(Untitled)
" -- out of here! Let me out of h -- "
Apparently DI Sam Tyler was not expecting the door to give way, no matter how hard he was shoving at it.
It means that once it does open, he goes sprawling, catching himself on hands and knees and taking a deep breath.
Okay, two deep breaths ( Read more... )
Apparently DI Sam Tyler was not expecting the door to give way, no matter how hard he was shoving at it.
It means that once it does open, he goes sprawling, catching himself on hands and knees and taking a deep breath.
Okay, two deep breaths ( Read more... )
'Oh get up, y'big girl. Wha's the matter, been on the gin on th' way back from the 'ospital?'
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She slips the gun back in her jeans, and gestures him towards the rise that leads to the firing range.
"Enjoying the view back there? Better get used to it, seeing as you're going to be eating my dust all day."
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He is very much enjoying himself. Maybe neither of them realise it, as they don't know him well yet, but loud and rude = great mood. Generally.
And his long strides bring him level with them.
'Try an' resist the urge to chuck petrol bombs at the targets, will ya? Gotta leave some f'the rest of us to play on.'
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Did Sam miss a memo?
Are there memos here?
Bloody paperwork. And without computers, even.
Rubbish.
"And I missed it?"
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Fiona sets her duffle down on one of the firing line tables and starts unpacking. Boxes of ammo here. Four different black cases are laid out and opened, revealing several different types of revolver and automatic handguns, from .22 all the way up to the Desert Eagle .50 Action Express.
"And don't worry, Hunt. I've graduated from the kiddie stuff. If I want to blow off steam, it's RPGs or shoulder mounted surface-to-air missiles. Though I'm still working on Ironhide to get me some of those high power lasers of his in rifle form. Don't you even have a speedloader for that?"
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And then at Sam.
'Told ya, Tyler, she's a Paddy. One o'those Paddy's who think British soldiers look good in khaki an' flames an' a bullet in the 'ead.'
Translation: she's IRA. As far as he knows. Or was, at some point. Either way, she's a pain in the arse.
'Wha' are you on abou', ya daft tart? Speedloader? Where's the fun in tha'?'
He can figure out what it means, though he's neer seen one. And would never use one anyway. No drama in something like that and he's sure as hell never seen Gary Cooper using one.
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"And you're having a shooting contest with her."
Riiiiiight.
Brilliant.
(At least no one has yet given Gene a shoulder-mounted missile. Small favors.)
"Quite."
His gaze slips sideways, toward Fiona. Because honestly, that is only sensible. She's the one with the portable arsenal, after all.
"That the kind of swag you can get here, or is it all home-grown?"
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"Bar doesn't typically give out weapons." She's all business now, her hands going through the motions of checking and clearing each gun, laying them out on a towel brought specifically for that purpose. "These are all mine."
She looks up at Sam, sharp as a razor.
"They did give you the 'no business in Bar' speech, didn't they?"
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(He wants a shoulder-mounted missile. Wants it like burning.)
'You think I was gonna back ou' of a dare thrown down by a girl?'
Please.
'Grow some balls, Tyler.'
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His attention hasn't really wavered from Fiona, and it probably won't for the foreseeable future.
"I've heard that speech and then some. I'll tell you what I told them -- I'm off the clock, but what I think doesn't change. If you can deal with that -- "
He doesn't bother shrugging.
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She hands him a .38 revolver, cylinder open so he can see that it's loaded. To Hunt, she just throws a wink.
"I'm sure you'll want to put a few rounds down range, a little warm up, so to speak. Are we doing paper targets or running the plates?"
Two options. Paper targets at distances of five to thirty yards, or off to the side, a row of five stand up steel plates at five yards with a timer standing off to one side.
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Why is he always surrounded by people who talk gibberish?
He eyes up the range.
'Start off on paper, then move on. You've go' enough ammo there t'sink a battleship.'
Paper targets are what he's used to and he's great with them. Moving ones? Well, he's never tried. But he's certainly hit enough running people in his time.
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Sam says it half-absently, checking over the .38 on reflex. Everything seems right, but he'll find out if anything's dodgy once the firing starts.
Since this is practice, he'll let it slide. (Okay, not really.)
"Politics're bad for most things, when you get right down to it."
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The weapon is clean and in perfect working order. Fiona takes damned good care of her guns. For her part, she's pocketing two magazines for the SIG and sliding another into place, tapping and racking with practised motions. She grabs her shades and puts them on, tossing the ball cap aside.
"Those are speed plates, if you're curious. The timer starts when you knock down the first plate and stops when the last plate falls. Trick is to see who has the fastest time from the first to the last plate."
"But paper is good. We can do paper."
She steps up to the line, takes a stance, makes a sight picture and empties the magazine as fast as she can pull the trigger.
"Next?"
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Having Sam here makes him edgy. He wasn't expecting an audience for this.
'Ninth o'September? What 'appened an' why don' I know abou' it?'
Lalala, ignoring Fi and her superfast shooting.
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His eyebrows don't hit his hairline only because 1) he was expecting her to be good, and 2) he has seen modern weaponry in action before.
"And I believe it's your shot now, Hunt."
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