Christmas Special 2011 (Joel Jenkins - The Christmas Eve Killers; Joshua Reynolds - Merry John Mock) (epub) by PulpWork

Author:PulpWork [PulpWork]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PulpWork Press
Published: 2011-12-15T05:00:00+00:00

The Christmas Eve Killers

The body of Venus, a heart of ice

My passion warms her flesh but not her soul

She sings to the sound of money

But her true thoughts I’ll never know

Venus, Death Machine

The Gantlet Brothers 1988, Epic Records

Monica Killingsworth laid beneath a fir tree which branches were heavy-laden by the still-falling snow. She wore a knit face-mask that covered all but her icy blue eyes and she squinted as she peered through the six power scope of her Galil sniper rifle. Everything but her face and arms were buried in snow. Her breath rose in frosty plumes, inhibited just slightly by the screen of her mask and she reached for the trigger with gloved hands.

The chalet lay in the depression below her and a steep mountainside descended beyond, other chalets clinging tenaciously to the side, their lights gleaming against the snowy fields which were bathed in the darkness of the overcast night. But Killingsworth’s attention was focused on the front window of the chalet, where the curtains were split just enough so that, through her scope, she could see a sliver of the luxuriously-appointed Christmas tree inside.

For a moment she saw a young girl of six, with a mop of brown hair, pass through her sights dragging an over-sized stuffed orangutan behind her. Killingsworth had memorized those features from a series of photographs. The face belonged to Barbel Grimme, daughter of world-class financier Armin Grimm. As quickly the little girl came into view, Barbel passed through the scope, the stuffed feet of the orangutan trailing and then gone from view.

Monica’s earpiece crackled. It was the hit squad’s team leader, Bernard Mostovoi requesting her status.

“K, have you got a bead on the little brat?” asked Mostovoi.

“I caught a glimpse of her—but not enough to make a sure resolution,” answered Killingsworth.

“But the brat’s still in the front room?” asked Mostovoi.

“She was a minute ago,” said Killingsworth.

“Wait it out,” said Mostovoi. “You still may get a shot.”

“My finger’s on the trigger,” replied Killingsworth.

Another voice broke into the transmission. Monica knew the voice well. It belonged to Craig Jurgens—a hot shot Aussie assassin who had been running the circuit for the last three years, hiring out to the highest bidder and making a few enemies in the process—as witnessed by the bounty on his head. “Hey mates, we’ve got an automobile coming up the road. Could be another player.”

“What make is the automobile?” questioned Mostovoi.

“All I can see are the headlights,” replied Jurgens.

Indeed, a couple minutes later a yellow Yugo pulled into the drive and wound its way down the icy surface and parked on the shoveled asphalt at the side of the main garage. Monica kept her rifle trained on the front window, but diverted her attention long enough to see a woman bundled in a thick coat get out of the driver’s side of the car.

“Get your eyes on her,” ordered Mostovoi.

Killingsworth complied and swung the snout of her Galil toward the newcomer, sighting her through the scope. The skin

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