A snippet for year_of_rabbit
Because she doesn't like to wait for the whole thing to be done...
I picked up the gun the merc dropped during the scuffle. A Beretta, a 93FS blue model, big hammer pin under the slide. Fifteen round clip, one bullet gone for sure, and maybe he’d put in a little less, but it felt like at least ten, maybe twelve. The gun’s weight was familiar, the foam pads on the grip fitting a little weird because it’d been in a bigger hand. I knew this gun.
It was the armed forces special.
I headed downstairs.
A faint shadow moved against a grey wall illuminated with nothing but shifting light and the drift of city haze through open windows. It was man-sized and crouched, holding something close to the torso, creeping up the steps one at a time, failing the stealth test with every floorboard creak. It crossed past the art nouveau and rounded the bend.
The shadow was a clone of the merc I’d tossed out the window. Didn’t expect me. Took him too long to get over his surprise. His automatic -- another M16 -- was slow to swing up and get a bead.
I was faster. Smarter. He had a Kevlar vest, probably body armor, too, so I shot him in the thigh right over the shielded kneepads. His legs buckled, sending him rolling down the stairs.
I followed him.
Merc Number Two caught himself a few feet away. Got up, forgot about his knee, fell face-first with a grunt of pain. Tried to stop his slide, but his hands were tangled in the rifle sling, and he knocked himself out on a worn-down carpet edge.
I kicked him in the head.
Made sure he was unconscious.
Climbed over him to get past.
Wondered where the hell Piers was. If he’d run off and left me alone to deal with this clusterfuck, I was going to kick his ass.
I picked up the gun the merc dropped during the scuffle. A Beretta, a 93FS blue model, big hammer pin under the slide. Fifteen round clip, one bullet gone for sure, and maybe he’d put in a little less, but it felt like at least ten, maybe twelve. The gun’s weight was familiar, the foam pads on the grip fitting a little weird because it’d been in a bigger hand. I knew this gun.
It was the armed forces special.
I headed downstairs.
A faint shadow moved against a grey wall illuminated with nothing but shifting light and the drift of city haze through open windows. It was man-sized and crouched, holding something close to the torso, creeping up the steps one at a time, failing the stealth test with every floorboard creak. It crossed past the art nouveau and rounded the bend.
The shadow was a clone of the merc I’d tossed out the window. Didn’t expect me. Took him too long to get over his surprise. His automatic -- another M16 -- was slow to swing up and get a bead.
I was faster. Smarter. He had a Kevlar vest, probably body armor, too, so I shot him in the thigh right over the shielded kneepads. His legs buckled, sending him rolling down the stairs.
I followed him.
Merc Number Two caught himself a few feet away. Got up, forgot about his knee, fell face-first with a grunt of pain. Tried to stop his slide, but his hands were tangled in the rifle sling, and he knocked himself out on a worn-down carpet edge.
I kicked him in the head.
Made sure he was unconscious.
Climbed over him to get past.
Wondered where the hell Piers was. If he’d run off and left me alone to deal with this clusterfuck, I was going to kick his ass.