of the restaurant, parallel to the shooters.

John’s 1911 went silent, and Amira spun around the column, her SIGSAUER at the ready.  Gotcha. 

Omar’s little helper was less than fifteen feet away in between her and Omar.  He stood back up to return fire when Amira pulled the trigger one time, striking the man in the side of the head.  Even as he collapsed to the stone floor, Omar recognized the mortal peril he was suddenly in, and he took a step backwards, turned, and dashed towards the open door to the store.

Amira couldn’t risk firing into the building, as she knew the 9mm rounds would easily pass through the thin walls.  She sprang into a run and gave chase, covering the open ground in seconds.

Omar was already through the door when he crashed into a man who’d mistakenly thought it would be a good idea to try and get a glimpse of the chaos outside the store.  Both Omar and the young man in his late twenties crashed to the store floor and slid into a rack of snacks erected in the middle of the floor.  Omar pulled up his right hand to fire into the man’s stomach, when he realized with surprise that he’d dropped the Glock.  Instead, he punched the man twice in the face, broke his nose, and scrambled backwards, lifting himself to his knees.

He turned back towards the door as the figure of Amira Cerone rushed through the entrance, her pistol trained on him.  Omar snarled at the woman he despised purely and completely, grabbed a box of Cliff power bars off the shelf next to him, and flung them at her as he launched himself off his knees towards his enemy.  I won’t go down without a fight. 

Amira batted away the projectile power bars, the SIG still in her right hand, as she collided into the attacking, muscular figure of Omar Bol.  I guess we’ll do this the hard way.  She sensed several bystanders inside the store, cowering in the corners on the floor, and she feared a stray shot would take an innocent life.

As Omar wrapped his arms around her, his head to the right side of her chest under her arm, she quickly turned her head and flung the SIG through the doorway to the walkway outside, where she knew John would collect it after he secured the scene around the other shooter’s body.

The momentary action gave Omar the advantage, and he punched her hard in the left side three times before she could react.  Her ribs and abdomen absorbed the blows, and she slammed her right elbow down on to the base of his skull.  The blow staggered him, and he released her waist and spun to the left.  Amira pressed forward, spun on her left foot, switched to her right foot mid-spin, and struck Omar in the hip with a back kick.  The blow sent him careening into a spinning rack of paperback books, and both Omar and the rack tumbled to the floor as the paperbacks fell out of their holders.  Omar picked up a book and hurled it in Amira’s direction as she stalked towards him.

She easily deflected it, and said, “This ends now.”  As she passed the pentagonal counter in the middle of the floor, she grabbed a silver Gaylord National letter opener from a hanging rack next to the register.

Omar threw another book, and Amira ducked as it sailed past, catching a glimpse of a soldier on the cover, staring into the wilderness over big block letters that read, “OVER WATCH.”

Omar rose to his feet, his eyes on the letter opener, and he pulled a short push-dagger from beneath his jacket.

Amira smiled at the appearance of the blade.  “Good.  I don’t want to be accused of killing an unarmed man.”

The bystanders gasped at the unfolding knife fight, and several fled through the two entrances into the store.

“Go to hell,” Omar said, and threw a left jab at her face with the intention of distracting Amira in order to close the distance.

“You first,” Amira said as Omar attacked.

Unfortunately for Omar, Amira Cerone was one of the most skilled hand-to-hand combat fighters in service of the CIA and Task Force Ares, and she identified the feint for what it was.  She brought the letter opener up so fast Omar never saw it until it was sticking out of the bottom of his forearm and the pain had blossomed in his arm.  She pulled out the letter opener, the blood glistening on the silver blade, and grabbed his right wrist with her left hand, immobilizing the push-dagger.

Amira’s eyes blazed with fury as Omar struggled futiley against her grip.  “There’s nowhere left