Sinon jolts awake, heart pounding, palms slick with sweat. Snatching her Glock up from the holster mounted on the side of her bed, she throws her covers off, scanning the room for immediate threats before relaxing and taking a deep breath.
It was just a dream.
Sinon settles back down in bed, her grip on the Glock loosening, warmth creeping back into her skin. There is no one out to get her; Death Gun is not stalking her; she is no longer fighting for her life in the grim and dusty BoB arena. Her apartment has been repaired for the most part, locks replaced and bulletproof windows installed. Most importantly, Hecaté is back in her safe.
No one is trying to kill her anymore.
It has been five years since Sinon retired from the Bullet of Bullets, a full ten since she first signed on the dotted line that served as her ticket to her BoB debut. Sniping skills were without a doubt a perishable skill, but Sinon's survival instincts hadn't dulled one bit, hard-coded into her neural pathways.
Sinon hasn't been entirely out of her game for those past years, however. In fact, she has been quite busy - which is why she immediately knows that something is terribly wrong, despite the scene outside of her window is the very epitome of a tranquil summer evening.
The bullet shot comes out of nowhere, slamming into the window directly opposite Sinon's dresser. The reinforced bulletproof glass trembles under the impact but does not give way. A second gunshot roars in the distance, shattering the window completely, but that provides Sinon enough time to dive out of bed, snatch up her Glock, and dash into the next room.
Sinon mutters a silent prayer of thanks for the bulletproof window that has just saved her life, then takes stock of her situation. If the sniper who shot at her still has his rifle trained on her bedroom, she can't tell. This is not a Bullet of Bullets tournament; there is no bullet line to indicate the continued presence of a sniper, no way to trace the shot back to its original source. The only thing Sinon has is her Glock 18C, her wits, and the battle instincts hammered into her psyche from years of war games and rifle and pistol training.
Sinon glances down at the Glock in her hand. She has thirty-three rounds in her magazine - thirty-three rounds against the five or so men who are moving around in her apartment now, dark shadows gliding silently across the living area.
Silently cursing herself for not grabbing another magazine from the bottom of her nightstand drawer, Sinon quickly calculates her odds. She has about six bullets for each man, unless she can somehow get ahold of one of the intruders' handguns.
Sinon has one advantage that the intruders don't: she knows the layout of her apartment so well that she can practically move around in it blindfolded. Figuring that her best bet is to take out as many as she can by surprise, Sinon remains perfectly still for a few moments, listening to the sound of the men breathing and the footsteps on the hard wood floor.
The best way to make her surprise entrance would be to meet them in the kitchen. Not only would Sinon have ample cover behind the thick island table, but she would also have access to kitchen knives and other implements with sharp blades should it come to that. She knew that if the fight boiled down to hand-to-hand, she would be completely and utterly screwed, but she couldn't think of a better backup plan.
Creeping down the hall as silently as a cat, Sinon shifts into a familiar fighting stance, bringing her Glock to her chest and tilting it slightly with the handgun parallel to her shoulders. Sinon raises the Glock to her line of vision, aligning the front and rear sight until they melded into one. During her final year as a competitor in Glocken City's war games, an American in Sinon's squadron had taught her this stance; they called it "center axis relock," and it was supposed to be useful for such things as home invasions and maneuvering in tight spaces. Sinon would test that theory tonight, albeit against her will. She hoped the American was not lying.
The intruders exit the living room and enter the kitchen. Some of them have flashlights equipped to their pistols, but they are unnecessary. The moonlight streaming through the windows is enough to illuminate the open spaces and plunge other areas into shadow. The cold metal of handgun barrels gleams in the soft glow. Sinon is close enough to the men to notice that there are five in total, all wearing dark suits, all wearing balaclavas over their faces.
Those are some expensive suits. Though all of the battles Sinon has been through were technically simulations, she is plunged into that familiar rush of adrenaline that is often accompanied by a tendency to notice odd details about her opponents or her surroundings - something she'd once heard described as "tunnel vision". Sinon takes a deep breath. These men in very expensive suits, wielding very expensive weapons, and moving with the precision of a well-trained team were not here to sing her a happy birthday, but she would throw them the party of their lives nonetheless.
As if by some act of God, three men file into the space between the island and the oven and sinks. All of them are within Sinon's line of sight; all of them are well within firing distance. If there ever was a time to act, it was now.
Clenching her jaw and saying a silent prayer to whatever God out there would listen, Sinon lines up her sights between the closest man's shoulder blades and squeezes the trigger.
BANG!
The man whirls around in surprise, but Sinon is too quick for him. Two more shots ring out in quick succession, and the man drops onto the floor. The next man in the stack turns to see what's going on but lets out a yelp of surprise - Sinon has Mozambique'd his friend, and he is the next one in line.
Gunshots pound in Sinon's ears as she aims and squeezes the trigger, over and over again, before dropping to the ground. A hail of gunfire erupts from the opposite side of the room, passing over the island, but never quite reaching her. A flash of movement leaps into Sinon's vision out of the corner of her eye, and her body reacts before her brain catches up. The man staggers against the countertop before collapsing to the ground.
Four down. One to go.
The last man is halfway across the kitchen, crouched behind cover just like Sinon is, cowering behind the refrigerator. The man knows where Sinon is; Sinon knows where the man is. None of them want to move out into the open and risk getting shot full of holes. None of them want to continue to trade fire, either, since that would expend the rest of their ammunition. What had begun as a chaotic gunfight in close quarters has now become a game of cat-and-mouse.
Sinon has to move. Whether he knows it or not, the final man standing is located close to a narrow doorway that will lead him through the hallway and around to the other side of the kitchen. If he moves before Sinon can get the jump on him, she may not be able to hold the advantage for much longer.
Sinon glances down at her magazine. Almost all of her ammo is gone - there is nowhere near enough left to carry her through a sustained gunfight. She needs an idea, and she needs an idea fast.
Edging around the corner of the table, Sinon grabs a stool and quietly lifts it up, waiting. Tense silence settles over the kitchen as Sinon waits for the man to make his move, hoping with all of her heart that his desire to see her dead will override his instincts and his judgement.
RINGRINGRINGRINGRINGRINGRING!
Back in her bedroom, the alarm clock on Sinon's smart phone goes off. In the dead silence of the apartment, the ringtone blares through Sinon's living quarters like a trumpet in a concert hall. The final assassin whirls to face the distraction, and Sinon recovers from the jolt of surprise long enough to get her wits about her. Popping up from behind the kitchen island, she musters all of her strength and hurls the stool in the general direction of the shadow that has materialized behind the fridge.
The sound of a loud grunt and the wet slap of wood hitting flesh adds another layer of harmony to the symphony of chaos unfolding in Sinon's apartment. As the man staggers to the side, dropping his handgun, Sinon vaults onto the table, gun blazing.
BANGBANGBANG!
The final assassin drops onto the floor, lifeless, as Sinon collapses onto a nearby chair and smiles weakly.
"Well, how's that for an early wake-up," she says to no one in particular.