Amid the pulsating energy of a sprawling party on the Elysium, amidst the laughter and clinking glasses, Riddick navigated the sea of guests with unwavering determination. His gaze was fixed on a figure standing on the far side of his grand living room.  Oblivious to the greetings and merriment that surrounded him, his focus was resolutely anchored on reaching the other man, knowing that within that imminent conversation lay a weighted exchange.

“Let’s go outside!” Riddick ordered the man.

The man Riddick was so intent on talking to was no other than Philly Schmidt, he was another of Riddick's crew whom Riddick had hired in the past to carry out hit jobs, and it had been Philly who had botched the hit on Julie Koop at the coffee shop.  Riddick was seething with anger and Philly was dreading this inevitable meeting with Riddick.  The two men stepped out onto the deck of the Elyssium, finding a space where there was nobody else around.

“Well done on killing two innocent women at the coffee shop you fucking moron. You had one job to do Philly, one job!” Riddick said, launching straight into Philly Schmidt without even exchanging any pleasantries.

“Bronson, I’m sorry man.  I thought I had her. I thought I had her.”

Bronson was fuming with anger, his left fist was clenched.

“How many more of my men are going to botch a hit job against one woman? It should be easy,” Riddick said, “The FBI is all over that coffee shop. They’re going to be talking to witnesses Philly, checking ballistics.”

Riddick took a deep breath to try and calm himself down.

“This big-titted bitch is proving hard to kill.  The shooting at Cravings Coffee is all over the newspapers, it’s all over the fucking TV. Tell me, Philly, are they gonna be tracing ballistics back to us?”

“Of course not Bronson, you think I’m that careless?”

“I think you are that careless Philly.  The street was littered with shell casings, not to mention you peeled rubber on the way out of there, and left a goddamn streak of tire tracks a mile long.  They’re going to know what you were driving.”

“The hell they will. I torched the car, it’s toast, literally.” Philly said confidently.

“Well, at least you did that right.”

A moment of silence ensued as Riddick puffed on a cigarette, something he hadn’t done in years, but his rising stress levels were causing him to reach out to anything that would ease his nerves.

“You’re gonna get a second chance to take that bitch out,” Riddick said, as he handed Philly a piece of paper.

“That’s her home address right there. Philly, get it right this time.  She lives in a townhouse development, so you’ll need to use a silencer. We don’t want anybody hearing a gunshot.”

Philly coldly nodded his head in approval.

“Bronson, you have my word.  I won’t fuck up a second time.  I’ll kill her tonight.”

“I gotta ask, what did this chick do to you?”

“She owes me money and thought she’d gotten away with it.”

Philly nodded in understanding.

“Call me when it’s done,” Riddick said as he flicked his cigarette butt over the railing into the water below, and walked away.

***************************

With her life constantly under threat, Julie had learned to live with eyes in the back of her head. She was starting to develop a sixth sense as to when she was in danger, and tonight, something was telling her to be careful.

As she drove home into her townhouse complex, she decided to pull over in a guest parking spot and walk the rest of the way to her townhouse. If somebody was in her house waiting to kill her, she didn’t want to alert them with the loud rumble of her Mustang V6 engine, and bright headlights shining in through the front window.  She parked her car and reached for her Glock 18 and cocked it, bringing a bullet into the chamber.

She thought back to the shooting range when her hand had expertly controlled the powerful recoil of the Glock 18. She remembered how people had watched in awe at her natural talent and accuracy with a handgun.  That experience had given her the confidence she needed to navigate the fine line between life, death, and survival.

As she got closer to her townhouse, she slowed down. From the outside, nothing looked suspicious, but she figured that if somebody was waiting for her inside, they would probably expect her to come to the front door.  So she quietly snuck her way around the side of her house and entered through the back door as quietly as possible, she hardly made a sound.

Once inside, she stood motionless in her kitchen; the only sound that could be heard was the ticking of the clock on the wall.  She stood motionless for several minutes as adrenalin raced through her body.  Suddenly, ahead of her in the dark, she saw the silhouette of a man standing at the end of the hall facing the front door.   She could see he was holding a gun in his hand and he was almost invisible in the darkness.  Julie had entered her house so quietly that the intruder was completely unaware that she was behind him.  Her heart rate increased as she realized somebody was inside her house waiting to kill her.

In the eerie quietness of her dimly lit house, a game of shadowy pursuit was unfolding.  Julie maneuvered soundlessly, her steps like whispers against the hardwood floor. As the hitman hunted her, thinking himself cunning and unseen, had remained oblivious to the tables turning, oblivious to the fact that it was Julie who was now sneaking up on him.

The townhouse was mostly dark, she had left a small reading light on next to her couch in the living room. It cast a soft light around an otherwise dark house.   With her gun raised, she slowly moved forward toward the silhouette of this sinister-looking man. He was standing with his back to her several feet from the front door, waiting patiently for Julie to come home. He hadn’t heard Julie enter the house through the back and was completely oblivious to her presence behind him.

With a deft and calculated finesse, Julie seized the advantage, her heart pounding in rhythm with the tension of the moment.  A faint glint of triumph flashed in her blue eyes as she stood just a few feet behind him, reveling in the reversal of roles. The anonymous hitman still unaware of his imminent unveiling, remained fixated on the front door oblivious to the shift in power. With both hands firmly on her gun, she raised it and pointed it directly at his back, she paused for a brief moment before calling out to him, reveling in her victory.

“Don’t move!” she commanded.

