She decides she is going to shoot the woman first, even though she's not sure she' s guilty. Her boyfriend might have lied to her about their relationship, or any number of things. Collateral damage.
The girl rechecks the gun's chamber, making sure these are the rubber bullets she usually uses for target practice when she's a lot less pissed off. People have died from rubber bullet shots, to the head, but she doesn't really want to kill anyone. She just wants her boyfriend to hurt.
For starters, anyway.
Ilya is a really good shot. She considered going to the Olympic trials for biathlon, but her bum knee has not motivated her to train or learn the necessary rifle skills. She wonders briefly if the Norweigans who invented the biathlon practiced by shooting their ex-boyfriends.
Ilya opens the window slowly, keeping her gun hand and face down, curtains still drawn as much as they can be, so as not to attract attention. She looks up again for a second and can't believe her boyfriend is stupid enough to do this in such close proximity. It's not much of a challenge.
She holds the gun in both hands, and when they twist just right, together, she brings up the pistol and fires, holding her breath.
The glass in the window below has a puncture wound now, and the woman screams and rolls back away from her boyfriend like she is on fire when the rubber bullet hits her right shoulder just above her breast. Ilya's boyfriend, rather than looking after the woman, starts to get down, but Ilya shoots him in the back. He flails downward for a second, and then scuttles towards the screeching woman to push both of them into a corner.
Ilya backs quickly away from the window, knowing that it is likely they will both stay frightened and unmoving for at least a few minutes. Even if they call 911, assuming that the cell phone they were fucking with is within reach, that will give her enough time to get over there with the tranquilizers and dart gun she has from her recent research trip to Madagascar. It's tough to get radio collars on lemurs to track them while they're still awake.
Ilya grabs the gear from under her bed. She is going to have to make a very good guess about the amount it is going to take to knock them out.
As she shuts her door, she remembers Breschau of Livonia, who had his unfaithful woman sewn to her lover, and then, skin to skin, left them to be eaten by ravens in the desert.
There are no deserts nearby; perhaps the roof of an abandoned warehouse would do.
What will she do from here?