Glee. And more irritation.

I've taken both of my new babies to the range, now. I'd suspected that the CZ was already zeroed in for the ranges at which I'd be using it, and recent experimentation has proved me right. I don't know which of the guys at the shop did it, but he did good.

As for the Walther...I'm absolutely in love. Not only does it feel just like the .22 in my grip, but it conceals better than the P99. It shoots like a dream I'd get rid of my 9mm, if it wasn't such a bad idea not to have an extra backup gun. Or a dozen. Or three.

I went into the gun shop today to rave over my new toys, and saw the new hire working the counter. He glanced up as I came in the door, then froze like a rabbit that just saw a predator. It was so hard to keep a straight face, but I managed. I also managed to ask him where his grandpa was without letting any humor into my voice. He took off toward the back like he actually was a rabbit, and I'd set his tail on fire. His grandpa drug him back out and made him face me while he introduced us. I shook the kid's hand and told him not to worry--no one had a contract out on him, no one likely would have a contract out on him, and none of us in the business would touch him without one. He relaxed a bit, and smiled at me. I patted his shoulder, and told him that next time, he might want to treat a woman in the shop with a bit more courtesy. It's not like it's one of the big MegaSportingBoxStores, after all--if a woman does come in, she likely is coming because she knows guns, and might be coming for something other than a .17 or .22 caliber match-piece.

The poor little twerp actually hung his head like I'd told him he was a bad little boy, and wasn't going to be getting dessert with dinner. But, he apologized, and that's all that mattered.

I did my usual rave review, and noticed the retired Ranger sniper in the back grinning like an idiot when I mentioned that I loved the Trijicon scope, and adored how it was zeroed to 800 yard shots. So, I hopped the counter, and went back to give him a hug. After all: he's the one that taught me to make those shots.

That was the good part of the day. Then I went home, and found my wonderful fiance surrounded by brochures for luxury townhouses, re-imagined luxury condos in upper story office buildings, and lofts. In town. Downtown. Where I'd already told him I didn't want to be.

Needless to say, he noticed that I wasn't happy. And he got defensive. And called me paranoid.

Look, I understand that he wants to stay close to where the action is in his line of work--he's not nearly as comfortable with computers as I am. Actually, that's not quite accurate: he hates the things with a bloody purple passion. But it's not fair to call me paranoid when I've had half a dozen assassination attempts on me in the last month, alone. I've told him that the business is kind of literally cut-throat, but I don't tell him about the close calls that don't leave marks--he freaks out enough as it is. So, he doesn't know that they really are out to get me.

We've agreed to look at what he wants, for now, but to keep looking for what I want.

What do I want? I want out of town. Preferably a lot of land, with the house set in the middle. I'd like rough, defensible terrain, with a lot of good cover, and a lot of places to stash gear for an "oh, shit!" situation. I'd love a berm house, but a big, old stone farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere with a basement would be fine. I want to be able to get high-speed satellite internet service, because I will eventually get my boss to let me telecommute.

What he wants are big, showy places that demonstrate the wealth that his profession throws around. He wants lots of big, bright, open spaces, with lots of windows with lots of higher surrounding vantage points, just begging for snipers to snuggle up and crash a party.

Speaking of parties, he wants to throw them, despite how dangerous I've told him the idea was. He wants a house suited to throwing lavish parties to get investors interested.

I just want a refuge. Someplace I can go home, relax, and be as safe as someone in my profession possibly can be.

Why is that so much to ask for?

Update: The new Walther is a joy to shoot, but an absolute cunt to break down for cleaning and put back together. Not to mention that I'm scheduled to fly out of the agency's private airfield to Germany at 4:45 a.m. tomorrow morning. Turns out, they're selling the extra magazines over there, and they've got a shipment all crated up, ready to come over here, but thanks to bureaucratic bullshit, the crate hasn't been cleared for import, yet.

Gah.

Amusing. Infuriating. Take your pick.

Like any good C.P.A., I keep up with the tools of the trade. I pay attention to newly-released hardware. I think about the kinds of jobs I like to do, and what would be the best piece of equipment for those.

And sometimes, I re-evaluate my personal protection piece.

My 9mm is kind of hard to hide on my frame. I've been keeping an eye out for a new piece that I could switch to, and that the company would pick up the tab on. And I found it on GunBlast: the PK380.

