Alain whipped the barrel of the musket around. His hands were sweaty against the wooden stock now. His arms were beginning to get tired; he felt like he had been holding it for hours. “Let him go!”
She remembered the last time she had held a gun. She had been eleven, hunting rabbits with her father on vacation in a small cabin outside Bordeaux. He had taught her to aim with both eyes open. She had killed eight rabbits that day.
Surely gangsters couldn’t run as fast.