Novel & Cerita Straight Shooter

“This is where it ends.” Adrian’s voice was calm. “No.” A pause. “This is where you lose.” Gunfire erupted. The final battle began. Chaos exploded through the building. Shots echoed. Bodies moved. Shadows clashed. Victor moved like a storm, taking down attackers with ruthless precision. Adrian—Was something else entirely. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t slow. Didn’t stop. Every movement was controlled violence, anger and payback. Every shot calculated. Every step forward, relentless.

I ordered, voice low but commanding. My men moved like shadows—silent, efficient, merciless. Each shot was precise, calculated to end threats without hesitation. I caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye and spun, firing twice. One attacker crumpled, a high-pitched groan escaping his lips.

Last night, they were lucky since Max was clever, not to let him waste his energy, considering he had five stitches and just discharged from the hospital. But as a sharpshooter, he managed to scare them. Aiming like he pointed the gun to the head of the skinny one in the third chair whom he thought was the coward one. When he fired the gun, knowing the bullet would only scratch the tip of his ear, he tried to prove that they were lying. “Mercenary, huh?” Was what he sneered at them. A mercenary was not afraid of bullet, and the four thugs were in a shock state after the fire, solid evidence that they had no survival instinct in war.

I laughed, just as one of my guys cracked the shooter's jaw with the butt of a Glock. Me: Already there, baby. I’m just texting from the basement. M: You're sick. I took another drag of my cigarette. Me: You didn’t answer my question. Do you like Adriano? A beat passed. Then she bit. M: What if I do? What are you going to do about it? He’s good to me. He is gentle and kind. The way a man should be. I leaned back, cigarette dangling between my fingers. One of the boys kicked the shooter in the ribs and he let out a bark of pain. I barely heard it.

SOMEONE'S POINT OF VIEW I was reading today's newspaper when I saw some very interesting news written in it. 'The Sharp Shooter: The Oracle's Pride' was written in bold letters. I smirked at the sight of the picture attached to it. A beautiful lady with fiery red long hair who is holding a very exquisite gun in her hands. She is aiming at the target with her pair of keen silver eyes. It makes one person lose their mind with a quick glance at this picture, and I must admit that I am no exception.

Her hatred for cops. “Pow! Pow! Pow!”, the .8 caliber fired three rounds at her just when she ran through the bend at the end of the poorly lit, dark alley. The shooter knew he didn’t miss. He’d spent a life time in the service of the Castros, and he knew well enough that three bullets would be more than enough to kill their chaser. Or maim them, to think the least, but she kept coming, seemingly unharmed by the damage done to her by the hot shots fired at close range.

His jacket billowed behind him as he moved—fluid, deadly, furious. The last shooter popped up behind the tractor ruins, but Luciano didn’t hesitate. Three shots. One to the knee. One to the chest. One right between the eyes. The man dropped like a stone. Luciano stalked forward, confirmed the kill, then turned back to me—hair mussed, shirt torn, blood on his cheek. “Are you trying to get shot?” he barked. I propped myself up on one elbow and squinted. “Was that jealousy in your voice?”

Sully stood off to the side of the indoor shooting range, watching Cordelia load her gun. He wasn’t at all surprised at her choice of personal weapon: a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield. Compact and light, it was a popular choice with women with smaller hands... but it had a quick reset triggered by the striker-fired action, so the gun made it possible for multiple rounds to be fired quickly. The gun was sleek and slim – but it was fucking fast and lethal. Sully got the feeling that it was the perfect gun for this tough, sweet woman.

“The only person you’ll ever belong to… is me.” Travian moved like someone pushed by a final, stubborn will. He lunged despite the pain, despite the blood slicking his boots. The stranger slammed a warning shot into the cobblestones at Travian’s feet — a clean, sharp report that sent a scatter of stone chips like a furtive constellation at their boots. That single violent punctuation froze everyone in place: the thugs, Dain’s men, even the figure behind the gun who’d come to be a savior.

He positioned himself upright glaring in anger. Stanley scrambled to his feet, ran toward the place where he tossed his jacket. Frantically searching the pocket, he plucked out a .22 Caliber Iver-Johnson Cadet Revolver. He promptly pointed the gun toward the door, peered over the dilemma of caps and glass shattered. Shell casings on the carpet and in the foyer appeared Carbon 115-gr. DPX+ P. They came from a 9 millimetre Browning Hi-Power gun. He stood in face of what previously had been a flat screen TV with a few gaps. Stanley suffered no fear. It never crossed his mind to become frightened. Suddenly in a fit of fury, Stanley lashed out, “You’re a fucking, stinking coward! Why did you run