So, I went to my small, local gun store owned and operated by four older gents who served in various branches of the military during Viet Nam. I've shopped there since I was in high school, and in college on the shooting team. They've gotten to know me well enough that they let me use their equipment sometimes, when I need to create a special load for a specific job, or need to modify a gun for greater accuracy. They know I'm a shooter, and they know what I do for a living.

I usually don't get the kind of shit most women face in a gun store, there.

Well, apparently, they just hired some fresh-from-a-Vo-Tech-program high school graduate. I swear, the kid's still got pimples and fuzz where he should have hair. Seems to know his shit about the merchandise, though--at least, where some things are concerned.

So, I walk in today, wanting to take a look at the new Walther product, and spot the kid behind the case in front of the rifle. One of the old boys is sitting at the table with coffee, a cigar, and a bowl of something questionable cooking in a crock pot. He grins, and asks me what I want, while giving me the usual shit. I ask about the .380, and he says "We got one in the back. Hang on."

I wandered over to the counter in front of the rifles, and I see one I've been sort of lusting after for a while: the CZ 550 American Safari Magnum (reviewed by GunBlast here). I've been kind of keeping an eye open for one for distance work with engine blocks, but hadn't seen one until today. And, even better, it's already been fitted with a superb Traijicon scope.

So, I lean on the counter and wait for zit-boy to come over to hand me the rifle. Well, come over he did, but when I asked to see the 550, he said something along the lines of "That's a lot of kick for a little lady. Why don't I hand you the CZ453, instead? It's just as pretty."

I could hear the other guys giggling in the back, and could see the retired Gunny leaning around the doorframe to get a look at my face.

I smiled. And I kid you not, the former Army munitions expert (who taught me how to create my own specialized explosives when I went into the business), muttered, "One of us better get out there before she kills the kid."

Anyway. I smiled at the kid, and said, "I believe I asked to see the 550. I'm well aware of how hard it would kick."

"How about the Remmington?" he asks, reaching for a pretty little bolt action .22.

I took a deep breath, and let it out. "Listen. Kid. I know you don't mean any harm, but you're about to lose your job."

He frowned, but reached for the gun I wanted to look at. "Well, if you're going to be that way," he muttered, pulling it out of the rack. He held it out, but didn't let go of it when I closed my hands around the stock. "See? You're looking at it."

I saw red, and torqued the rifle to my left, twisting it right out of his hands and stepping back. He's lucky I didn't butt-stroke him--the gun wouldn't have noticed, as solid as it felt. I ignored his yelp of pain, his squawk of outrage, and kicked the swinging gate back shut against his knees when he tried to come out to take the gun. The Gunny came back out with the .380 I'd asked about, and grabbed the kid, whispering something in his ear. The kid jerked his arm out of the Gunny's hand and stomped back into the back for a minute.

I took a deep breath and looked down at the gorgeous rifle in my hands. I popped the bolt and looked up the barrel, then looked up at the Gunny. Then at the price tag--well under market value for a new gun, but still way more than most would want to pay. I suspected the guys had had me in mind when they got it in. "What's it chambered in?"

".458 Winchester Magnum."

"Cool. I'll take it," I said, putting the bolt back in and setting it back on the counter.

"Here's the .380. I wiped it down for you--it hadn't been unpacked before today."

I picked up the .380, and instantly fell in love. If there's one thing I don't like about my 9mm, it's that the grips are almost too big for my hands. The .380 just kind of snuggled into my grip like it was ready to go to work. And, even better, it was about the same size as my P22, and (if possible) lighter. "I'll take this, too."

He just grinned. "I knew you would. And we're throwing in some .458 Win-Mag, giving you a discount--and letting the kid do the paperwork."

I eyed him for a minute, then grinned. The new forms for the sale of firearms could be circumvented with my C.P.A. license.

Kid comes back out of the back with the paperwork, and slaps a pen into my hand. I hand it back, shaking my head. "I don't need to do that," I said, nodding at the paperwork. I reached back for my wallet (deliberately flashing my .22 in its shoulder holster under my blazer), and pulled out my C.P.A. license, and a wad of cash.

And the kid turned white. And backed away from me, staring at me like I was going to pop a cap in him right then and there.

Idiot.

Gunny'd just finished writing up the ticket, and handed it to the kid. Kid shakes his head, muttering something. Gunny says, "That right there is one of our two best customers, and has been for going on thirteen years. Take the lady's money, and apologize."

His voice cracked like a pubescent boy's. I smiled, thanked him for his terrific customer service (setting all four guys off like hyenas), took my new babies, and left.

