O n a Friday afternoon in October, I got off the Metro at Waterfront Station in Washington, D.C. As in many of the subway stations in the nation’s capital, one typically exits via a long escalator, and as I rose toward the daylight, a National Guard squad was waiting at the top. A sergeant signaled to me urgently.

“Sir, there’s an active shooter in the area,” the young man said, his languid Appalachian drawl only partly concealing his agitation. Pointing to a Safeway nearby, he said, “We advise you to shelter in place at that store until local law enforcement gives us the all-clear.”

After more than two decades of working in war zones, first as a Marine and then as a journalist, I’m not accustomed to running away from the sound of the guns. I asked the Guardsman how many shots he’d h

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