9mm Pistol Quotes

the drawer contains a 9 mm Glock pistol. She stashes the gun here,

During the mission, we dressed in civilian clothes to emphasize the humanitarian nature of the evacuation. One disturbing aspect of the operation were our orders not to carry weapons. This went against my instincts as an operator, especially since we were working on an airfield pockmarked with bomb craters and surrounded by Yemini soldiers carrying AK-47 assault rifles. I chose to interpret our instructions to mean we could not openly carry weapons. I carried my 9mm pistol in a fanny pack around my waist and, just in case, we had some rifles broken down and stored in backpacks. I think it’s unwise to walk around unarmed in a combat zone.

He held them in his hand and looked at them as a man who was panning for gold, expecting only flakes, would look at four nuggets in his pan. The four bullets had black noses. Now the meat was out of them, the short twist rifling showed clearly. They were 9mm standard issue for the Schmeisser machine pistol. They made the man very happy. They picked up all the hulls, he thought. But they left these as plain as calling cards.

Eric Steele was strapped in and rubbing a rag over his father’s 1911. Demo had brought the pistol with the rest of Steele’s gear on board the C-17. In the cockpit, the pilot pushed the throttle forward, shoving Steele back in his seat. He barely noticed because he was thinking about the first time his father let him hold the pistol. It had felt so heavy in his hands back then. So much I never got to ask him. He ran his thumb over the spot where the serial number should have been. It was silver and all traces of the file marks were smoothed out by years of use. The pistol was one of John Moses Browning’s masterpieces, the same design that the American infantryman had carried in the Battle of Belleau Wood, Iwo Jima, Korea, and Vietnam. It was the only thing he had to remind him of the father he never really knew. Steele had made the pistol his own by modifying it to shoot 9mm, adding a threaded barrel, and installing suppressor sights, which were taller than the factory ones. It was his gun now, and he slipped it away before taking an amphetamine tablet out of his pocket and downing it with a sip of water.

Everything was silent except for his heavy breathing. Steele tugged the helmet off and heard frantic voices coming closer. He hit the riser release, stripped the 1911 from his chest, and held the pistol at the ready. Outside the voices were getting closer. “He is in here!” someone yelled in Arabic. “Kill him, kill him!” The door flew open, revealing a man with an AK-47 who stood there scanning the interior. Steele waited for him to step inside, then dropped him with a shot to the skull. He scrambled to his feet. There was no time to grab his rifle from his pack—the only thing he could do was press the attack. Moving to the door, he saw three more men running toward him, their chests heaving and fingers on the triggers. The closest man saw him step out. He wasn’t expecting one man to attack and his eyes widened in surprise. “Not today, boys.” Steele fired the first round too fast and it hit his target in the hip. The round spun him like a top, but Steele frowned, knowing he had rushed the shot. He settled automatically into a shooter’s stance and reengaged the first target before shifting fire to the other two. Thwap, thwap, thwap. The suppressed 9mm bounced from chest to chest, sending a hollow point mushrooming into each. All three men were down before the first casing tumbled to the ground. Steele stepped out and finished them off with a single shot to the head.

To the clothing, he added a pump shotgun and a box of shells. A Glock 9mm semiautomatic pistol went in his Tahoe’s gun safe with two extra magazines. If he needed more than fifty-one shots at somebody, he deserved to die.

Now that he was off the street, he drew the Beretta from his jeans. A military variant of the popular police officer’s sidearm known as an M9, it was a 9mm, fifteen-round semi-automatic pistol. Though lacking a little in stopping power, they were otherwise excellent weapons, tried and tested all over the world. Disengaging the safety, he held the weapon low and advanced into the room. Hollywood always shows the hero moving with his arms bent, weapon pointing up at the ceiling, and while it might look impressive, in reality it would just make it easier for an assailant to grab the weapon or knock it aside. Keeping it below waist height makes it much more difficult to take out of the game

Be prepared, indeed. The polymer case housed a Sig-Sauer P229 semiautomatic pistol chambered in 9mm Luger, along with a pair of thirteen-round magazines. And a suppressor designed to be screwed into the threaded barrel. MI-5 officers weren’t supposed to be armed. Not on British soil, at least. Something he had voiced to the DG.

Cowles sat next to him. Upon his lap was a soft, leather briefcase. Inside, his left hand was wrapped around the butt of a suppressed 9mm Springfield XD pistol. Harvath had made it perfectly clear that if Hanjour tried anything at all, Cowles would shoot him in the genitals or the stomach, neither of which was a good way to die

He was close now. Way too close. Fuck, Harvath said to himself again. Even with subsonic ammo in his suppressed H&K, the 9mm pistol still made a lot of noise. It would sound even louder this close to the house. Somebody was going to hear it. And whoever did was going to come to investigate. Fuck.

