Selling the 7 Wonders » Places

         Geoff rolled his eyes and smiled softly. She certainly was enthusiastic about her hatred of the Nazi fascists. As much as he himself hated the Nazis her hatred worried him greatly. He worried about her ability to pick her battles, she may simply ignore the obvious danger and dive headlong into it. Bringing herself, her ship, him, and more importantly their treasure, into the firing line.

Almost if on cue as he was downing his gin he heard the pinging against the hull. A veteran of the Second World War he recognized the pinging immediately. Automatic fire, and upon closer listening, from a German mp40 no less. The German submachinegun had a particular bark to it caused by the short barrel length that the bullet had to go through. What in the fuck were German weapons doing in fucking Scotland?

When Averina thrust the revolver into his hand he almost dropped his glass. “Just what in the FUCK do you expect me to do with this hunk of pig iron,” he sputtered as he fumbled with gun and glass. Sticking one in his belt and the other in hand he hurried after Averina. “You do realize that even though I fought I was absolute shite? Only reason I passed trials was because they fudged my scores because they needed linguists. Oh for fucks sake.” He tripped over the last step onto the deck and landed face-first on the deck, breaking his glass.

The bullet whizzing over his head told him his fall was fortunate so he was quite content to stay where he was. Sweeping the shards of glass before him to the side he crawled to the edge of the ship so he could get a view on what was happening below him. He wasn’t afraid, fear was something he reserved for highly social situations, his ex-wife, and running out of whiskey. Peering over the edge he finally got a good look at the men who were so rudely blocking their landing zone.

Ten or so Scottish rebels brandishing, as he’d surmised, German made mp40s. “Ten bloody bastards wielding German fucking guns. Its too hot to land or insert. I know a place a few miles up the ridgeline. There should be a natural shelf there tucked away.” More bullets embedded themselves into the railing, sending his head back below the railing. He crawled back to a stack of crates, leaning his back up against them. He thumbed the revolvers cylinder open to find it loaded and ready, typical of the Russians efficiency. He flicked the cylinder back into place and carefully placed the hammer back into its place, leaving his finger off the trigger. He had no intentions of using the damn thing if he could help it.