(no subject)
ignazwisdom prompted "either Ray at the shooting range," and i've been sitting on this for over a week now because i forgot i wrote it. cough. (also, again, not entirely happy with it. sigh.)
Ray held the gun in both hands and looked at it. Brand new, shined within an inch of its life, clean as a whistle, a heavy weight in his palm. Nero had presented it to him as a welcome-home gift. He supposed it should have been comforting; a means of defense if his cover was blown, help him stay alive while he waited for the feds to swoop in and rescue him.
He shoved all those thoughts out of his head. It had been made crystal clear to Ray that if he were to be discovered, odds of his survival were not good. This gun, no matter how big, how clean, how intimidating it was right now, could only buy him a well-aimed punch and nine rounds' worth of time. Maybe a little more, if he had a spare clip.
Armando would keep this gun around for show. Not that he didn't know how to use it. He'd stick it in his waistband, settle his jacket over it, and no one would ever see it ninety-five percent of the time. He wouldn't shoot cops or feds, he wasn't stupid and he had people for that sort of thing. Only time anyone would ever see this gun was if someone disappointed him. Then some poor slob would be staring down the barrel. He'd never see it coming. And in a staring contest, Armando tended to win.
Ray set the orange earmuffs on his head and stood sideways at the counter. He slid his hand into the grip and lifted the gun. Aimed carefully. Fired three times.
The paper target floated toward him. Three quick shots, three neat holes in the head. Armando switched the safety on, stuck the gun in his waistband, and buried Ray a little deeper.
Ray held the gun in both hands and looked at it. Brand new, shined within an inch of its life, clean as a whistle, a heavy weight in his palm. Nero had presented it to him as a welcome-home gift. He supposed it should have been comforting; a means of defense if his cover was blown, help him stay alive while he waited for the feds to swoop in and rescue him.
He shoved all those thoughts out of his head. It had been made crystal clear to Ray that if he were to be discovered, odds of his survival were not good. This gun, no matter how big, how clean, how intimidating it was right now, could only buy him a well-aimed punch and nine rounds' worth of time. Maybe a little more, if he had a spare clip.
Armando would keep this gun around for show. Not that he didn't know how to use it. He'd stick it in his waistband, settle his jacket over it, and no one would ever see it ninety-five percent of the time. He wouldn't shoot cops or feds, he wasn't stupid and he had people for that sort of thing. Only time anyone would ever see this gun was if someone disappointed him. Then some poor slob would be staring down the barrel. He'd never see it coming. And in a staring contest, Armando tended to win.
Ray set the orange earmuffs on his head and stood sideways at the counter. He slid his hand into the grip and lifted the gun. Aimed carefully. Fired three times.
The paper target floated toward him. Three quick shots, three neat holes in the head. Armando switched the safety on, stuck the gun in his waistband, and buried Ray a little deeper.