Raman turns toward the stairs, but then stops, hearing something. A rasping 
breath, a rustling of synthleather. A glance back over his shoulder gives him a 
brief view of the impossible. Striper is up on one knee. Her hand is lifting a heavy automatic. Even as Raman tugs the throwing knife from 
beneath his left jacket sleeve, the gun roars, and the first slugs pound into 
his ribs.