Went back a few hours later, just at closing. Kid was gone, and I asked WTF was up with him. Turns out, he was Gunny's grandshit, and actually knows guns--just never knew (thanks to his pacifist, hippie momma) that women can shoot as well as, or better than, the boys.

Interesting.

I wasn't expecting a 3.5% interest rate on a 15 year mortgage. Or a 5% interest rate on the money market checking accounts. I suppose it makes sense, when you consider the shareholders in the credit union.

MOTHER FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!

I got back to the office from kacking three child molesters and two lawyers yesterday, and was looking at the board for another, when my boss came out of his office. He kinda did a double-take, and said, "What are you doing here? Aren't you on vacation?"

I snarled, then took a deep breath and told him what had happened with all the God-damned banks in town.

The jerk says, "oh." and goes back into his office, and waves me inside. He hands me another, even more satisfying hit, this one on a large, national bank's president who's been acquitted of a Ponzi scheme on a technicality (evidence that was gathered incorrectly, and thrown out as inadmissible). I smiled, and took the file.

So I got back to the office early this afternoon to collect my take, and my boss's door is open. On a Saturday. He's never there on a Saturday. So, I poke my head in to let him know I've done the job.

And he grins. "That's why we love you. High, fast turnover. By the way, I've got a brochure for you."

I did not know until today, at 3:45 p.m., that the First National Federal Public Assassin's Credit Union existed. And that they close at 3:00 p.m. on Saturdays.

At times like these, I wish I were a little less professional.

I've spent the past two days going from bank to bank, looking for one that would be willing to underwrite a mortgage for us.

I've been turned away by every fucking bank in town. Every. Fucking. Bank. In exactly the same way, for exactly the same reason.

Let me describe what happened in the first bank.

First National Bank. Good, big bank. It's the one my fiance and I have our accounts with--they know me there, and they know what kind of savings we'd racked up for buying a home. I figured I would be in and out, same day, no problem, and my fiance and I could spend the rest of my two week vacation house shopping.

Nope. Not by a long shot.

I got in to see the loan officer, and told her what we were looking for. I told her that my fiance had been in, and had been pretty unceremoniously turned down. She shrugged and told me with a very professional smile (perfectly empty and meaningless) that they turned down anyone whose income was that sporadic. I returned the professional smile and said that I understood that, and that we wanted to try for a mortgage in my name.

So, she pulls up the forms on her computer, and starts asking the questions I expected. You know: income, debts (I only told her about mine, not Mom's), stuff like that. Everything went as I expected, for the most part--I will admit that I wasn't expecting her to start fawning over me like she did when I mentioned what my annual income was.

And then she asked me who I worked for, and everything fell apart.

I told her that I'd been working for the agency for the past five or so years, and mentioned that I was one of their five top-paid agents. She went very stiff--stiff enough that her smile started looking like she was in absolute agony. I suppose she may have been--she was so terrified that she didn't seem like she could move for a couple of minutes. Then, with a shaking hand, she took the mouse and closed out of the program. At my raised eyebrow, she excused herself from her office.

She was gone for half an hour. When she came back, she had three security guards with her, and three cashier's checks--one with the amount from my personal checking account, one with the amount from our savings account, and one with what was in my fiance's account. Then she asked me to leave.

I didn't move. I was in more than a little shock. I asked to speak with her manager, and one of the security goons offered me a hand up. He said that the manager was actually expecting me, and that they were to escort me to his office.

The manager stood up, but didn't shake my hand or offer me a chair. He told me in a very firm voice (while refusing to look me in the eye) that he stood behind his bank's decision, and that my business wasn't welcome any longer. He said that the bank would honor any last charges through our checking accounts, but that the accounts were closed. Good day.

I will admit my smile was a bit thin and cold as I took this in. And he took a step back, away from his desk toward the windows. Then he glanced behind him, and jumped sideways--away from the windows, like I could push him out from across the room and on the other side of the desk, with security goons on either side and behind me.

Need I remind you that I am not a large woman?

I agreed that his bank would lose my business. I casually mentioned that my sister and brother-in-law, who also used this bank (and are, quite frankly, bigger and more important customers than I am), and that they'd be disappointed to hear that the bank no longer wanted my family's business. I wasn't expecting him to back down (and he didn't); I just wanted to make him squirm (and he did).

Then I endorsed the checks against the wall I was standing closest to, and handed them to the security goon on my left, telling the manager that if he didn't want my business, I'd fully release them from having to do any more business with me. Today. Because I didn't want to be carrying his checks.

