Head Shot

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She looked up into his twisted, anguished face. 'I mean I've seen that calibre of gun before,' she added, 'but I've never actually held one.'

'It's quite a cannon,' he admitted. 'I'l give you that.'

'Yes, but I'm not just talking about its weight, or its smoothness, or any physical thing, I'm talking about a sheer sense of potency; I just seemed to feel it flowing into me. It scared me, yet thrilled me, at the same time.' Her voice was matter-of-fact; he realised the depth of her hysteria and that scared him more than anything.

He threw his head back and exhaled, a great breath hissing through his teeth. He could feel the tension gripping him, bunching the muscles behind his neck, puckering the scars of battle that he had picked up over the years. That roar of anger and frustration swelled up inside him again, and again he held it back.

He gazed at the weapon as it lay at her feet; a huge old-fashioned nickel-plated automatic, which he recognised as a 45 calibre Colt, with a long black silencer fitted to the end of the barrel. 'So…' He ground out the word. 'Gripped by this sudden surge of omnipotence, you…' Again he cut himself off short. 'Is that what you're saying?'

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