Startled, Philly spun around and turned to see Julie standing with her legs slightly spread for stability, her strong muscular thighs straining against the hemline of her black leather mini-skirt.  She was holding her gun firmly with both hands, pointing it directly at him.

“Put the gun down on the table, right there,” she instructed.

The man, standing in front of her did exactly as he was told.  He slowly and cautiously placed his gun down on the small side table next to him resigning himself to his fate.  Julie motioned towards the living room with her gun.

“Now sit down, right there,” Julie said, pointing to the couch with the barrel of her gun.

He followed Julie‘s instructions, and slowly sat down on the couch, knowing that Julie Koop had gotten the better of him.  Now that she had him disarmed, and where she wanted him, she could slowly lower her gun down and relax a little.

“What’s your name?” She asked.

“Philly Schmidt.”

“Who do you work for?” She asked in a tone suggesting strict compliance with her questions.

He hesitated briefly, trying to decide if he should sell out his boss or risk being shot dead by this woman standing in front of him with a gun in her hand.  He wasn’t going to risk it, she didn’t seem to be bluffing.

“Bronson Riddick,” he answered, without hesitation, “I work for Bronson Riddick.”

“He sent you here to kill me?”

“Yeah,” he answered with a defeated tone, as the realization that he had once again failed to assassinate Julie Koop was sinking in.

The strong feminine energy radiating from Julie was a paradox of strength and femininity. Her eyes were attractive, but cold and steely, she didn’t seem remotely nervous. Rather, she had a calm, relaxed posture that suggested she was fully in control.  It seemed surreal that she was wearing an outfit suited to a nightclub yet stood with a weapon in her hand. She was wearing a black leather mini skirt that came down to her mid-thigh, suede thigh-high boots, and a low-cut top with her oversized tits squeezed into a perfectly fitting bra that pushed them up within a few inches of her chin.  Her hair was up in a relaxed bun with a small elegant piece of her bangs drifting down across her cheekbones.  Her look was a fascinating contrast, striking femininity and strength coming together in one perfect female form.

She was holding her gun at her side, her grip soft, and her arm relaxed. The small cold piece of steel made her an authority figure in this moment not to be messed with.  It was now Julie who decided who lived and died in this room, not him. It had been her smarts and her cunning that outwitted him,  leaving him powerless to her every word and decision.  She knew that she couldn’t let this man leave, that was not an option. But she also knew that she’d have to play him, get every last nugget of information from him that she could before she pulled the trigger.

Philly Schmidt knew his life was most likely over, but the survival instinct and the fear of death had a way of playing games on even the hardest career criminal. Maybe just maybe, if he told Julie what she wanted, she would let him live, but that was wishful thinking, he knew the odds were extremely slim. The presence of her Glock 18 gently resting in her right hand was a constant reminder of who was in control.  He had never been on this side of a gun, and knowing that his life now lay in this woman’s hands was a feeling of powerlessness that was new to him.

He sat on the couch as this sexy, young woman stood before him, as a small glint of light shining off the cold black leather of her mini-skirt caught his eye.

“Bronson Riddick? Who is he?” she asked.

“The head of one of the most powerful drug cartels in the US. If you kill me, you’re going to answer to him.  He’ll kill you, you know.”

Julie laughed.

“Well, if he bumbles his way around like you do, I don’t think he’s much to fear.  He’ll probably deny even knowing you if he ever learns about the pathetic display of prowess you put on here tonight.  You embarrassed yourself,” she said.

They say before death, your life flashes before your eyes, but of all the things going through Phillies‘s mind as he got closer to death, is that he would never again have sex. He had had his final orgasm.

He felt a biting wave of hatred towards Julie and the power she held over him at this moment.  He knew that most likely, once he had obediently answered all of Julie’s questions she would kill him.   Yet still he felt powerless towards her.  The desire to stay alive for just a few more minutes was overriding any desire he had to protect Bronson Riddick, it was a strange mix of loyalty and the fear of death coming together in a catalytic collision.

“He has a yacht moored at the Blue Wave Marina.  It’s called the Elysium.” he said, with minimal hesitation.

Julie went silent for a full ten seconds leaving Philly on edge, wondering what was coming next, another question, or the sound of gunshots. He could see that her blue eyes held a clear determination, the burden of the choice she had to make no longer weighed heavily on her shoulders, and no longer threatened to shatter the essence of her being.   Despite the beauty of her face, he could see a coldness, a steely determination that somehow blended with her femininity only amplifying her strength rather than negating it. They both understood this harsh reality: she couldn’t let him live.

“Are you the scum bag that shot up the coffee shop?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he responded, as Julie’s face grew darker.

She realized at that moment that she was standing in front of the man who had killed two innocent women at Cravings Coffee, she felt her anger rise and any pity she had for this man sitting in front of her simply evaporated without a trace. Philly Schmidt no longer served a purpose to Julie Koop. He had answered all her questions and told her everything she wanted to know.

The last thing Philly Schmidt ever saw was Julie Koop raising her gun and aiming it squarely at his chest.  She paused for a second before squeezing the trigger as one single bullet ripped through him killing Philly Schmidt instantly before he even heard the gunshot.

Julie slowly lowered her gun, as the familiar smell of gunsmoke filled her nostrils, her ears ringing from the gunshot which had sounded like a cannon in the small confines of her living room.  She looked at the dead body of Philly Schmidt briefly before slowly turning and walking away. Yet another one of Bronson Riddick's hitmen had failed to kill her.