by Joel Jenkins
Killingsworth shifted the scope to the features of the guards. The first face was bland and emotionless, beady eyes that were as dead as coal. The second face was sliced with a pair of shrapnel scars and intersected by a crooked nose. It seemed that Mr. Grimme had decided to fight fire with fire and recruited as nasty a group of murderers and cutthroats that could be found anywhere on the planet in order to protect his daughter.
“The north guard is Pavlushka Tsibliyev. I’ve worked with him before.”
“Isn’t he the mate that lobbed a grenade into a town square in Chile as a distraction so that he and his team could escape?” asked Jurgens.
“Team, nothing! He killed four children just to save his own skin,” said Ellingson, and the tone of his voice suggested that he admired the man.
“We don’t kill any children unless we’re getting paid handsomely,” rasped Mostovoi. “And tonight we’re getting paid very, very handsomely.”
“Two million each,” intoned Ellingson. “Tax free dollars, just for putting down a little girl that happens to be the daughter of someone that pissed off our employer.”
“There will at least three more guards protecting Barbel Grimme on the inside—and that’s if her father hired just one protection team. If he doubled up the teams we’ll have our hands full.”
“If Monica can get her eyes on the brat then all we need is one bullet and we can go home,” grumbled Tarsha Yeo, the only other female member of the hit squad. Killingsworth didn’t much like her. She was unprofessional and had a chip on her shoulder the size of a small European country. Still, Killingsworth worked with assassins; it wasn’t strange for her to find herself working shoulder to shoulder with people she didn’t care for.
“Don’t use my name on the airwaves or I’ll save a bullet for you.”
Yeo was native to Singapore and had killed three men in knife fights before a tong in Hong Kong recruited her for some particularly nasty bloodwork. She was all about efficiency and if they could could kill little Barbel with one well-placed shot and go home that would be fine with her.
“I’m just saying that if you would do your job we could be somewhere warm enjoying a cocktail.”
“I’m all for that,” said Jurgens. “K, when this is all over how about if we spend a week in that place in Cancun, like we did two years back after the Harper job.”
“Sounds like a good way to spend Christmas vacation,” said Monica.
“Everyone shut up,” ordered Mostovoi. “Keep your eyes on the chalet.”
“Bad news,” reported Killingsworth. “The west guard is using his nightscope.”
Scarcely had Killingsworth warned the team when a report echoed across the landscape and Biff Ellingson went down gasping, a bullet through his lung.
“Take them out,” ordered Mostovoi.
Before Mostovoi had finished giving the order Monica sent a bullet winging its way through the guard’s skull at the velocity of half a mile per second. She shifted targets and before Pavlushka Tsibliyev could open the door and retreat to the interior of the chalet she shot a bullet through his left shoulder blade. He tumbled inside the chalet with only his boots visible for a few moments before he or someone else managed to drag him inside.
“Converge on the front door,” ordered Mostovoi. “K, you cover us. We’re going in.”
The three assassins emerged from hiding, running as fast as the deep drifts of snow allowed. They came from three different directions so that they weren’t grouped together—fodder for automatic weapon fire. Still, they were sitting ducks for the sniper that sat behind the frosted window panes that lay beneath the steep slopes of the icicle-thick eaves of the chalet. The only hope Mostovoi, Jurgens and Yeo had of making it through the front door was if Killingworth was able to lay down enough suppressive fire to keep the sniper from shooting—or better yet kill him outright.
Still, Killingsworth patiently waited as those double panes of glass swung silently open and the black-clad sniper who waited patiently behind opened fire. Mostovoi was the first to go down, three bullets stitching across his chest.
Killingsworth heard Jurgens’ voice frantic in her earpiece. “Take out the sniper! Take out the sniper!”
Yeo heard the weapons fire and flung her lithe form into a snow bank while the sniper poured a volley of fire after her. In a few moments crimson stained the snow and there was no movement beneath the drift.
Jurgens approached from the side of the cottage and either the chalet sniper had not seen him coming or he had been delayed by the extra rounds he was blindly firing into the snow drift. Whatever the reason, this gave Jurgens the opportunity he needed and he fired twin Berettas into the loft—silencing the sniper.
When Killingsworth saw that her former boyfriend was about to make it through the front door of the chalet she cursed and fired. He was moving quickly, diving through the door—a very difficult target. Her snap shot struck the Beretta in his left hand, tearing it out of his grip and snapping his trigger finger. The pistol went off, firing into the face of one of Grimme’s protecting guards who was coming around the corner at just that moment to finish Jurgens off.
Killingsworth heard the sound of gunshots and saw the muzzle flashes lighting up the entrance to the chalet. She heard Barbel Grimme scream and saw a flash of her as she ran past the Christmas tree. Though she was loathe to leave such a fine weapon as the Galil rifle behind, Killingsworth realized she didn’t have time to take it with her. She shook off the snow that had disguised her heat signature and rose. She wore high-end Atlas snow shoes which dispersed her weight just enough so that she could travel across the top of the snows, but weren’t so large as to hinder her movement as she slid down the slope and then sprinted toward the chalet.
