The Dame Did It
Edited by Jessica Fleming
Published by Pro Se Press
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters
in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication
may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval
system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.
Copyright © 2015 Pro Se Productions
“
Black-Hearted Killers” © 2015 by
Joel Jenkins
“
The Damsel of Disaster” © 2015 by
Christofer Nigro
“
Tragic Like a Torch Song” © 2015 by
Shannon Muir
“
Shikata Ga Nai” © 2015 by Percival
Constantine
All rights reserved.
Black-Hearted Killers
by Joel Jenkins
The Damsel of Disaster
by Christofer Nigro
Tragic Like a Torch Song
by Shannon Muir
Shikata Ga Nai
by Percival Constantine
BLACK-HEARTED
KILLERS
A Monica Killingsworth story
by
Joel Jenkins
— :: —
Just one bullet in the head
That’s what the temptress said
To buy your freedom
And she handed me the gun
—”Temptress” from the
Last Bastion of Freedom
album
Asylum, Temple Records, 1998
Monica Killingsworth gunned the engine of her
Mustang—one she had rented under an assumed name—as she raced down
the rural roads of Kentucky. A flat tire had cost her half an hour
and a cattle crossing had cost her an additional ten minutes. She
was habitually early to her business appointments yet, despite her
early departure, due to the delays, she was still running two
minutes behind. She took the hairpin turns at speeds that would
raise the eyebrows of most Nascar drivers—spinning the wheel with
the confidence of practice and experience—and she did it with a
glacial coolness, the only hint of distress the stray strand of
blonde hair that escaped her pinned coiffure and fell across her
forehead.
She raced through the hills and around
vehicles that had the temerity to stick to the speed limit, leaving
them behind in a haze of dust and burnt gasoline fumes. Her ClipPad
played a selection from the neu-metal band Asylum, fronted by a
vocalist she had once tried to kill. It had been one of her rare
failures and cost her a two million dollar commission. As it turned
out, her employer had been planning to pay her in US bills
counterfeited in North Korea. For that slight she had put a bullet
through her employer’s left eye. Kim Jong Il had not been
pleased.
1
The rolling wilderness gave way to a grassy
depression that contained a Gas-n-Go and a tavern in front of which
a half-dozen Harley Davidsons rested on their kickstands. When
Killingsworth spotted the prisoner transport truck refueling at the
Gas-n-Go the icy demeanor of her expression cracked into a smile.
She had been told the driver habitually stopped here for Slim Jims
and and a sixty-four ounce Coke when he was running prison
transfers to the Kentucky State Penitentiary in Eddyville. This was
to be the removal point.
She saw one of the uniformed transport
guards put the nozzle back on the gas meter and she knew that she
had only moments to improvise the release of Joe Johnson
Blackheart. The original plan had been somewhat more subtle, she
was to arrive fifteen to twenty minutes before and loiter inside
the Gas-n-Go until the driver stopped for fuel and caffeine. When
he came in she would lift his keys while he drafted himself
sixty-four ounces of syrup, carbonated water and caffeine. Then
she’d unlock the back doors of the transport and extract the
prisoner.
Generally, Killingsworth didn’t dabble in
kidnappings—but this one might require someone with her expertise,
and the pay was beyond anything she would ever turn up her nose at.
It took money to keep her in fast cars, diamond jewelry, and fine
clothes. However, the way this job was going down was going to be
less than subtle and perhaps nothing short of a blood bath. If so,
they’d hired the right woman for the job.
She pulled the Mustang close up on the tail
of the prison transport truck, kept the engine running and stepped
out of the car before the driver could reach his door.
Killingsworth left her sunglasses on to make it more difficult to
ID her later.
“Hey, darling! You wouldn’t happen to have
an extra smoke on you, would you?”
The driver paused to admire the svelte
figure of the blonde, which was clad in a three button blazer with
beaded lapels and herringbone pencil skirt. “I’m sorry, I don’t
smoke.”
Killingsworth approached the driver with a
swing of her hips. “You don’t now, but you will. How about you at
least let me give you my phone number?”
The driver smiled, mistakenly thinking that
this was his lucky day. “Why, that would be just fine.”
Killingsworth reached inside her Giordino
vest as if to reach for a pen, but instead she produced a stun gun
and shoved it into the driver’s side. The gun crackled and the
driver stiffened, then fell against the pump and began to slide
down. The massive electric shock overloaded the driver’s muscles
with lactic acid so that he could barely blink, but Killingsworth
didn’t let up on the trigger until the driver was on the ground.
“See? You’re smoking now. You stay there, baby, and I won’t have to
hurt you… any worse.”
She freed the driver’s nine-millimeter
magazine pistol from his holster and the keys to the vehicle from
his belt, and stepped to the rear of the armored transport. Before
the guard riding shotgun realized that the driver was down,
Killingsworth had the back of the vehicle open. A stubbled man sat
alone in the rear, hobbled by ankle manacles and handcuffs. His
high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and dark hair matched the pictures
that Killingsworth had studied.
“Joe Johnson Blackheart! Get a move on. I’m
your ride out of here.”
He surveyed the blonde with an appreciative
eye. “Dang, if I knew Hardwick was going to send you to pull my
bones out of prison, I would have agreed to it a long time
ago.”
“You can sweet talk me later, Blackheart.
Now get a move-on, we’re on a tight schedule here!”
Blackheart was on his feet, hobbling to the
back of the vehicle. “You can call me Joe, Blondie.”
