Genre Scribes: Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #37 — Nomination

Blood oozed from the wound at Kelvin’s side as he pulled himself back over the lip of the cliff. The male-model-looking Consortium operative had impressive knife skills but lacked in the common sense department. Though, he’d probably assumed the twenty-foot drop would be enough to finish Kelvin off. He’d have been right if it hadn’t been for the snowdrift Kelvin fell into.

Kelvin lay on his back for a moment, catching his breath. Male-Model wasn’t around, but the snowmobile was still by the cave. Meaning the operative hadn’t found the lockbox and that Amy was in danger. A heavy pit formed in his stomach. He rolled onto his front and eased himself up, taking care not to aggravate the knife wound further.

Safeguarding the contents of the lockbox was all that mattered…and Amy—not that he was going to examine that too closely right now. He ground his teeth and plowed on, ignoring the pain spiking through him as he trudged through the snow. As he neared the cave, Amy’s voice drifted from the mouth. It was tight, pleading.

Kelvin risked a glance through the hole in the branches at the entrance. Male-Model was toying with the knife he’d used on Kelvin. Terror etched Amy’s soft features. Kelvin clenched his fists; waiting wasn’t an option. He crouched low, and slowly, quietly crept into the tiny space.

“Please, I’m just the pilot.”

“You’ll be a fucking dead pilot if you don’t tell me where it is,” Male-Model spat.

“He took it with him,” her voice grew pitchy, “you should have asked him before you killed him, you fuck!”

A sharp pain sparked to life somewhere in his chest as Amy continued her nomination worthy performance while he got closer to his quarry.

Male-Model backhanded Amy, sending her sprawling onto her back. The man towered over her.

Kelvin lunged, swinging an arm around the operative’s neck, squeezing, squeezing, as he dug his thumb into the pressure point above the man’s knife-hand. Male-Model dropped the knife, whether from the pressure point or from blacking out, he didn’t care.

Amy stared at Kelvin like he was a ham, and she was starving.

Kelvin let Male-Model drop in a heap. In six seconds, the guy would come to, and Kelvin wasn’t in a fit state to deal with him. “Sweetheart, close your eyes.” For some reason, he didn’t want her to see this.

For the first time since he’d met her, she didn’t argue. She did as he asked. Kelvin lifted Male-Model’s head, gripped it with both hands, then twisted hard, breaking his neck. Before he’d even let go of the dead man’s head, Amy threw herself at Kelvin. Her lips found his as if they’d kissed a million times before. He should stop her, remind her that she hated him, but for that one moment, he wanted to be selfish.