As she came through the front door a pair of .45 Glock pistols appeared in her hands. She passed by three dead men and she noted the neither Craig Jurgens or Pavlushka Tsibliyev were among them. The air was warm inside the chalet and it felt good to be out of the winter chill. Killingworth stalked through the living room and found the nanny slumped against the couch, crimson staining her blouse. She was still alive—too occupied with the struggle for each breath to show fear at the appearance of this new assassin.
Killingsworth knelt beside the nanny and spoke softly. “I’m here to help. Where is Barbel?”
The nanny choked out a response. “Are you the one that Mr. Grimme told me about?”
Killingsworth nodded. “Now tell me quickly or it may be too late.”
“There a secret door at the back of the pantry, behind the shelves. I told Barbel to hide there.”
“What about the blond assassin that came in?”
“He shot me,” she gasped. “Then he went into the bedroom to look for her.”
Killingsworth rose to leave but the nanny clutched at her leg. “Mr. Grimme told me that Mr. Muratovic may have hired another team—a backup team—to kill Barbel.”
Generally employers liked to keep their identities a secret, but this explained a lot. Muratovic was an utterly ruthless Bosnian warlord who had leveraged himself into the financial markets. He didn’t like it when someone got in the way of his manipulations. Grimme must have crossed him somehow. “I’ll get her out of here, then,” answered Killingsworth. “It will be safer.”
“What about me?”
“I’ll call an ambulance,” she said.
Killingsworth went to Barbel’s bedroom first. She had examined the official floorplan of the chalet and memorized the layout prior to the hit, so it was only a few moments before she came across Craig Jurgens looking beneath Barbel’s four poster bed, gingerly lifting the covers with his left hand—broken finger dangling uselessly. He heard the sound of Monica’s spiked snow shoes on the hardwood floor just a moment too late. When he turned he saw that his former girlfriend had him dead to rights.
“Why did you do it, Monica?” he asked. “You delayed our cover fire. It’s your fault Yeo and Mostovoi died.”
“I had a better o
ffer,” said Killingsworth. “After Mostovoi contacted me for the job I called Armin Grimme and offered him my services. He agreed to pay me ten million dollars if I disposed of the hit team that I had already been recruited for.”
“That’s five times our individual cut for killing Barbel,” said Jurgens.
“I’m well aware of the math,” said Killingsworth.
“You aren’t going to kill me are you?”
“There is a price on your head,” Killingsworth reminded him.
“You took a commission to kill me?”
She shook her head. “If it’s any consolation I didn’t know Mostovoi had recruited you for the job—or maybe I would have thought twice about contacting Grimme.”
“Maybe,” said Jurgens, not fully convinced that Monica’s affection for him would have trumped eight million dollars, plus the half million bounty that was on his own head. “So are you going to kill me? We could still make that trip to Cancun.”
Killingsworth knew full well that there was only one thing that Craig Jurgens held sacred more than a good bottle of tequila. That one thing was his professionalism. When he took a job he saw it through to the end. “I’m game, but you’re going to have to stand down. Throw down your pistol.”
Jurgens didn’t delay. He knew full well that if he thought too long that Killingsworth would hasten the decision-making process by putting a bullet through his head. He put his Beretta on the floor.
“Where’s the other?”
“On the floor next to the guard that I shot in the face.”
Killingsworth nodded. She had seen the pistol lying there. However, she knew from experience that Jurgens always carried an antique double-barreled .41 caliber pistol that was small enough to easily conceal even in the palm of one’s hand. “Where’s the Deringer, Crai...”
She didn’t finish because she saw a flash of movement as Jurgens palmed the miniature pistol. She fired, putting a bullet through Jurgens forehead. He slumped and the Deringer clattered to the floor. Killingsworth picked it up and shoved it into the jacket of her pocket. “Sorry, Craig. I guess I’ll be spending Christmas in Cancun all alone.”
Her Glock still smoking, she crept out of the room and to the pantry finding no other signs of life within the chalet. The nanny had expired during her absence. Once you knew there the secret door at the back of the pantry it wasn’t that difficult to find or open. It was a World War Two era safe room with bricked walls and a few provisions. Barbel was huddled in the back and she began to scream when she saw the masked intruder dressed all in white.
Killingsworth stripped off her mask, revealing her fine-chiseled features and her blond hair spilling out. “Barbel, my name is Monica and I’m here to help you.”
Barbel gasped for breath. “Help me?” she whimpered.
Killingsworth extended her hand. “It’s not safe here, we need to leave.”
“What about my nanny?”
“I’m sorry,” said Killingsworth, “but she’s not going to be able to come with us.”
“Is she dead?”
Killingsworth nodded. “She’s dead. Now we need to hurry. There may be other assassins on the way.”
Barbel tentatively reached out and took hold of Killingsworth’s hand and they exited the safe room through the pantry and into the warmly-lit corridor beyond. “Wait! I need Mr. Orangutan.”
