Excerpt

Stone settled the Ruger’s red dot just ahead of his target’s nose and squeezed the gun’s trigger.

In short succession, a bullet escaped the barrel, Pfft, and the 22/45’s bolt reciprocated, Click-click.

Smoking Man collapsed.

Stone peeled around the house and fast walked toward the other corner, his eyes darting left and right, up and down. When they faced forward again, he saw that the silhouette he had seen on the ground earlier was gone. Now a real person was staring back at him, a real person with an AK-47 strapped across his chest.

The man scrambled to get his rifle into play.

Stone cursed under his breath. Twenty-two pistols were great for stealth work, for when you had the time to get off a precision headshot. But they were terrible one-shot manstoppers when your opponent would not stand still while you tried to kill him.

Bending at the knees to keep from bouncing, and throwing off his aim, Stone charged forward while working the Ruger’s trigger.

The weapon sounded off, Pfft—Click-click, three times.

All three projectiles hit home; none struck anything vital.

The man brought the weapon to bear.

Come on. Stone fired his last half dozen rounds in less than a second. Hit something juicy.

The handgun’s bolt locked open.