Badass Bitch

this is an excerpt from an unfinished project about a reporter who becomes infatuated with a female detective who is caught in the middle of a media shit-storm

“Sometimes,” she exhaled second hand Marlboro into the air, “It is easier to ask forgiveness than it is to ask permission”.

“So, are you saying it’s okay to do what you did?” He asked, pen hovering over his small notepad.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think I did? Think about what it is you may be accusing me of, and think about what you would have done in the same situation, I mean really think about it. Would you have stood there and said or done nothing? Stand there with your jaw on the ground and your tail between your legs? Waiting for it to be over, just praying they didn’t notice you standing there, as you tried to sink into the wallpaper pattern? Is that what you would have done if you had those bastards in clear view and they didn’t know you were there? If you had a rifle in your hands and they didn’t see you there? If you knew you could take them all out, wouldn’t you?” She looked at him, pretending to wait for an answer she knew he wouldn’t give, then took another long drag and stood up, smashing the butt in the ashtray in a way that let him know the interview was without a doubt, over.

For a moment, he considered apologizing, or asking for just five more minutes, but she turned and walked away, pulling her shoulder length hair into a pony tail, and not looking back. He had to admit, in an almost scary way, she was very pretty. He sat in her dimly lit sitting room a moment longer before deciding to show him self out. The rest of the evening he couldn’t help but think about what she had said. He realized that most likely, in his line of work, he wouldn’t be in any situation where he had a loaded weapon in his hand and a group of vile criminals in front of him, much less “know” he could take them all out. He was, however fascinated, she had been so deep undercover and done it so well, that she had managed to be carrying a loaded weapon in Mikhail’s command center. No one thought twice about it, no on wondered why she wasn’t at the meeting she had supposedly come for. And why? He figured she was sleeping with Mikhail, maybe she told him she loved him, while she spent hours in his home, collecting evidence and plotting a way to arrest him. Then the thought occurred to him—was she plotting his arrest? Or was it his death she had wanted all along? After all, Mikhail’s thugs never thought to ask why she had her rifle on her that night, but he had to wonder, why did she have it?