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

front of her, his arms likely facing to her left.  If you’re wrong, you might get shot in the face, in which case, this will be over sooner than you know.  But she was out of time and out of room.  Now. 

Without the benefit of sight, she visualized the attack in her mind’s eye and pictured the man, his arms extended forward, the pistol held chest high.  Amira sprang forward and reached out with both her hands, literally grasping in the dark, praying she’d estimated correctly.

Her left hand crashed into a hard object, and she realized she’d struck the pistol.  Her right hand struck something both hard and soft – his face – and she pushed as hard as she could, driving his head through the curtain and into the concrete wall.  She was rewarded with a sickening smack as his skull collided with the concrete, but she didn’t care.  She grabbed the pistol with her left hand, wrapped her fingers around the top of the gun, and dug her right hand deep into his thick, black hair.  Like her father had told her, Unlike the movies, in reality, you make sure your enemy is down, no matter how many times you have to strike.  She yanked backwards and then slammed his head against the wall with as much strength as she could muster.  He’d already begun to collapse from the first blow, which provided Amira with additional vertical downward force.  His head struck a second time, and she was fairly certain she felt and heard a crack.  Good.  He’s out of this fight.  He crumpled to the floor and lay still.

She pried the pistol from his limp fingers, ducked down into a squat, and slowly moved to her right, the pistol straight and out, scanning for a target, the way her father had instructed.  She had no idea what kind of gun she held, but she kept her finger straight and off the trigger.  Her father was right, once again – the hours of training with him on the range had automatically switched on when she needed them.  There was something to be said for muscle memory in the height of chaos and combat.

The second shooter whispered something in Chinese in an attempt to communicate with his partner.  His only response was silence.  He now knows he’s alone.  You’re only going to get one shot at this. 

Amira and the second gunman were locked in a Mexican standoff, and both knew it.  She had to assume he knew she had his partner’s weapon, and whoever fired first would reveal the other’s position.  She needed to create a diversion and force her enemy to act.

She reached down and grabbed the first thing she touched – the fallen man’s shoe – and pried it off his foot.  She cocked her arm back and threw it as far as she could towards the opposite corner of the Black Box.  The shoe landed with a thud and tumbled two more times before coming to a rest.

There was a movement to her left and in front of her, but no shots came.  He’s smart.  He won’t be tricked that easily.  He also might know where you threw it from.  Move. 

Amira’s mind and body were in complete synchronicity, and she moved to the right as quickly and quietly as she could.  She covered ten silent paces and stopped as she heard more movement as he crept towards where his partner lay against the wall.

More shots rang out from the lobby.

What’s going on out there?  The cops can’t be here yet.  It doesn’t matter.  Be patient, no matter what.  Something will give.  It always does, her father’s voice said soothingly.  You’ve already evened the odds, and he may be scared because he knows he underestimated you.  He’ll make a mistake, and then he’s yours. 

The fact that she welcomed the feeling, the anticipation of potentially vanquishing a second opponent who wished her harm, registered, but she pushed it aside, and waited.

Her terror had transformed into a fierce determination, that no matter what happened, she would not lose this fight, not to some interloper who’d assaulted her and Susan in the place they considered their second home, their sanctuary.  It would not stand.

The entrance to the theater suddenly opened, and the lights from the corridor pierced the darkness, the amber glow freezing the scene inside the Black Box in the dull light.  Multiple events occurred at once, and Amira acted without hesitation.

A man suddenly appeared in the doorway, crouched low as he moved, his silhouette shifting the shadows like living ghosts around the funnel of light inside the Black Box. Amira turned towards the light and spotted her adversary, the man she’d disarmed in the lobby.  He stood thirty feet away from her, but his attention had turned towards the door.  He raised his pistol, said something in Chinese, and waited for a response.  Amira shifted the pistol towards her attacker, but time seemed to slow.  She knew what was about to happen and prayed for another second to act.

The newcomer didn’t reply, which sealed his fate.

He knows this new guy isn’t one of his.  He’s going to shoot him.  A coldness burst in Amira’s chest at the knowledge that she had no choice, that she had to take a life to save a life.  The enemy of my enemy is my friend. 

Amira screamed, “Get down!” and fired, pulling the trigger smoothly several times.

The gunshots roared inside the confined space, the muzzle flashes bursting before her eyes with each squeeze of the trigger, but she held true and aimed at her target through each buck of the pistol.  His body jerked as the bullets struck him in the side, left shoulder, and neck, moving in the dim light like a spastic ballerina.  In his death throes, he managed to pull the trigger, but the man in