Christmas Special 2011 Page 5
The barrel contained much of the explosion, but it peeled back the breech of the launcher, pushing the brunt of the concussive force backward, enveloping Tsibliyev in a hail of shrapnel and flame that stripped flesh from bone.
Killingsworth shoved open the door to the garage and pushed Barbel through as the heat from the blast gushed past her, ruffling her long blond hair. A gleaming silver Mercedes, equipped with spiked snow tires, rested inside the garage and she opened up the driver door and lifted Barbel into the seat.
“Climb to the other side,” she urged.
In a moment Killingsworth was behind the wheel. She found the garage door opener clipped to the visor and ice and snow swirled inside the garage as the great door lifted. She gunned the engine, getting some traction on the dry pavement of the garage slab which propelled her onto the slick drive. In a few moments she had reached the top of the drive. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a series of explosions tear the chalet apart. The concussive force rattled the windows of the car.
Barbel turned and stared at the fiery destruction, her mouth open wide. “What happened?”
“Probably a chain reaction from the other grenades in Tsiblyev’s launcher,” said Killingsworth, but she wasn’t convinced this explanation held water. Why had it taken so long for the other grenades to trigger? “Put your seatbelt on right now!”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes, you have to.” Monica knew full well that Armin Grimme wouldn’t pay her the ten million dollars if she returned Barbel as damaged goods.
Barbel begrudgingly complied.
It was as she turned the corner onto the winding mountain road that Killingsworth realized the other thing that was bothering her. The yellow Yugo was gone from the spot where the Turkish maid had parked it. That meant two things to Killingsworth: that Tarsha Yeo was still alive and that she was very angry with Killingsworth.
Yeo must have survived the sniper fire from the chalet and managed to reach the Yugo. It would be a small matter for her to crack the steering column and hotwire the vehicle. They were notoriously cheap vehicles and easy to steal—not that they were high on most thieves’ lists. Once Yeo had started the vehicle she took it down the road where there was a clear line of sight between the trees to the chalet. It wasn’t a good position for a sniper looking to hit a warm target, because there was no view of windows or the garage and driveway for that matter, but it was a good enough position to launch a series of grenades that could blow the chalet into smithareens.
Killingsworth’s theory was immediately confirmed as she brought the Mercedes around the corner and saw Tarsha Yeo standing next to the Yellow Yugo which was parked at the shoulder of a narrow curve. Yeo slapped the last grenade into a revolving cylinder that held six and she raised the launcher.
Monica held the course of the Mercedes because she knew that any sudden movement would throw the car down an icy slope. It was a good thing that Armin Grimme took his security seriously, because when the first grenade hit, the armor plate of the Mercedes took the brunt of the impact. The layered windshield spidered, but held firm, and then the vehicle emerged from the ball of flame and shrapnel.
Before Tarsha Yeo could fire a second grenade Killingsworth side-swiped the Yugo. It was not a very large car, nor very heavy and the armored Mercedes outweighed it by a couple of tons. The Yugo rolled over the top of Yeo, and the two of them careened over the precipice. The last Monica saw of Yeo was a glimpse of her flailing body as she and the car plummeted into a stand of trees that grew thirty feet below.
Killingsworth straightened the sloughing Mercedes and resumed down the winding mountain road at a much more conservative pace that wouldn’t risk her life or the life of her new charge.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Barbel.
“I’ve got a safehouse in Lugano,” said Killingsworth. “We’ll hole up there until I get further direction from your father.”
Barbel pulled her stuffed Orangutan close, hugged it and she begin to cry.
“What’s wrong now?” sighed Killingsworth.
“My father was supposed to come home for Christmas. Now we don’t have a home to have Christmas in.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Killingsworth. “Your father has enough money to purchase a thousand homes if he wants.”
Barbel sat quietly for a moment, pondering something. “Has my nanny gone to meet Jesus?”
Killingsworth shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat of the stolen Mercedes. She had, of course, wondered before what happened to a person’s soul once she pushed them off this mortal coil with a bullet or two. She liked to think that they were extinguished into nothingness, so that she would never have to face the prospect of meeting them again. Still, the persistent thought there might indeed by something beyond this life continued to haunt her.
Finally, Killingsworth spoke. “I suppose your nanny was a good enough sort of person. She’s probably meeting with Jesus right now.”
“What is your name?” asked Barbel.
It was an innocent question. Of course, Monica Killingsworth wasn’t her real name—but it was her trade name, and the name she most often used. “People call me Monica.”
Barbel rolled the name over, forming it into something she was more familiar with. “Monique. Thanks for saving me, Monique. Is that what you do? Save people?”
“I’m a conflict resolution specialist,” said Killingsworth, reciting the job description printed on her business cards.
This meant nothing to Barbel of course, but she accepted it just the same. “Monique, do you think you and I will meet with Jesus when we die?”
“I’m sure you will,” said Monica. “I suspect there will be someone else waiting to see me.”
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About M.D. Jackson:
M.D. Jackson is a wizard from the misty reaches of British Columbia. His most impressive magical feat is the ability to cast the illusion that the lines he draws actually f
orm a picture. Visit his blog at michaeldeanjackson.blogspot.com.
About Josh Reynolds:
Josh Reynolds is a professional freelance writer of moderate skill and exceptional confidence. He is not, however, an influential 18th Century English painter. He hopes that, given time, you will get over that disappointing fact. Visit Josh Reynolds’ blog at Joshuamreynolds.blogspot.com.
About Joel Jenkins:
Joel Jenkins lives in the heron-haunted shadows of the Rainier Mountains, and finds the perpetual twilight conducive to writing. He is the former front-man for several obscure rock bands and once impersonated a ghost. Visit Joel Jenkins’ blog at JoelJenkins.com.