I now present to you the third installment! Awesomely enough, no death threats were required to get me to finish this chapter.
In addition, I do not own Maxim, Kimber Carry Pistols, or the DMV.
I'm not even sure if silencers can be attached to the Ultra Raptor II, but this is fiction, and if I want the Raptor to be quiet, it damn well will be!
Thanks for all the positive feedback! You guys are super cool.
Ashley hadn't taken three steps from the car door before she was dead.
There was no slow-motion descent to the ground, no last, lingering look at her shocked and outraged husband, no defiant eye-contact with her killer. Just one step, then a second, then a small sound something like a cough, and then nothing. She hadn't even seen it coming.
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Thomas saw, as he exited the car, what seemed like an explosion of red mist around his wife's head just before her body slumped to the dirt. For a second he was frozen in place, uncomprehending. Then he was turning, intent on running (and leaving his dead wife's body behind, but who could really blame him?).
The first bullet caught him in the left shoulder and sent him careening head-first into the back door of the car. The knock to the face did not render him unconscious, only unfocused. He slid to the ground slowly (as slowly as one can when not in control of their own motor functions, at least) in a tangled heap, trying unsuccessfully to cradle his aching head in his hands. He closed his eyes as he heard approaching footsteps; he didn't see the woman lower the gun to his head, but he felt it, digging ever-so-slightly into his temple.
The sound of the second bullet (third really, if you counted the one that had killed his wife- and wasn't that just the stupidest thing to argue with yourself over right before you're about to-).
And then he was dead.
×Ø
Oh, this was so not good.
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The woman could have been a cover girl for Maxim, if you took away fifteen years, the nasty (yet creepily happy) expression, and the gun held comfortably in her hand (her left hand, and was that seriously bright purple nail polish?). She was (approximately, judging by the average height of a Ford Taurus and her elevation relative to it) 5'7", probably around 125 lbs. Her hair was layered to her shoulders, black and shiny (maybe gloss, maybe grease, maybe too much sunlight- his money was on too much grease because, hello, murderer!), and her eyes were of indeterminable color; although she did have thin, wire-frame glasses perched precariously on the edge of her nose.
She wore a conservative (-ish, because you could totally tell she was a woman) black pant suit with a lavender blouse to cover a skinny, delicate-looking build. The look was completed by a pair of low-heeled sensible shoes, black (and if that didn't confirm every bad-guy/girl/person stereotype, then he would go an entire day without pineapple).
The gun was a Kimber Ultra Raptor II .45 ACP equipped with night sights (because, sure, it was bright now, but as a rule most murders should be carried out at night- maybe she'd missed that memo), a flat top slide with special serrations (for easier maneuverability), and (obviously) a silencer (probably custom-made, considering the type of gun). American-made, with an ambidextrous grip (great for the left-handed murderer who still yearns for the accuracy exhibited by those snobbish right-handed bastards).
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The man with her was clearly not someone to be messed with (well, neither was the woman, but that was because of the gun- this guy's aura just screamed 'Screw with me and I'll mess you up but good'), apparent lowly minion or not.
He was maybe six inches taller than the woman, with a haircut that suggested current or recent military service (or just bad fashion sense- a danger in and of itself) and eyes slightly sunken into a weather-worn face.
He wore black boots (probably steel-toe, they always wore steel-toe) and black jeans with a dark blue (so, only mostly evil, then- wasn't that good to know?) t-shirt. His arms were muscled but not overly so; enough to tell you that a punch would leave you alive but would probably really hurt.
His expression was…amused, with just a touch of apathy.
×Ø
Two bodies on the ground around them, and no sign of wanting to hurry; they were too far away from anywhere for anyone to have seen what was happening, and no one could have heard the shots. No reason to worry.
The woman stood back and looked around while her lackey, for want of a better term (although 'lackey' was, in it's own right, a lot of fun to say), opened the trunk of the (now completely free of ownership) car and grabbed what was in it (two bags full of something- probably not cash; the couple couldn't even afford to send their kid to a community college, so it had to be something else. Plus, the weight distribution was all wrong). He then tossed whatever it was into the back seat of his (at least, he assumed it belonged to the man- if the woman was as in charge as she seemed she probably wouldn't have been stupid enough to drive her own vehicle to where she was about to commit murder) truck.
He climbed into the driver's seat, she in the passenger's, and they sped off.
Shawn was too busy wondering what the hell he had stumbled into (and maybe being at least a little bit afraid, not that he would ever admit it) to follow them.
And just what the hell was he supposed to tell Brian?
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As head detective (and he totally would not give that title capital letters when thinking in the privacy of his own head, no matter how awesomely cool the man could sometimes be), it stood to reason that Lassie would have access to the DMV database.
And if he didn't, he could always ask Gwen. She worked there, after all. Perhaps he could bribe her…
No. So not the time for that.
Sneaking into the police station was almost always depressingly easy; everyone was doing their own thing (paperwork, escorting suspects to the holding cells or interrogation rooms, documenting complaints, fielding phone calls, paperwork, getting ready to go home, dancing in front of the copy machine, drinking bad coffee) and had no time to notice the stealthy and very ninja-like Head Psychic (unless he wanted to be noticed, of course- then he was nearly impossible to ignore) sneaking past Chief Vick's office and into Detective Lassiter's…office.
Password protection is a joke when messing with a psychic of his incredible awesomeness. Maybe he should leave a post-it for Lassie about his transparency…
And, voila! Lassie did have access! Now all he had to do was wait for a match on the truck, and he'd have an address.
Perhaps Buzz had left a pineapple in the break room for him.
×Ø
It was really, really bright out here, and windy, and hot, but that was California for you. The majority of the people gathered in this particular area (say, all but two of those present) were at least a little bit uncomfortable.
The dead woman looked uncannily similar to Victoria. This fact caused Carlton to narrow his eyes in a flash of irrational anger, which he then proceeded to squelch briskly.
Juliet was searching for a signal on her phone (and who thought it would have been possible to find a dead zone in California?) so she could call the Chief.
The forensics people were carefully examining the car, having already painstakingly photographed the bodies from every imaginable angle. They were noticeably more irritable than the two detectives, as they did not have the option of wearing sunglasses (for fear of missing some crucial yet tiny piece of evidence). And they had to wear gloves. Damn protocol.
Thomas and Ashley Greyson were a little preoccupied with being dead to notice all of the activity.
×Ø
No delicious fruit, but there was some leftover chicken and a microwave. Close enough. He finished it and snuck back over to Lassie's desk, and found his next destination.
The door to the Chief's office opened, then, prompting him to make a hasty exit.