The voice of scared shitless reason said, "Oh my God, oh my God! She's got a gun. She's got a gun!"

Stop, you idiot! I bawled at her. Her face laughed over her shoulder at me. She walked without haste to the door, her short skirt of gray flannel shaping itself to the calf of each gray wool-stockinged leg as its mate stepped forward. Sweat greased the gun in my hand. When her right foot was on the doorsill, a little chuckling sound came from her throat. "Adieu!" she said softly.

And I put a bullet in the calf of her leg. She sat down--plump! Utter surprise stretched her white face. It was too soon for pain. I had never shot a woman before. I felt queer about it.

"You ought to have known I'd do it! My voice sounded harsh and savage and like a stranger's in my ears. "Didn't I steal a crutch from a cripple?

He said she went around with her feelings out in front of her with an arm around the feelings' windpipe and a Glock 9mm. to the feelings' temple like a terrorist with a hostage, daring you to shoot.

She's a radical war hawk. Let's put her with a rifle standing there, with nine barrels shooting at her, okay? Let's see how she feels about it, you know, when the guns are trained on her face.

In a low voice Sara told them about going to the park, seeing a man, and then not paying much attention to him until suddenly he was pushing a gun into her ribs as she unlocked her front door. “He said he had to kill me or someone would kill him.”

But then the GIs ran into an iron door that blocked access to St. Julien’s interior. The Shermans crossed the causeway and fired point-blank at it, but the 75mm shells just bounced off. A tank destroyer with a 90mm gun drove up. It fired six rounds at a range of less than fifty yards. They had no effect. With the machine-gun fire from the Shermans keeping the Germans back from the firing slits, a 155mm howitzer was wheeled into place. The big gun slammed ten rounds into the door, but still it held. That Vauban was some builder.

An ugly woman with a gun is a terrible thing.

Veronica’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She held the revolver straight out from her body and breathed slowly, deeply, the hot-metal smell stinging her nostrils. She tried to relax her shoulders.

The end is near. I hear a noise at the door, as of some immense slippery body lumbering against it. It shall not find me. God, that hand! The window! The window!

All she did was take her hand out of her bag, with a gun in it. All she did was point it at me and smile. All I did was nothing.

"Instead of change, please give me gun so i can shoot you." She is soft-spoken but short and full of rage lately, like her whole life.

Then she tried to show me how to hold the gun. I jerked it away from her, flung the barrel recklessly in all directions.

Her weapon is her mouth. And it’s loaded and fully automatic.

She might be violent.