Pulling the Trigger

Some people ask me what I feel, if anything, when I shoot one of them… all up close and personal.

The SIG Pro is a series of semi-automatic pistols designed and manufactured by Swiss Arms AG (formerly SIG Arms AG and Sauer & Sohn) and distributed in United States by the SIGARMS. It was the first polymer-framed handgun from either company. It is available in several variants (SP 2009, SP 2022 and SP 2340) and chambered in .40 S&W, 9 mm Parabellum and .357 SIG.

The SIG Pro series of pistols is a joint effort between two famous European arms makers; SIG Arms AG (now Swiss Arms AG) and J. P. Sauer & Sohn of Germany. As with other joint ventures between the two companies these pistols are sometimes referred to as SIG Sauer. It was originally developed as a .40 S&W caliber service pistol with a polymer frame and modular design and was first announced in 1998 as the SIG Pro SP 2340. About one year later, the 9mm version, designated the SP 2009, was introduced and entered production.

The SIG Pro is a short recoil operated, locked breech pistol. It uses a traditional Browning cam-operated locking system. The barrel locks into the slide via enlarged ejection port.

The frame is made from polymer, with detachable grip panels. Grip panels can be easily replaced and are available in several different sizes and shapes.

The overall design is slightly different from earlier SIG-Sauer pistols such as P220 or P226, as there is no separate disassembly lever on the frame and the slide release lever looks quite different.

The standard SIG Pro does not have a manual safety but it does incorporate a decocking lever (lowers the hammer without striking the firing pin), trigger-bar disconnect (disconnects the trigger when the slide is out of battery), automatic firing pin lock (does not free the firing pin until the trigger is depressed) and a hammer safety intercept notch (prevents the hammer from striking the rear of the firing pin until the trigger is depressed).

— Part I —

From the outside it was just another two-story brick building in a part of town that you didn’t want to walk around in unless you were known as ‘someone who knows somebody’, armed and good with a weapon or (most often) both. The mortar had been dyed dark from chemical emissions of the surprisingly frequent street traffic, cracked from innumerable climbing plants attempting to reclaim it for nature and covered in graffiti from street gangs or the occasional urban artist looking to make a mark before their died of one disease or another. The windows of the upper story were false and there were no windows on the first. The only entrance facing the street was a metal door, painted green over years of spray paint and bloodstains and scratched by… well it wasn’t clear where the scratches came from but the door had certainly seen better days.

The most startling feature of the building was the two men standing on either side the door. They were massive by any scale and wore suits specifically designed to prove how difficult it is to stuff someone of their girth into a suit. Each wore (on opposite ears) a tiny bud that was connected to a wire that ran in an up-and-over their ear, curled tightly and disappeared into their crisply pressed shirt collars. They looked as if they belonged there and nothing short of a very powerful bulldozer was going to get them to move.

A car pulled to a stop across the street from the two men and the lights clicked off with a barely perceptible click. Unbeknownst to the goons the reason they heard no other car-like noises was due to certain engineering and body adjustments that almost completely muted the engine, resulting in an unpleasant surprise should anyone give chase.

The windows were bullet proof and the chassis was designed to take several rounds before anything vital was injured, but that may come into play later.

A man stepped out of the car, tucking a key-and-key-chain into the pocket of a reasonable copy of a very expensive suit and turned towards the goons. They looked at each other, then the tiny (five-foot-eleven compared to their six-plus-feet) man and smirked. One of them made to pat him down when he held up a gloved hand and grinned.

“You don’t need to do that.”

The bouncer (because this was a club, though not readily apparent) seemed to consider this for a moment. Watching his thought process was akin to watching an oil taker do a three-point turn in the English Channel, but after a short interlude the thug seemed to agree and opened the door. A brief burst of sound and light flooded the empty street, cut off by the door closing heavily behind the man with slicked black hair and expensive tailoring.

“Why’d’joo let him in without searchin’ ‘im?” asked the first man to his co-worker.

A pause.

“Seemed like a good idea.”

— Part II —

Bass pounded against his chest and against a tiny device in his ear. Calling it music would be a compliment, as it was nothing more than a steady thumping drive that caused the crowd to jump and writhe in some strange sort of synchronization. Strobe lights and lasers painted the audience in a rainbow of colors and caused them to appear in the midst of a collective epileptic fit. He stopped once, found the door on the other side of the dance floor by sight and stepped off the cast iron stairs.

