(no subject)
Do you tend to be a borrower or a lender?
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“Well what do we have here?”
The roar of the motorcycles had alerted her to the presence of unwanted company. For the last two hours she had been completely alone in Bjurman’s country house, going through rooms, boxes, looking for the papers that everyone else is looking for. When she arrived on foot, the place was already a mess, the lock on the front door broken, clothes thrown on the floor and boxes over turned. For a moment she had thought the police had done this but it was too sloppy even for police. Quiet possibly it could have been local kids who saw the name in the papers and decided to see if there was anything of value left in the cabin.
“That Salander bitch,” Sonny sat back on his hog and watched his bald headed companion make the slow climb off of his bike and adjust himself.
“We’ve been looking for you,” why yes, yes, he had. That cut on his face she gave him that night when he tried to jump her was healing nicely, a shame. Separated from her backpack, and two against one, well she didn’t like those odds. One on one is a little different, at least that’s a fighting chance. The stocky, compact biker finished groping himself and approached, finally growling out the only words she was going to let him say:
“She looks like she needs a good, honest fuck.”
The hell. He took two swings, both missing, before she unloaded the can of mace into his eyes and grabbed him by his shoulders. If pressed she was pretty sure it was his face hitting her knee, and not her knee crushing the ever loving shit out of his nose and mouth. His cry was garbled as he went down trying to claw at the spray that was stinging and swelling his eyes shut.
One down.
Sonny had been laughing at his friend’s misfortune, a grown biker being brought down but a scrawny bitch it was too funny. By the time Magge went down and he was climbing off his bike, Lisbeth was running at him, using the full weight of her scrawny self to knock him on his back. He might have been laughing when Magge got the mace but he had lost his sense of humor when she sent 100 thousand volts of electricity into his crotch. Like a man in the electric chair it twitched and shook as the electricity fried his nerves and muscles knocking him out cold. With him currently incapacitated on the ground she was free to borrow his firearm which had got caught in the leather of his biker vest. Clearly forethought and planning was not something that hired for when he applied to the biker gang. However his loss is her gain and just in time.
When a man has been doused in the face with mace and is currently bleeding heavily from the nose and mouth he has a limited number of options open to him. He could stay down, he could run like the bitch he is, or he could get up and charge blindly at his attacker now currently holding a gun. Magge wasn’t hired for his brains, just like Sonny wasn’t hired for his planning and his drug free piss test.
She could blow his head off, she could drop him like the sack of shit that he is and she would be justified in doing it. He attacked her, he was a thug, a pimp, and a drug dealer and him dead and rotting in the ground wouldn’t upset anyone in the whole entire shit filled world. Cocking the gun she leveled it at him, breathing easy, steady, not angry, just cold, critical, planning. According to the papers she’s a psychotic killer with three murders under her belt, what’s one more? What’s two more? Is there a point where the number becomes a factor in her punishment? If the state is so hell bent on putting her away for the rest of her life then what does it matter how many people she kills? She can only live one life and if they get their hands on her she has no hope of ever getting out of prison alive.
When the gun went off Magge dropped like the sack of shit he was. Not to be getting up any time soon.
Keeping the borrowed gun, she took a look at her options even in the country a neighbor would have heard the gun shot so she needed to get lost quick. Sonny’s bike was closer to the drive way, and so Sonny’s bike it was. Relieving him of his leather jacket, helmet and glasses she climbed upon the hog and started toward the road. She’d only borrow them, leaving everything reluctantly at a train station in town. Dumping the sunglasses and leather jacket in a trash can. Easy come, easy go.