Cathbad
Level 30 Geek Master
Since this is a new genre for me, I wanted some opinions. But I'm a virgin in this forum, so please be gentle.
Perhaps no one expects a woman in this role. In fact, I’m sure they don’t. And I often use that to my advantage.
“GET OVER THERE!”
I went to where the masked gunman was pointing.
“NOW GET ON THE FLOOR, LIKE THE REST OF ‘EM!”
I rolled my eyes. “The rest of them aren’t wearing designer dresses!” Neither was I, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t know that.
He looked confused for a moment, then shook his head, as though to clear it. “Please get on the floor, ma’am.” Despite the sarcasm, at least he wasn’t shouting anymore.
I gave him a smile. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” I started to kneel, then pretended to slip a bit. I gave a polite little laugh. “I’m fine. Just a tad clumsy!” I told him, as though he cared.
My ‘slip’ had allowed me to get my hands on the floor, next to my ankles. I was watching the gunman carefully. As he looked down at the floor, chuckling and shaking his head, I drew the small pistol strapped to my ankle.
I fired a single bullet – that proved an inch or two off, as it entered his left eye.
That pissed me off, and I threw the offending weapon to the side, and drew the larger one from my back waistband. My favorite Sig Sauer P226.
I ignored the screams of my ‘fellow victims’.
Two of the dead man’s compatriots came running out of the company vault.
Poor, stupid bastards.
I expended two more expensive bullets putting the newcomers down.
I turned and aimed my beautiful, black Sig at the other member of this ill-fated group. I’d judged him in a millisecond to be of little consequence, as I’d snuck into the room. Shy, obviously roped into this little escapade, either by a friend or brother. Even on the poor-quality security cameras, I’d seen he was cute, and I so hate shooting cute guys! “Two choices,” I told him, “leave, or die.”
He chose the former, running down the hall to the elevator, down three floors and out the lobby to his team’s waiting get-away car.
Do you think I ought to have told him the driver was cuffed to the steering wheel, and the other half of the company’s security team was outside waiting for him?
Amateurs. Fools probably heard we kept a lot of money in the vault – probably from an employee who knew nothing about our security, figured, “How hard could it be? It’s not like they’re a bank!”
Here’s a tip for all you wanna-be criminals: Go for the bank – they don’t hire trigger-happy security personnel who don't have to follow stupid protocol rules.
My name’s Francesca Dowling. And if you call me anything other than Fran, I won’t be happy.
And I carry a big gun.
1 My Name is Fran
Perhaps no one expects a woman in this role. In fact, I’m sure they don’t. And I often use that to my advantage.
“GET OVER THERE!”
I went to where the masked gunman was pointing.
“NOW GET ON THE FLOOR, LIKE THE REST OF ‘EM!”
I rolled my eyes. “The rest of them aren’t wearing designer dresses!” Neither was I, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t know that.
He looked confused for a moment, then shook his head, as though to clear it. “Please get on the floor, ma’am.” Despite the sarcasm, at least he wasn’t shouting anymore.
I gave him a smile. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” I started to kneel, then pretended to slip a bit. I gave a polite little laugh. “I’m fine. Just a tad clumsy!” I told him, as though he cared.
My ‘slip’ had allowed me to get my hands on the floor, next to my ankles. I was watching the gunman carefully. As he looked down at the floor, chuckling and shaking his head, I drew the small pistol strapped to my ankle.
I fired a single bullet – that proved an inch or two off, as it entered his left eye.
That pissed me off, and I threw the offending weapon to the side, and drew the larger one from my back waistband. My favorite Sig Sauer P226.
I ignored the screams of my ‘fellow victims’.
Two of the dead man’s compatriots came running out of the company vault.
Poor, stupid bastards.
I expended two more expensive bullets putting the newcomers down.
I turned and aimed my beautiful, black Sig at the other member of this ill-fated group. I’d judged him in a millisecond to be of little consequence, as I’d snuck into the room. Shy, obviously roped into this little escapade, either by a friend or brother. Even on the poor-quality security cameras, I’d seen he was cute, and I so hate shooting cute guys! “Two choices,” I told him, “leave, or die.”
He chose the former, running down the hall to the elevator, down three floors and out the lobby to his team’s waiting get-away car.
Do you think I ought to have told him the driver was cuffed to the steering wheel, and the other half of the company’s security team was outside waiting for him?
Amateurs. Fools probably heard we kept a lot of money in the vault – probably from an employee who knew nothing about our security, figured, “How hard could it be? It’s not like they’re a bank!”
Here’s a tip for all you wanna-be criminals: Go for the bank – they don’t hire trigger-happy security personnel who don't have to follow stupid protocol rules.
My name’s Francesca Dowling. And if you call me anything other than Fran, I won’t be happy.
And I carry a big gun.