When she shoots him, it’s with the silenced side-arm she’s drawn from her left thigh-holster, not her spinal rifle. He doesn’t see it coming. His eyes slide cross-wise as the bolt of EM radiation hits his face, soaks through his skull. He wavers precariously, still balanced upright, and in that tiny space before his body collapses, she throws the small side-arm behind her head, at his beaters, to a chorus of surprised cursing.
She hears the click of the shotgun’s safety, not a foot behind her head.
“Nope.” She grabs the barrel of the shotgun behind her, twists it and smashes it back into the face of the moron who was aiming it at her. He reflexively lets go, and she uses it to club him over the head. As he’s going down, she bludgeons the shocked man to his left. The last four aim their gats at her but they’re too slow, she’s already flung the shotgun at them and they flinch and one of their guns go off but it’s not at her and just like that, one two three four, richocheting off the smooth garage door walls, they’re on the floor. Her spinal rifle is warm in her hand.
She really loves that thing. She blows some air over the front of it, as if smoke were really rising from the barrel.
The whole thing has taken about seven seconds and six men are fried on the floor, twitching. She probably hasn’t killed any of them but Felix Rama, seeing as the rifle was set on low. The rest of the bar paused during the violence but already the beat of the music has swept them back up.
Blue flags down the cute waitress. She seems new, a little perturbed by all the bodies. Big baby blues gone wide.
“Sorry I left you such a mess, sugar,” Blue says to the tiny brunette, easy-like, and the girl’s face sets, resolute.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says.
Get a free, in-home, no obligation quote from a trained garage door specialist who will come to your home and take measurements.
Call: (800) 893-1107
or fill out form below.