Killingsworth saw the guard riding shotgun
peer through the bulletproof window at the rear of the cab, and he
had a clear vision of Blackheart making an escape through the open
back door. “Go ahead and call me Blondie.”
For some reason the second guard thought he
could forestall Blackheart’s escape by throwing the truck into gear
and stepping on the gas. The prison transport lurched forward, but
instead of the truck driving away with Blackheart still in the
back, it threw him on the hood of the Mustang and then barreled
over the curb and through the Plexi-glass walls of a bus stop and
onto the road.
His hands cuffed behind his back, Blackheart
smacked his chin hard on the hood. Killingsworth grabbed him by the
cuffs, braced herself, and dragged the large man off. She opened up
the passenger side door for him. “Get in, Joe.”
Her demeanor was icy cool, but the pistol in
her hand meant business. Joe grinned, blood on his chin from his
newly acquired gash. “Whatever you say, Blondie!” He half hopped
and half fell into the driver’s seat. Killingsworth put a booted
heel against the door and slammed it shut after him. Then in a
couple of moments she was in the driver’s seat.
Before she had settled in, or even closed
her door, her foot was on the gas and accelerating out of the gas
station parking lot, spinning gravel and dust over the still
stunned driver, who was slumped helpless and groaning at the base
of a pump.
The prison transport came to a stop across
the street, over the sidewalk and against a splintered sapling. The
guard was clambering awkwardly out of the driver’s side of the
transport with a shotgun in his hand.
“Give me your gun!” demanded Blackheart.
Killingsworth crinkled her forehead. “What
are you going to do, Joe? Shoot it with your teeth? Besides,
there’s no need to kill this poor sap.” Her foot was all the way on
the gas pedal and she steered close to the prison transport, so
that the guard, who still hadn’t quite set foot upon the ground,
had no choice but to get run over or to leap back into the cab of
the truck.
The guard chose to scramble back inside the
transport and Killingsworth veered at the last moment, the open
door of the transport clipping off the right hand rear view mirror
of the Mustang. Killingsworth wrestled with the wheel and brought
the sloughing car back under control, and then they were down the
road in a wake of scattering fall leaves.
The transport guard finally came down from
his perch and fired his shotgun at the retreating Mustang. The
range of the shotgun was too little and the sports car too far
gone, and the blasts did nothing but scatter steel pellets over the
roadway.
“You didn’t shoot him,” said Blackheart in a
surprised tone.
“No need. I’m getting paid to pull you out
of jail, nothing more. I don’t kill unless I’m getting paid for
it.”
Blackheart cast a sidelong glance at her.
“Oh yeah? What if it comes down to you or the other guy, and
there’s not a dime in it for you?”
“I do what I have to, but it pains me to
work for free.”
Blackheart noticed the diamond tennis
bracelet on Killingsworth’s wrist. “There’s a lot of rocks on that
bracelet. How much did that set you back?”
“Don’t get any ideas, Big Boy. You try to
rip me off and I’ll put a bullet through each of your knees.
Hardwick is paying me to retrieve you. He wants you alive, but he
didn’t specify what condition you had to be in.”
“My good buddy, Hardwick,” said Blackheart.
“How much is he paying you for this?”
Killingsworth turned a long corner, and the
transport truck was out of sight. “Hey, Big Boy. We just met,
remember? I don’t share the intimate details of my business with
just anyone.”
“I’m just asking, because I can make you a
better offer,” said Blackheart.
“The deal’s already been negotiated and
done. I don’t alter my terms unless I haven’t been dealt with
honestly. Besides, I thought Hardwick was your ‘good buddy.’ He’s
doing you a solid by springing you, why do you want to lose
him?”
“I was just being specious or facetious or
whichever it is,” said Blackheart.
Killingsworth kept her eyes on the road,
which wound through stands of maples that were dropping orange and
red leaves. “Big words.”
“I got nothing to do in jail but lift
weights and read.”
“I do a lot of reading between jobs,” said
Killingsworth. “Specious means you were lying to me and facetious
means you meant to be amusing.”
“I guess it was a little of both,” said
Blackheart. “When I said Hardwick was my good buddy I wasn’t
telling the truth, but I meant it to be amusing, because Hardwick
has never been my buddy. He just wants me out of jail so he can
find out what I know.”
Killingsworth spun the wheel, and the
Mustang hugged the tight turn, not drifting even an inch. “What do
you know, Joe?”
Blackheart shifted, uncomfortable with his
bulky arms locked behind his back. “That’s why I wanted to cut you
a deal, Blondie. I was running dope for Frankie G and made an
exchange for a duffel full of cash, but I caught wind that the feds
were following me, so I ditched the money before I got nabbed.”
“If you ditched the money, what did you get
nabbed for?”
Blackheart shrugged. “Some old charges. I
beat up my girl pretty bad after I caught her with my best friend,
and it bought me five in the pen.”
“And your best friend?”
“I broke Finn’s eye socket and his nose. I
think he’s the one that turned the feds on to me.”
KIllingsworth’s face showed no expression.
“How much money are we talking?”
“Six hundred and fifty big ones,” said
Blackheart. “Cut Hardwick out of it and we can split the cash
fifty-fifty.”
“I already told you,” said Killingsworth. “A
deals a deal, and unfortunately for you, I’ve already made one with
Hardwick.”
“Hardwick won’t give me a dime of it,”
complained Blackheart, “and when he’s sure I’ve told him where the
money is hidden he’ll put a bullet in my head.”
“Not my problem,” said Killingsworth.
Blackheart clamped his jaw shut for a moment
before speaking. “If you don’t want the money then why did you ask
me all those questions?”