She'd gotten one of the bitches at least. The fucker lay stretched out where she'd fallen, not moving, her weapon fallen some distance from her out-stretched hand. The other two were still there, still shooting.
Perhaps they hadn't realised yet that they'd hit her.
Isla's hand came away bloody from the torn hole in her blouse. The bullet-hole was low, the wound painful. She still wasn't quite sure how it had even hit her- a ricochet perhaps- or maybe the damn pillar she'd picked had been even narrower than she'd realised.
She could feel the strength in her legs waning, feel the blood sliding down her skin and soaking her skirt.
Not fatal, she told herself, fighting back rising panic. She'd been in the Military; she'd seen wounds like this; she knew she could make it, if she could just hold out long enough for someone to get her a medic. Some of the other Agents were little more than college girls- keen and eager and completely out of their depth. Not Isla. You're tough, she told herself. You're strong. You've seen worse. You'll be OK.
It wasn't very convincing.
bodak
2024-11-23 14:35:33 +0000 UTCMr Mullet
2024-11-22 06:24:56 +0000 UTCJerry Nek
2024-11-21 22:41:09 +0000 UTCbodak
2024-11-21 22:37:58 +0000 UTCJerry Nek
2024-11-21 22:33:15 +0000 UTC