Trigger Time Gun And Pawn Novels & Stories

The car rumbled over roots and gravel before coming to a halt in a small clearing, hidden from view. He jumped out and yanked open the trunk. There it was—his own graphene vest, grimy and wrinkled, but intact. He strapped it on without hesitation. The metal was cold against his skin. Then he pulled the gun from his waistband, loaded a round, clicked the safety off, and stared down at his chest. He didn't think. He didn't breathe. He pulled the trigger. Bang. The impact slammed him backwards onto the forest floor, knocking the air from his lungs. Pain exploded in his chest like a sledgehammer. His fingers spasmed. He groaned and rolled to his side, eyes clenched shut.

When he woke up this morning, his gut just said: today. He flicks off his flashlight and stuffs it into his pocket. Strange, unreadable symbols all along the doorframe (which hadn’t been there before he read the incantations) are glowing now, so he doesn’t need the flashlight anymore. He takes the gun out from under his belt, pops out the cartridge cylinder to check the special silver slugs he made by melting down old earrings and necklaces he’d bought or bartered for at Old Man Handy’s Pawn & Thrift.

I barely had to do anything, he outed himself. I picked up the gun and toyed with it, "You see, all my guns come with their serial number and each serial number is linked to their production date. This baby is part of the guns that were made the same day as yours, with the same material. It's brand new and has been used before. What are the odds that if I pull the trigger right now, it's not going to go off." Moretti gulped and backed away from me, his eyes flickered to the door and I guessed he was trying to calculate if he would be able to make it out of the door before I shot him.

“You can pick whatever you want,” All of the guns in here were old models but they were all oiled up and well maintained. “What kind of powers?” he mumbled picking up a rifle. The handle was made out of wood with engravings on it. The symbols weirdly looked similar to the ones his mother had drawn on that box. ‘Time preservation spell, neat,’ “Is that your choice? You have to write down your name and your choice of weapons. The guns had to be returned in ten days and the bullets used has to be reported,” Killian handed him a ledger-like book.

The air smells like gunpowder and rubber and the particular sweat of men who have been standing too still for too long, pretending not to watch me. I put three more into the pole. "Tristan." I put two more. "Tristan!" Aurora's hand comes over mine and wrenches the gun down. She is not gentle about it. She never is. She takes the Glock from my grip with the efficiency of a woman who has been handling weapons longer than most men in this room have been alive, drops the magazine, racks the slide, and sets it on the table beside us like she's putting a child to bed.

“Run exactly where I want you.” On another screen the outer fence shivers. Shapes move in the rain among the trees. The guards lift their weapons. Silver rounds. My traps gleam wet in the grass. The wires hum. “Come on then, dog,” I murmur. “Come to my gate.” I touch my pistol on the table. It is cold and perfect. Beside it lies a tiny black remote. One button floods the west gallery with silver vapor. Another locks the floor plates. Another kills the power in the hall and lights only the cameras.

I said. " How are we going to get past all of them?" she asked. " we are going to need a distraction.......a very big one" I said then bring out the guns. I gave her a rifle and a pistol and some cartridge then brough out the bomb detonator. " would you like to do the honors?" I asked and she took the detonator from me and press it. Gbbooooooaaaaarrrrr, the warehouse exploaded along with whatever is in there.

The smell of him—musk, gun oil, pine—fills my lungs. "Out through the mouth. On the pause... squeeze." My finger finds the trigger. I hesitate. I think of the men I traded. I think of the blood on the nursery floor. "Don't think," Aureliano growls, his voice dropping to a dark, vibrating rumble against my neck. He bites the sensitive cord of muscle there, just hard enough to sting. "Thinking gets you dead. Do it." I squeeze. CRACK. The sound is shocking. It rips through the quiet of the woods.

“Calm down Amelia, you look like you have seen a ghost” “Why won't I act like that?” she almost yelled, but soon after realized that people could hear out, she toned down her voice as she spoke again, “there is a fucking gun on the stage” “So?” Xavier shrugged, and Amelia's eyes widened in shock. “I…” “Shhh the auction is about to start,” he said and Amelia almost lost her mind just by the statement he made “Brought before you is a fully automated Glock 17 pistol made from porcelain. This Safe-Action trigger system makes shooting in stressed situations infallible” the auctioneer announced as a cold shiver ran down her spine. "Let the bidding begin"

"What is that? What did he put under here?!" "Pressure-sensitive C4 charge with a dual-stage mercury switch," Ethan growled, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth groaned under the strain. He slapped the speakerphone button on the console, his voice cutting through the car like a razor. "Julian, you coward!" "I wouldn't shift your weight if I were you, Chloe,"Julian chuckled softly over the speaker. "The primary trigger is calibrated to your exact body weight. If you lift off that seat, even by an inch, it completes the circuit. If you hit the brakes too hard, the momentum switch trips it. And if the timer hits zero... well, you both vanish into thin air before the opening bell."