The Mission: Oh What a Night (part 17)
The clock on the microwave said 2:14, and Georgina Gregg stood barefooted in the dark kitchen, wolfing down a banana and drinking a glass of cold water. She debated over a handful of cookies, and just after compromising on two cookies, the front door shattered and a man kicked his way into the living room.
On the end of the counter stood two wine bottles, an empty waiting to be put into the recycling tub downstairs, and the other unopened. Georgina picked up the empty, gauging its heft, and quietly put it down. She picked up the full bottle, and stepped around the corner of the kitchen.
The man had his back to her. She took a long sliding step, and swung the bottle, aiming for a spot just above his right ear. He went down in a thud, and Georgina uttered something vulgar in French. Then the light came on, and Ginny stood in the doorway from the hall with a gun in her hand.
“Excellent work, Mom. Let’s hope he’s still breathing.” Ginny handed the gun to her mother, “But shoot him, if you need to.”
Ginny checked his breathing and pulse, and used the man’s own mini-Mag flashlight to examine his pupils. All good. She flipped him over on his face, and wasted an extraordinary amount of duct tape securing his hands and feet.
“You ok, Mom?” ask Ginny.
“Angry, very very angry, but ok, she said. “Now would you please take this cannon so I can call 911?”
When the sheriff’s deputies arrived, they found one simmering Georgina waiting on the deck, and one resolute Ginny aiming a Desert Eagle a mere six feet from the chest of one terrified burglar who had wet his pants.
“So I held a gun on him until the deputies arrived,” she said.
“What gun?” asked Eli.
“The first one I could reach, my Desert Eagle.”
“You own a Desert Eagle. Bummer. Whatever shall I get you for a wedding present?”
“Oh well,” she laughed, “you could get me a new shotgun. I don’t like the Eagle much—the thing’s ridiculous. The lawmen liked it though. But it was a mistake. After last night, I’ve decided to sell it.”
“Hold on there, Sparky—don’t be hasty. You said the first one you could reach. What else is in your private armory? Apparently you have an old shotgun?”
“Uh huh. A Springfield .410 that was my father’s when he was a youngster. All four of us learned to shoot with it, but since I was the last child I kept it. But I’d like something with a bit more knock-down, say a .20 gauge.”
“A Colt .38 Special. It’s the first one I bought and my favorite. And a Sig Sauer 9mm that Ace gave me.”
“Is that all?”
“Another .410—a sawed-off Mossberg.”
“Ginny! You have a sawed-off shotgun?”
“It’s an inch over legal! For killing snakes. The island’s thick with rattlesnakes, and I don’t like to miss.”
“I don’t eat venison, so I don’t need a rifle. I do like quail.”
“But you don’t like snakes,” he said with a laugh.
“Not at all, especially the two-legged ones.”
“So what was Mom packin’?” he asked.
“Ah—a lovely Llano Estacado Cabernet Sauvignon. I suppose she’ll want to buy stock in the company now. She can be awfully sentimental.”