OUTRUN STORIES #9 — …It’s never over
“What have you got to be afraid of?” she said to herself, pulling off her helmet, stepping up to the warehouse door turning and watching the mist of her breath glitter for a moment in the headlight of her motorcycle.
She smiled, dropped the helmet, reached inside her bag of weapons and gave herself a moment. What was it likely to be? Only half a dozen hired thugs armed with Uzi’s, three or four barricaded doors, the very real possibility of having to face a wild mob high on STiM, and when you get through all that, there’s going to be Claxon waiting at the end with a pack of dogs and a shotgun. Just another night on the town.
Guns cocked, heavy breath, she bit down on the release mechanism in her back tooth and let her own special blend of STiM kick up. Three. Muscles flexing tight in her leather jumpsuit. Two. Trigger happy hands gripping her dual Berettas. One. Brain fizzing and teeth grinding with STiM.
Her leg slammed down like a piston against the warehouse door kicking it clean off the hinges. She rolled forward, came up on one knee, arms straight, eyes twitching, six men in front of her with wide open mouths, dropping cigarettes and reaching for guns. Bullets, a fucking lot of bullets. Fire, roll, duck, shoot, kick, scream, jump, slam. She looked around as the last thug stood shaking, holding a hand to his throat, gurgling and spitting up blood high into the air before pistol whipping him to the concrete.
Not over yet. Marching forward, another STiM driven leg into another barricaded door. It exploded out of the frame as she picked up the previous one and dived into the second room using it as a shield. Killing men, she liked killing men and tonight found it very easy. More bullets, fucking tons of them a she cleared the room and shoulder barged through another barricaded door.
“Fuck!” three huge dogs let of their leashes by Claxon as she pulled a knife out of her jumpsuit and started slicing indiscriminately until she was covered in their blood and stood over their whimpering bodies. “I thought this would be harder?” She wiped her brow and smiled through the dripping red.
“Eva, fucking please don’t kill me!” The fat drug dealer pleaded, dropping his shotgun, shuffling backwards against a wall. “Look, just take what you want, you can have all the STiM. Top grade, you trust good-old-Claxon, right? I’ll just disappear.”
She walked up to him, her high-heels clicking on the concrete floor. Dropping her smoking Berettas, she pulled her fingers through her blood-soaked hair and grinned. She gave it a moment, let her wry smile pull across her face, leant in for a kiss and quickly snapped his neck. “You should have never come onto my patch,” she said as his body slipped to the floor. “And you were never good.”