I looked around and couldn’t see the Korean policeman anywhere. He hadn’t crossed the street or I would’ve spotted him. He must’ve disappeared into one of the shops or alleyways on my side of the street. I’d only been to Itaewon two or three times before, so I didn’t know it well.

Then, suddenly, luck again fell into my lap. I saw two women who looked like American housewives toting huge shopping bags loaded with goodies.

I rushed toward them; they both stared at the pistol in my hand.

“Hi,” I puffed out. “Did you” – puff, puff – “did you see a Korean cop?”

One had her eyes frozen on my pistol. She nodded.

“Where” – puff, puff – “where’d he go?”

Her head swiveled toward an alleyway about thirty feet away.

I left them standing there. I came around the corner and Bang! The bullet took about an inch of skin and muscle off my left shoulder. The thing that saved my life was those years of shooter training in the outfit. My response was instinctive. I dove through the air, pistol pointed forward, searching for a target. I heard two more shots as I landed hard on my stomach without acquiring my quarry. The blow knocked the air out of my lungs, but I somehow rolled up to my knees, still sweeping the pistol in a semicircle. Aside from a few mamasans and papasans who were frantically scooted up against the sides of the alley, I didn’t see the shooter.

I tried to draw some air, but it took a few precious seconds to get my lungs inflated again. I stood and moved down the alley, this time more slowly. I kept my pistol up and ready, moving it back and forth in a steady sweeping motion.

I heard a shot down to the left, and I ran. The alley split into two tiny, cramped side streets, and I wouldn’t have known which way to go if it hadn’t been for the Korean civilian lying in the middle of the street. There was a big dark hole in the middle of his forehead and blood was puddling on the cement. His eyes were open and glassy. I knew the look. He was dead.

I sprinted past him, noticing that the street ended abruptly at a big concrete wall. It was a dead end. Now, this is where these things always get tricky, because we all know the warning about the cornered rat, and that’s apparently what I had on my hands.

I slowed to a walk. Staying up against the left wall, I edged along, my pistol raised, ready to shoot the next thing that moved. Something suddenly lunged out of a doorway right in front of me, and I lowered my pistol and nearly pulled the trigger. Thank God I didn’t. It was a small Korean kid who stared up at me with a blank expression. I guess he thought the pistol in my hand was a toy gun, or that I was a movie star and his street was being used as a set, because he then started looking around, like, Hey, where’s the camera?

Keeping my gun up with my right hand, I reached down with my left and grabbed the kid by his collar and tugged him back behind me. He seemed to think this was great fun, because he giggled a lot, and hung right on my tail.

I continued inching forward, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of movement. I grabbed the kid and fell backward just as three shots struck the window next to where I’d been standing. On the way down I let loose three quick, wild shots at the spot where I’d seen something move, knowing I had no chance of hitting him, but trying desperately to drive him back behind cover.

A few seconds passed. I heard another shot, then nothing. I slowly got up. The kid had realized my gun wasn’t a toy and this wasn’t a Hollywood extravaganza, because there was this stunned look on his face, and his lips were wide open, and he was getting ready to wail. He was staring at my leg, which hurt like hell. I glanced down and saw it was bleeding. Not from a bullet, though. When the shots struck the window, the glass had shattered and a big angular chunk had fallen down and was now protruding in an ugly way from my left thigh.

I have to confess that I’m not the kind of tough guy who can glibly wrench a big splinter of glass out of my leg and just grin and bear it. But I had to do something, so I reached down and tugged on that big splinter of glass and screamed a scattershot of words that thankfully the kid couldn’t understand because his mother would’ve been seriously unhappy with me.

I sat for a stunned moment, trying to make the pain stop, before I realized that no matter how much it hurt I couldn’t stay where I was. So I got up and limped in the direction of the shooter. I kept my pistol pointed ahead. Reaching the corner that led into the shop he’d fired from, I put my back against the wall and edged forward. A few seconds later I was at the doorway.

Most trained police officers will tell you, this is what’s called a truth-or-consequences moment. So let’s start with truth. The only way to get into that shop was through that doorway. Although you see guys do that in the movies all the time, it’s suicide. Doorways are very narrow things, and the shooter’s expecting you to come through, and he’s stationary, and he’s got his gun poised and ready, and he’s going to get you. It doesn’t matter if you go in flying, or rolling, or doing backward somersaults. He’s going to shoot you and then it’s over.

That’s why policemen carry stun grenades and soldiers carry hand grenades, so they can fling them through doorways, wait till they go boom, then rush through.

Only I didn’t have any grenades.

So I stood there for a long difficult moment and contemplated my options. Up against the wall a few feet down there was a big basket filled with clothes. I limped over and retrieved it. I stuffed my pistol in my belt, lifted that basket, and threw it through the doorway.

Nothing. Not a shot, not a sound. Either the shooter had sharp eyes and recognized it was a basket of clothes, or he was simply too smart for me and was holding his fire. Maybe he’d already fled through a back entrance to the shop. If that was the case, with all this warm blood spilling out of the wound in my leg, this game was over.

So here’s where we get to that consequences part. I held my breath, dove through the doorway, and wildly fired my pistol until there were no rounds left. I lay perfectly still on the ground, my ears ringing, paralyzed as I waited for the shooter to peek up from behind a counter and pop me in the forehead.

It didn’t happen. I waited a long time, helplessly sweeping my empty gun through the air. I won’t say I was disappointed, although it looked like my shooter had gotten away. So I got up and looked around, until I eventually peeked over the far side of the counter. And voila! There was my shooter. He was lying on his stomach, facedown, and there was a big chunk blown out of the back of his head.

Now it’s time for a little secret. Among my many shortcomings is a complete inability to fire a pistol with any accuracy. It’s true. I almost didn’t get into the outfit because of it, and over the next five years they brought in all kinds of weapons experts to coach me. All of them gave up in frustration.

I looked at that hole in the back of the cop’s head and said a silent prayer. I mumbled again and again, Thank you, God, for doing this thing for me. When did I get him, God? Was it when I went down back in the street? Did one of those wild shots catch him in the forehead and send him flying backward over the counter? Or was it when I came diving into the shop, guns blazing?

I bent down and turned him over. The first thing I noticed was the barrel of his own pistol stuck inside his mouth. The second thing I noticed was that he was wearing white cloth gloves that were soaked in blood.