Killingsworth, who, when facing death was as calm, cool and collected as an ice carving became exasperated. “We don’t have time.”
Barbel began to pull against Monica’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere without Mr. Orangutan.”
“Fine. Where is Mr. Orangutan?”
Barbel began to cry. “I don’t know.”
“I can’t find him if you don’t know where he is, and we don’t have time. Now come on!”
Barbel continued to sob. “I want Mr. Orangutan!”
“Fine,” snapped Killingsworth, “but only if you’ll stop your whining. Now tell me where you last saw Mr. Orangutan.”
“Maybe I left him on my bed.”
“Alright, come with me.” They crept back to Barbel’s bedroom and Monica knew full well that Craig Jurgens’ body lay inside. She didn’t really want to view the results of her own handiwork again, and she inwardly cursed herself for being so weak. Her job was best done when one could leave emotional entanglements behind.
She steeled herself, not looking at her former lover’s face as she stepped over his body and retrieved Mr. Orangutan who was, indeed, resting on the saffron covers of the four poster bed. A moment later she emerged from the bedroom and found Barbel drying her tears. She handed Barbel the stuffed orangutan and again took her by the hand.
Where are we going?”
“Out to the garage. Do you know where your daddy keeps his car keys?”
“They are on the wall by the garage.”
“Perfect,” said Killingsworth. They made a direct path to the garage, that was interrupted when Monica heard a scuff of footsteps and felt a garrote of piano wire descend over her head and tighten around her neck. Little Barbel screamed.
Once an assassin managed to get a garrote around your neck there were only a few slim hopes of survival—especially when that garrote was composed of piano wire which could slice through flesh and jugular. One defense was to get your fingers between the garrote and your neck. Usually this only slowed down the inevitable and at the very best resulted in severely damaged fingers.
Instead, Killingsworth shoved her hand into her pocket, while the thick collar of her snow suit bought her a few moments of protection. Her hand found Jurgens antique Derringer and she twisted the snout behind her and triggered both barrels.
Suddenly the pressure of the garrote released and her assailant thumped to the floor. Killingworth massaged her throat with her left hand and found that it came away bloody where the garotte had found a patch of bare flesh. She turned and found the Turkish maid sprawled on the floor, gutshot and gasping for breath. The maid’s skirt was thrown awry and Monica could see a pistol strapped to the inside of her would-be-garroter’s thigh. Apparently, the frisking of the security team hadn’t been quite secure enough.
Even severely wounded, the woman was a professional and she reached for the gun, hoping to finish the job she had started. She tried to get a bead on Barbel Grimme but by this time Killingsworth had retrieved her Glock and she put two shots through the Turkish maid’s heart.
“Why is she trying to kill you?” gasped Barbel.
“Muratovic must have hired a back up assassin, besides the team that Mostavoi put together for him. It was you she wanted dead,” said Killingsworth. “I was just in her way.”
Of course, Barbel didn’t understand most of this. “Why would anyone want to kill me?”
“It’s not anything you did. It’s just that they don’t like your father.”
Monica found the keys to a Mercedes Benz hanging on a hook. She heard a sound down the corridor and Pavlushka Tsibliyev stumbled around the corner, his left arm hanging slack, but a wide-mouthed grenade launcher in the grip of his right hand, with the butt end shoved against his belly.
“You’re not going anywhere,” said Tsibliyev.
“I won’t harm the girl,” said Killingsworth. “If you want to ensure her safety then come with me.”
“I don’t know for sure,” said Tsibliyev, “but I have a sneaking suspicion that you were the one who shot me. I don’t like getting shot.”
“I didn’t shoot you,” lied Killingsworth. “I was hired to protect Barbel—not shoot her protection.”
“Mr. Grimme told me had a man—or rather a woman—on the inside of the hit team. An expert marksmen, he said. I still say it was you that shot me.”
“Get over it,” said Killingsworth. “We both want the same thing, and Mr. Grimme will reward us both handsomely if we keep his daughter from harm. You fire that grenade launcher and we’ll all be dead.”
“Not necessarily,” said Tsibliyev. “I can place the shot twe
nty feet behind you at the end of corridor. Your body should absorb the brunt of the shrapnel.”
“And what of Barbel?” asked Killingsworth. “You’ll kill her, too.”
“I don’t much care about that,” said Tsibliyev.
“That’s the problem with hiring psychotic killers to guard your loved ones,” shrugged Killingsworth. “They are notoriously problematic when it came to issues of trustworthiness.”
“Now that is the pot calling the kettle black,” said Tsibliyev and he squeezed the trigger of the grenade launcher.
Killingsworth was already on the quick draw with her Glock. She fired before Tsibliyev. She didn’t know if it was sheer luck, skill, or a combination of both but the bullet from the Glock, traveling at 1,100 feet per second, entered the wide-mouthed barrel of the grenade launcher and struck the grenade, exploding it while it was still in the barrel.
