I wanted to do something a little bit different, and I didn't know how well it would work with the Percy Jackson characters but I decided to do it anyway. To avoid confusion, Storm is just Annabeth's name created by the media. She is a criminal, he is an FBI agent, and this may be a mature story...
~Annabeth~
"Please don't hurt me," the middle-aged man pleaded, a sad look in his slightly wrinkled eyes. He kept on looking back and forth between the gun I was holding against his forehead and my eyes, probably searching for some sort of clue as to what I was going to do with him. I had no intentions of killing or even hurting, the innocent old man, but he didn't need to know that. In a way, I was doing him a favor. Judging by the lack of a ring on his finger, he wasn't married, which meant he could use the whole "I was held at gunpoint by the Storm" thing as a way to get into some lady's pants.
The sound of a woman's whimpering drew me out of my very unprofessional and distracted train of thoughts. She, like the man in front of me, was pleading for her life - but her words sounded much more urgent and rushed. I turned around and a feeling of raw rage coursed through my veins when I saw what was happening.
One of the idiot men I had hired for the job was touching the poor woman in ways that no woman should ever be touched. He wore a sickening smile on his face as he violated the petrified young woman. From what I could see, he hadn't done anything too serious yet, but judging by the way his gloved hand was slowly slipping up her inner thigh told me exactly what he intended to do.
In an instant, I removed my gun from the man's forehead and pointed it at my "colleague". Without a moment of hesitation or remorse, I clenched my finger ever-so-slightly, pulling the trigger. I didn't have to look to know I hit him - my aim was perfect - but the sound of his body flopping onto the hard ground confirmed that the bullet hit my target.
He was dead.
"Everybody take cover!" I yelled at the terrified people that sat in a large circle on the ground. They didn't need to be told twice, and in seconds every person was safe from any of the bullets that were sure to be flying very soon. As if they were reading my mind, a set of four men came sprinting out of the vault with large duffle bags in hand.
"We got the money, sweetheart," One of the overly flirtatious men told me with a disgusting smirk. "Now let's get the hell..." he trailed off as he saw his partner's dead body surrounded by a pool of his own blood. His face morphed into one of vicious anger within a fraction of a second when he processed what must've happened.
"Oops," I murmured just loud enough that the men could hear me, "My finger must've slipped." What came next was expected. All four men had their guns pointed, and firing, at me. I easily dodged the sloppily aimed bullets, sending a few of my own right back at them. Three bullets, three men down. My precision impressed even myself, but while I was mentally patting myself on the back, the last man had managed to pierce me in the shoulder with a bullet. He was dead within a fraction of a second, but the intense pain in my shoulder didn't die with him.
Hissing through the pain, I hastily ripped off a piece of my long sleeved shirt and wrapped it tightly above the wound, tying the two ends together. Looking over my shoulder at the large grandfather clock that sat in the corner of the room, I saw that I had only three minutes until the police would arrive. I walked over to the dead men that were laying on the floor and squatted down to pick up one of the bags filled with what I assumed to be money. I also patted all four of them down to make sure that they didn't selfishly take any for themselves - which they did - about one grand each. Rolling my eyes, I stood up and began to make my way towards the back doors of the bank just as I heard the sound of nearing sirens.
"Sorry about that, guys," was the last thing I said before exiting the bank and jumping on my sleek black motorcycle with the duffle bag draped across my shoulders.