He made his way around the crush, his nose suddenly filled with the smells of cigarette smoke, alcohol, lust and tension and his eyes aching from the constant bombardment. Collisions were frequent (including a woman with pink and blonde hair) but no one seemed to notice as he melted quickly into the edges of the throng.

The device crackled in his ear:

Status

The man spoke, but it got not further than his throat; the constant bombardment of sound cut off his voice from anyone close enough for him to hear.

“First floor. Package still there?”

They haven’t moved

“Good.”

He reached the door without a single drink being spilled on his suit (a feat that any club-goer will tell you is almost impossible, especially one packed this tight with bodies) and paused. His hand, encased in expensive black leather, closed around the knob and gave it a twist.

Locked. Damn.

A quick look to his left and right indicated that no one was paying him any interest (though he got the feeling that the bright eyed candy kid behind him was checking out his ass), so he closed his eyes and pressed his hand next to the knob. Binary flew past his vision, concealed from observers by his eyelids, and the door popped open with a barely perceptible snick and metallic creak.

“In.”

All the way to the end, left.

He stepped through the door, taking one more look at the massive throng of people before closing it behind him. He twisted the little switch on the door handle to keep it from locking again should the need for a hasty exit come up.

There were stairs, similar to the set at the entrance to the club, except there were walls on either side. At the base the hallway widened slightly and took on the appearance of an upscale hotel; the lights were stylized half-cones situated at eye level and sent beams of pale light up the walls that had been painted a subtle shade of red. The carpet, also a shade of red, was soft underfoot and made quiet shushing noises as he walked passed closed doors to the last on the left. Each time he passed he could just barely make out moans of ecstasy or pain (it was difficult to tell in some cases).

The requisite sprinkler heads that dotted the ceiling, presumably spaced the legal distance apart, glittered brightly in the subdued lighting.

A handgun appeared from inside his jacket; a modified Sig Pro with an extra 38 millimeters attached to the muzzle. He very carefully ejected the clip, inspected the bullets that glowed faintly and slid it back in to place. A smooth jerk (an oxymoron if there ever was one) chambered the first round, the metallic action of the slide muted by his glove. Three steps later, pistol held flush against his lap, he was in front of the door.

This time it was unlocked.

The door swung open and two of the three occupants looked up. The first two, fangs bared and chin bloodied, hissed at him. The third just continued to twitch in the throws of apparent mind-shattering ecstasy while she bled from wounds on her neck and wrist. They started to rise, dumping the girl unceremoniously onto the floor when his arm whipped up.

Two coughs, two bright flashes and they fell, their bodies shriveling into ash, obliterating the clean smoking holes in their heads.

He moved quickly, applying adhesive bandages blasted with styptic powder to the woman’s wounds, snapping her out of her orgasmic state. A stern look and gesture to the door sent her running down the hall. Michael touched a finger to his ear.

“Two up, two down. One ‘cent, sent packing.”

Damnit. Exit strategy?

“Waterworks.”

Oh no.

“Oh yes,” he said, already out in the hallway and raising a lighter to one of the bright silver sprinklers. Two seconds later the system kicked on, complete with flashing lights, warning bells and the screams of disgruntled club goers.

— Final —

The doors lining the hallway shot open and people poured out. They all made their way to the stairs, not even looking back at the man standing at the edge of the hallway holding an umbrella, a smug (some would say shit-eating) grin plastered on his face. The pistol had disappeared and his arms were crossed over his chest. He waited until they had vanished before squishing his way across the waterlogged carpet and up the stairs himself.

He joined the throng of soaked partygoers outside just as the fire trucks arrived and began to deploy. Men in banana-yellow rubber suits connected hose and then storm into the building much to the dismay and surprise of the door goons. He worked his way to the outside of the crowd, crossed the street and stalked quickly toward his car, producing a small black rectangle and aiming it at the vehicle. His expression quickly fell to one of confusion as his thumb continued to press the red button that should… do…. something…

Bringing the keys into the light he could see that the casing was cracked; water had probably seeped in and fried it.

Damnit.

After unlocking the car in the non-electronic way he tossed his jacket into the back seat with a damp smack against a freshly installed plastic seat cover (he had to close and conceal his umbrella before he got out of the club) and started the car. A soft, trance-like reworking of the Goldberg Variations began to play as he carefully eased his car out into the street, not really hitting the gas until he was well away from the crowd.

“Got the security feed?”

Erased.

“Good.”

He turned the volume up a notch, took off his tie (it joined the jacket in the back seat) and sped off into the night.

Some people ask me what I feel, if anything, when I shoot one of them… all up close and personal.

I tell them: Recoil.