The first thing Harvath removed was a sand-colored, modified Palafox 9mm SIG Sauer P226 pistol. It had bright green TRUGLO Tritium/Fiber-Optic Day/Night sights that allowed for fast target acquisition regardless of light conditions. Portions of the slide had been milled away to lessen the weapon’s weight. It also helped to reduce muzzle flip and better assist recoil management. Accompanying the pistol was a Sticky-brand inside-the-waistband holster, spare magazines, and several boxes of TNQ frangible 9mm ammunition

Victor ignored him and reached inside the dead man’s jacket, searching unsuccessfully for a wallet. He went to take the man’s radio receiver, but it was in pieces, a bullet having passed straight through on the way to his heart. In a shoulder holster Victor found a 9 mm Beretta 92F handgun and two spare magazines in a pocket. The Beretta was a good, reliable weapon with a fifteenround mag, but a heavy, bulky gun that, even without the attached suppressor, was impossible to conceal completely. With subsonic ammunition the stopping power wasn’t great either. For this kind of work it was a poor choice of pistol. If the guy wasn’t dead Victor might have told him so. The Beretta wouldn’t normally have been his preference but at times like this there was no such thing as too many guns.

Marc didn’t hesitate to activate the laptop and check the portable computer’s security. His firewalls and lockout protocols had been tested but not penetrated, just as he had hoped. Still, he resolved to crack the laptop’s case at the first opportunity to check for the presence of any bugs, key loggers or other unwanted additions. The daypack had also gained some extra content in the form of an emergency survival kit and a box of 9mm ammunition for the Glock. The pistol was in there too, and he was surprised to note that someone had cleaned it for him. Five star service, he thought.

His big hands moved quickly, efficiently, over the hard polymer—re-assembling the Smith & Wesson M&P Compact he’d brought with him across the unguarded border with France. No borders. It was a lofty idea, in theory. In reality, it only served to make the work of men like him easier. He lifted the semi-automatic pistol in one hand, sliding a full double-stacked magazine into the grip. Twelve rounds of 9mm Federal Hydra-Shok, jacketed hollowpoints. Carrying hardball wouldn’t have been of much use—pistol rounds weren’t going to go through good body armor on the best of days. The Smith & Wesson went into a holster under his armpit, in a cross-draw position. Another pair of loaded magazines went into the pocket of his motorcycle jacket. Along with a long, thin suppressor.

I examined the damaged boat. Someone had deliberately put a hole in its bottom, and I assumed it was all part of a plan to frustrate the raid. Obviously the trouble-maker was behind it all so I determined to deal with him at once. He walked over to me, hands in pockets, avoiding my gaze which spoke volumes of fury. He stated his case in a surly manner, but the substance of it was that he knew the lake very well, he had lived in Katanga all his life, and he could assure me that as soon as the wind got up we would all drown, he was certain of it. He had no intention of getting into any boat that night and that was that. He shrugged his shoulders and folded his arms, saying, “You go if you want to, but I’m staying here.” He cooked his goose by adding, “And most of the men will stay with me. I imagine there comes a moment like this in every commander’s life when his authority is challenged and everything stands or falls on his instant reaction. In a flash I whipped out my heavy Browning 9 mm. pistol and clouted him on the side of the head.

I also wanted to switch pistols. While the Ruger LCP was my primary carry pistol due to its light weight and the fact that it was easily concealable, I carried a larger pistol in my Get Home Bag. It was Beretta 92 9mm with fixed sights. Although it was not the first gun I’d ever owned, it was the first gun I ever went out and bought with my own money. I’d just gotten my first full-time job and wanted a handgun.

The episode felt like a dramatic scene out of a spy movie, complete with me hopping out of my black sedan, 9mm pistol tucked in my waistband.

leather-bound address book. A plastic bag held a 9 mm Pistol-08 Parabellum—more popularly known as a “German Luger”—and

He made his way past a fountain with a statue in the middle and down a lane so overhung with trees they formed a tunnel over benches where, in evenings when the weather was good, couples who had nowhere else to go for privacy would hang out and kiss. The lane opened to a broad green, a children’s playground, and two concrete structures for men’s and women’s public restrooms. He went into the men’s restroom. The first stall was empty. In the second stall he found a black Tumi messenger bag identical to the one he was carrying. He closed the stall door and put his bag down, leaving it where the other bag had been. Inside the new bag there were two cell phones, a plug-in flash drive, and a PC-9 ZOAF-an Iranian copycat version of the SIG Sauer P226 9mm pistol. There was also a sound suppressor and four magazines of ammunition, wrapped with rubber bands. He loaded the ZOAF with a fifteen-round magazine and put it and the cell phones into his raincoat pocket, zipping up the new messenger bag and slinging it over his shoulder as he left the restroom