Of course, he sputtered. He tried to talk me out of it. He yelled. I reached inside my jacket for a notepad to document the abuse. He cringed, whined, and took the checks himself, motioned for me to step away from the door, and ran out of the room. He came back with about a quarter million in cash, and three more guards.

They had six guards--big guys, all of them--escort a 5'2", 135 pound woman out of the bank. With a quarter mil in cash in her purse.

I'm glad I was armed.

And I did call Jenni while I was on my way home, and tell her what happened. And the bank lost another 2.5 million in business that same day.

Payback's a bitch.

In any case, I spent the rest of the day going around the big, national banks, looking for a home for our cash, and looking for a mortgage.

No dice. Not on any front.

Yesterday, I went around town again, looking into the smaller, local banks.

Again, no dice. At any of them.

I'm pretty sure that it wasn't that they just don't approve--which is why many of them won't deal with escorts at any level of the business. I got the impression at each and every one of the banks I visited that they were terrified that I'd pull out a gun and start shooting everyone without provocation.

If I was going to do that, I'd have shot the first mortgage officer when she came back in with the security goons to escort me out. But, I'm a bit more professional than that--if someone takes a contract out on her, I'll bite and scratch to get it, but without a contract, I won't do squat. It's unsanctioned murder. It's illegal. Most of all, I'm a professional, and killing her without a contract would be unprofessional. Damn it.

No, the quarter mil isn't in our apartment. So don't get any ideas.

And no, I won't take out a contract on the brainless twatcake that started the whole mess. That would also be unprofessional.

My fiance, on the other hand, is considering it for an anniversary present.

In the meantime, I need to kill something. I'm going in to look at the board this afternoon for a good, satisfying hit--and I don't care how much it pays, it just has to be satisfying. Then I'm going to go do it. Then I'll take the rest of my vacation.

A bit of a snag...

I ruined a really nice suit, today. You'd never believe just how badly people care for their cars. I suppose it makes my job easier when the gas lines are leaking. Saves on my professional budget when I don't have to plant more than a length of det cord.

Anyway, I came home this evening, covered in brake fluid, transmission fluid, and gasoline to find my fiance, drunk again, crying on the couch. I thought he'd had another crushing loss, but he waved that away and told me that he's started talking to Jenni before he makes a move financially.

No, apparently, his income is too...sporadic, let's say, for the banks to be willing to talk to him about a mortgage. They won't even talk to him about a NINJA loan, even with our downpayment savings account. If that's not sad, I don't know what is.

I suppose I should take a few of the vacation days I've got stockpiled and get this done in my name. I'm kinda tired of having neighbors stomping on my ceiling at all hours on weekends.

I'm home, for a while.

Wow. Sorry I went missing for a while, sis. It's been a busy few weeks.

I've been sent on a few trips for work, lately. It's been so hectic that I've barely been able to sleep in my own damn bed for more than a couple hours before I had to get up to make the next flight. No worries, though--all the travel pays extra, and Mom doesn't need it all.

Which is a great thing: my beloved fiance and I have now got a good downpayment saved up. We'll be looking into different banks' mortgage rates in the next few weeks.

In any case, I had my quarterly psych check-up last Friday. We have a new shrink working for the company that does the evals for this state's C.P.A. agencies. She's the one that did my testing, and I managed to get some interesting info out of her that I'm not sure she realizes she gave me. It made me seriously re-think my initial second career plans of going to work as a university admissions counselor.

Apparently, there've been some new regulations quietly pushed through the Department of Education. The Federal government finally managed to get their sticky fingers inserted into university admissions tracking in ways other than just affirmative action: students are being fairly forcibly tracked into "studies" majors in public universities if they are of certain races and get below about a 25 on their ACT, or a 1160 on the SAT. If they get below a 20 or 970, they're tracked into sociology and social work programs. If they get below 18 or 890, they're tracked into remedial courses, then tested again. If they score below the sociology cutoff again, they're tracked into teacher ed.

And if they get above a 25/1160, and they're Asian, they're still tracked into the "dummy" tracks. Because the "dummy" tracks don't have a certain, politically correct, populationally proportionate percentage of Asian students.

And when the new shrink who did my psych testing got the requirements forwarded to her, she changed jobs. I can't say as I blame her for that--it's probably safer for her job security to work with marginally functional sociopaths than to refuse to forcibly track students like that because it's politically correct but morally wrong.

After I can retire as a wetworks agent, I might see if I can get on with one of the psych companies. It'd be less frustrating than working with the feds breathing down my neck, that's for sure.