The night was suffocatingly dark in Paradise Valley, Arizona in October of 1987—a town shrouded in quiet and lit only by the stars above. There were no streetlights, no safety in visibility, just shadows stretching endlessly into the void. I was there as a process server, having just served an eviction notice to a woman.     What I didn’t know was that the shadows would soon hide a predator—and my fight for survival. I was making my way back to my car when her husband, seething with rage, emerged from the darkness. Without warning, he struck me with the heavy steel of a Colt 1911 .45. The force sent me reeling, blood streaming into my left eye. Disoriented and half-blinded, I staggered, but his intentions were clear. The cold, merciless muzzle of his gun found me, and I saw death in his eyes. Instinct roared to life. My hand reached for my own weapon, a modest five-shot .38. In the chaos, I managed to fire—not once, but five times. Each shot tore through the darkness an...