P90 sight

My P-90 hung easily from the tac harness, its stock high, its barrel hanging down the line of my body. I took a moment to screw a suppressor onto the end of the gun and lifted it to firing position against my shoulder. The little Belgian assault weapon was illegal for a civilian to own within city limits; the suppressor, too. If I got caught with them, I’d be in trouble. If I got caught using them, I’d do time. Both of those consequences were subordinate to the fact that if I didn’t go in armed for bear, I might not live to congratulate myself on my sterling citizenship.
Well, there’s no such thing as a perfect solution, is there. I
 moved quietly back to the entry door, silenced weapon tight against my shoulder. I duckwalked, my steps quick and small and rolling, to keep my upper body level as it moved. I’d put a red dot sight on the P-90, and it floated in my vision as a translucent crosshair of red light. The sight made the weapon, to some degree, point and click. The idea was for the bullets to go wherever the crosshairs were centered. I had it sighted for short work. Even though I’d seen more action than practically any cop in the country—thanks to Dresden—I could count on one hand the number of times I’d used a weapon in earnest against a target more than seven or eight yards away.


Side Jobs, Aftermath, Page 392-393