It was a silenced pistol, which made it an automatic because, despite what you may have seen on TV, revolvers aren't really amenable to silencing.  The necessary clearance between the front of the rotating cylinder and the rear of the fixed barrel, lets out too much noisy gas regardless of what magic gizmos you screw on the muzzle.  The little plopping sound meant that it was a fairly small-caliber gun, probably a .22.  The big blasters can't be quieted so effectively, at least not by any device you'd want to smuggle into somebody's hotel room.

I don't mean I stood there figuring all this out; but it's always useful to know what kind of a weapon you're up against.  As I got my reflexes working, I kept in mind that I was dealing with a fast-firing little gun probably holding in the neighborhood of ten shots, a gun with which the other guy would have to hit me dead center, since he didn't have much shocking power at his disposal.  Not that any pistol will really knock a man off his feet, but since the ambusher had missed his first shot I did have a bit of a fire-power edge with my heavier .38 special - if I could get it out in time.

I couldn't use my right hand.  That angle was blocked by Vadya, probably deliberately.  I remembered the sadness I'd seen on her face when she'd suggested coming back here; and her odd hesitation outside.  I remembered also that she did owe me a bullet for old times' sake.  Apparently this was the payoff.  Well, one shot had already been fired and I wasn't dead.

All kinds of fragmentary thoughts like this were flashing through my mind, but I was already going for the gun in my belt left-handed, twisting it free as I dove to the side.  The maneuver is fairly awkward, and while I'm a pretty good shot I'm not really an expert gun-juggler.  My performance wouldn't have earned any applause from the boys with the big hats and the tied-down holsters who play fast-draw games with electronic timers.  The silenced gun had time to spit once more before I could get lined up properly, but I still wasn't hit.

Then the sawed-off .38 in my hand went off with a deafening report.  I mean, in a situation like that, if you've had the training and practice, your gun kind of fires itself as it comes on target.  I gave it free rein, so to speak: I don't insist on economical one-shot kills.  I'm willing to waste a little ammunition to insure that the other guy gets dead and I stay alive.  I let the gun keep firing until the target went down.

It took three shots.  Suddenly the room was very quiet again, until lightning flashed and thunder roared outside.  I listened intently afterwards, expecting to hear excited voices and hurrying footsteps coming my way, but the hotel was silent.  Whatever noises had been heard beyond this room, they'd apparently been attributed to the storm - or to the Mexican kids and their inevitable firecrackers.

I drew a long breath and shifted the revolver from my left hand to my right, which shoots better.  Not that the left had done too badly tonight.  Belatedly I looked around for Vadya.  I found her lying on the floor almost at my feet.  This wasn't on the program, or what I'd thought was the program.  It was her room and her ambush, wasn't it?  She wasn't supposed to be hurt; I was.