Weapon of Vengeance by Mukul Deva

located with the sniper facing the main door and would have a bird’s-eye view of the bungalow. Once they got into the vehicle, the job would become much more difficult.
    â€œSundown!”
    She was right.
    The code word cracked out of the radio. The Controller’s voice retained its British cool, stiff upper lip.
    A scant second later, the sharp crackle of the team’s sniper rifles rang out. The four kidnappers closest to the hostages fell; the two extra-alert ones among them.
    Nitpicking had begun.
    Four down. Eight to go.
    That was the last thought in Ruby’s head as she levered open the door and flew out, her weapon in her left hand—which was not her master hand, but that did not bother her, she had long ago trained herself to marksman standards with both hands, just one more of the prices she’d had to pay for being a woman in a man’s job.
    She had barely exited when a battered maroon van turned the corner and began to nose its way down the potholed road.
    At the same time, three women on foot came around the bend to the left; they hit the road just meters away from the terror cluster.
    Damn! Ruby cursed. Collateral damage would not go down well on her record.
    She was on her third stride when the first shot left her weapon. Though almost flying, her shot did not miss. Beside her, Mark’s weapon spit lead a millisecond later. Another kidnapper fell.
    The team’s sniper rifles crashed out again. More terrorists fell. The odds were improving. Every inbound agent was firing as fast as they could.
    The terrorists still standing had turned to face their attackers and their guns thundered too. So none of their bullets were aimed at the hostages.
    Reacting smartly, the ambassador had dropped to the ground, dragging his wife down with him.
    The terrorists’ lack of training was evident; they were firing blindly before they had even registered their targets.
    But there was nothing amateurish about the bullets that zipped past her. However, with hyped-up nerves and the kill-or-be-killed instinct overruling everything, Ruby and her team raced in. No other options; they had to kill before they were killed.
    The maroon van, seeing all hell break loose ahead, screeched to a halt and began reversing as fast as the driver could make it go. The three women huddled in a screaming cluster on the dirt. One stopped screaming as a passing bullet found her. The screams of the other two grew louder, but were now no more than a part of the background, as were the gunfire and screams of the dying.
    By time Ruby fired her third shot, all twelve terrorists were down. Two, a thirty-something man and one of the younger women, were writhing on the ground, moaning. She shot both of them, putting one bullet through each head as she weaved past to the ambassador.
    He was huddled in the dust, his arms wrapped around his wife. She was screaming, an ululating, keening sound that set Ruby’s teeth on edge. Controlling the urge to slap her into silence, Ruby reached down to grab him. She did not see the beardless teenager, with blood staining his chest, fallen beside the ambassador, reach for the pistol in his waistband. She became aware of him only when Mark’s weapon crackled to life behind her and he died with a sharp, short scream.
    Ruby froze.
    Damn! That was close.
    She cursed herself before throwing a grateful look at Mark. He gave a fleeting half salute as he continued checking the others for signs of life. Another must have been showing some, since Mark’s weapon spit again, the shot echoing away in the now silent surroundings.
    Ruby hoisted up the ambassador; his wife followed in tow as he clutched her. They hustled toward the Toyota, which had shot forward as soon as the last shot faded away.
    The two women passersby huddled down on the road had stopped screaming. Shell-shocked. The playing children had faded away. The maroon van was gone. Barring the thrumming of Toyota engines, the silence was