The Death of an Enemy (A Christmas Miracle)
It was a dark, cold lonely night.
It was the middle of winter in Michigan, and snow was falling from the sky, covering the ground outside like a crisp white blanket. Everything was covered in an untouched layer of snow, giving the area a look of Christmas innocence.
A gentle wind was blowing the smell of blood in his direction.

The extraction of his target wasn’t supposed to be bloody; it was supposed to be clean. It was supposed to get bloody after the extraction. It was a simple job, a job his team was supposed to do quickly and silently. Too bad they didn’t; the blood on his shirt would be hard to explain at the party.

He just hoped that he could clean up a little before it started. Suddenly, his target groaned, distracting him from his thoughts. He grinned at his target, a goofy smile, if not a little bit on the less-than-sane side.

“Aha!” He laughed. His target shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “So you awaken! I’ve been waiting. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“What’s going on?” His target asked, sounding drowsy. His had a gash at his temple, where one of the sloppier members of his team kicked him with a steel-toed boot. “Where are we?”

“I’m sure you want to know.” Was all the said in reply. He had picked out a nice, cozy, deserted warehouse on the East end of town. Close enough to town so he could get whatever he needed for the party, and far enough away that nobody would hear his target’s screams. “But you’ll never find out.”

His target struggled, trying to get free from his confines, which were ropes tied to both hands and the chair. They wouldn’t budge. Of course not.

He was an artist. His ropes were tied perfectly; they were completely inescapable. Not to mention that they were dosed in rubbing alcohol, so every time his target wriggled, trying to escape, he would be burnt from the sting of it.

“Why are you doing this?” His target asked. He sounded desperate and a little hysterical; brown hair, matted with dried blood flopped in front of his target’s eyes. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“You’re debt is too high, my friend.” He answered, pulling a blue pen from behind his ear. He started to twirl it in his fingers. “You think you can take from me, and just keep taking. Don’t you know there are poor kids in Bosnia that are starving? Yet you always take more from me.”

“That’s why?” His target asked, seeming surprised. “That’s ridiculous! Seriously, I’ll pay you back!” He pulled against the ropes again, hissing and cursing in pain when the alcohol stung his already raw wrists.

“Like I’ve never heard that before.” He scoffed, brushing hair away from his face. “I have a friend who will never see the trillions a client of hers owes. Not a cent. And you know why? She waited too long to cash in on his debt. I won’t be that foolish. You’ll pay, alright. You just won’t pay in money.”

As he said this, he pulled out a long blade. It was silver, about the size of a letter opener, and curled gracefully into a razor sharp point. “Be prepared,” he warned his target. “This might Sting.”

“I’ll kill you and your family!” His target yelled, right before the blade was about to plunge into his shoulder.

He stopped, and looked at his target. “What do you mean by that, my friend?” He was honestly confused. Did his target truly believe that he would live long enough to hurt anyone? What a foolish man. He wouldn’t live long enough to apologize to his cat for letting him be so fat.

“You think I don’t have my own minions to send around?” His target had the audacity to look smug. “You think you’re the only one with a team to do your bidding?” His target laughed a full, fanatical laugh, throwing his head back in fiendish delight.

His target continued. “And I’m the fool? If you kill me, friend,” he sneered the word, “The line will just continue. But say you don’t have a problem killing my successor; and say you don’t have a problem killing his. The line will just keep going. I know you have no problem killing me, but how many people are you willing to go through to defend your precious family? Tens, dozens?”

His target grinned wickedly, blood dripping into mouth, making his teeth appear sinister. “You and I both know you’re too moral for that. Too moral to kill so many people who have done nothing to you.”

“But,” he interrupted his target. “I am not too moral to kill those who threaten my family. They will not harm a hair on their heads.”

“Your father is bald,” his target reminded him.

“You know what I mean!” He snapped. “They will not harm them; they will not threaten them; they will not even acknowledge their existence!”

“They have their orders. They always follow orders,” His target claimed, sitting relaxed against his chair. “I have been gone for, what, five or six hours? We have procedures. If I’m gone for more than two hours without any form on contact, they kill one of your men. Maybe the short, Jewish looking one with an affinity for the Red Wings, perhaps? After four hours, they’ll kill two more of your men. The tall one who plays the tuba and the blonde one with an unusual love for camouflage?”

He looked at his target, not expecting such a long utterance. His target was usually so quiet, with so little to say. “That was the most I’ve ever heard you talk, my friend,” he said, making his face emotionless. “Too bad it was all in vain.”

“What do you mean?” His target demanded angrily. Surely, he couldn’t have thought his plan to scare him into retreating would work, did he?

“I’m calling your bluff, my friend.” He explained, walking closer, while swinging his blade around with such precision that it was obvious he spent a lot of time with blades. “We both know I have more people working for me than you have working for you. And my people have something your do not. Loyalty. My men will always follow orders, unlike yours.”

He went on, watching with rapt attention as all the smug amusement drained from his target’s face. “Do you honestly think all your men won’t betray each other, your code, and even you once you’re dead? They are all power and money hungry thugs, is what they are.” He thought about his target’s second-in-command and cringed. “And they aren’t even well groomed.”

“Take it back!” His target screamed at him. His target was seething, red faced and blotchy. It amused him. It made him want to laugh, so he did.

“Why? Why would you want me to lie to you?” He asked, still smiling. “I am not you, my friend. I am honest; or, at least, I aim to be.”

“And you’re right,” he continued. “I am too moral to kill all that you speak of.” Without another word, he took his blade, and stabbed his target, now his victim, in the heart. He ended his life much too quickly for what his victim deserved, but he was running out of time.

He didn’t want to be late to the party.



He marched up to the blue, house, smiling. He tried to forget what had just happen. It was time for celebration, not a time to remember a kill.

The front door opened, and the owner of the house welcomed him in. He nodded graciously, and stepped inside. The house was warm and smelled of hot chocolate and cookies.

“Hey, Ethan,” said the host, smiling. “Do you think Kody will show up? I already wrapped his gift.”
Ethan shook his head, and put on a false frown. “I don’t think he’ll be around. I heard he left town; I don’t think he’ll be back.” He shook his head, dejectedly. “Which is too bad; he was a really good friend of mine.”