"No problem," Robert said. "Do we need to conduct a search?"
"If you want to try and cop a feel from those tough women, go ahead. My advice is, shoot whoever drops their hands, then frisk them!"
Dean pushed past Robert and once again entered Mrs. Haas's house.
Out the door—fire a shot—back inside.
It all happened too fast, less than two or three minutes in total.
This seemingly kind and gentle old lady was shakily tidying up the untouched teacups on the coffee table, apparently still not realizing what the gunfire outside was about.
"Hello, Mrs. Haas, we meet again." Dean, holding a gun still emitting the smell of gunpowder, casually walked up to the old lady as if he were brandishing a toothpick and sat down in front of her.
Mrs. Haas looked at Dean's gun with a touch of fear, instinctively backing away, but ended up falling onto the sofa behind her. The teacup she had been holding also dropped to the ground, soaking a patch of the floor.
"Sir, did you just fire a gun?"
