The Housewife Assassin's Horrorscope

by Josie Brown

  Fearfully, his head turns in the direction of Man Bun’s twin. He’s relieved to see that Jack has grabbed Twin Bun from behind and slammed him into the van with such force that when his head hits it leaves a dent. By the time he slides to the asphalt, he has passed out.

  A half-mile away on the shoulder lane, two police cars, sirens blaring, are quickly moving toward us.

  “Great! Just what we need,” Jack mutters. “I guess we should flip a coin as to who gets to call Ryan with the news that we’ll be at least another hour, explaining to the cops how we cold-cocked a couple of human traffickers.”

  I sigh. “Not if I can help it. Head toward the car. I’ll follow in a second.”

  Jack nods, then saunters off, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  In the meantime, I snap my fingers in front of Porsche Guy’s wide, wary eyes. “Apparently, these thugs kidnapped these women, possibly for slavery. So, here’s your chance to be a hero. Tell the police what happened: that you unarmed them and kicked their asses—all on your lonesome. Otherwise”—I make it a point to drop my eyes onto his front license plate—“we’ll find you.”

  Porsche Guy nods numbly.

  A moment later, Jack and I are another mile down the road—

  But we’ve got a tail: one of the cop cruisers is heading down the highway shoulder toward us.

  “I guess the police didn’t buy Porsche Guy’s tale of derring-do,” I grouse.

  “Hey, it was worth a try.” Jack guns the engine. One of the features of the BMW i8 is that it can do zero to sixty in under five seconds. Another eight seconds beyond this, Jack has somehow managed to zigzag two lanes over.

  We’re on the far side of an eighteen-wheeler as the black-and-white rolls past.

  Jack’s proud grin earns him an eye-roll.

  “You’re welcome,” he retorts. “Now let’s get to the office.”

  “We’re coming up to our exit, and we’re still in the far lane,” I warn Jack.

  He accelerates, propelling our car too close to the bumper of the mommy van in front of us before veering through an opening between two monster trucks to our right, and then into the far-right lane, which is wide open, at least for six car lengths.

  Suddenly, we hear the blare of another patrol car’s siren.

  I look back. A police vehicle is dodging around the cars between us, but it’s also gaining on us.

  “Hold on,” Jack declares.

  I’m tempted to close my eyes but force myself to keep them open.

  We fly up the off-ramp’s two lanes. To get to the office, we should be in the right one. The line of cars waiting to turn in that direction is six long. So, instead, Jack takes the left lane—

  And so does our police escort, but behind two cars. The officer tweaks his siren to warn them that he’s got to jump the line.

  By the time they realize he’s there, it’s too late. The light is now green, and Jack is off—

  Turning right instead.

  The car beside us, which legally owns the lane, veers to avoid sideswiping us. The driver’s face would be quite pretty if it weren’t contorted by angry indignation.

  By the time the autos move out of the police cruiser’s way, we’ve sped off—

  But his siren clears a path for him and keeps us in his sights.

  Dismayed, I murmur, “He’s gaining on us.”

  “Do you love me?” Jack asks.

  “With all my heart,” I say warily.

  His next question sends a chill up my spine: “Do you trust me?”

  “Also with all my heart,” I vow. “So don’t do anything that makes me question my sanity.”

  Jack shakes his head. “Sorry, doll. No promises.”

  To prove it, he hits the gas.

  We crest a hill—

  And then Jack veers sharply to the right—

  Landing us onto a narrow gap in a tall hedge.

  We’re a few hundred feet from a tunnel. With a push of a button on our car’s dashboard, a radio signal emits the security code that opens its gate.

  A half-mile later, the tunnel emerges inside Acme’s underground garage.

  Our car purrs to a stop in front of Ryan.

  Scowling, he waits against a wall, his arms folded at his chest. “You’d better have one hell of a great excuse,” he growls.

  Jack and I exchange glances. Then, in unison, we offer: “Saturday traffic on the 405.”

  Ryan accepts our explanation with a resigned nod and a smirk. “What? No bullshit tales of evildoer shenanigans or earthshaking calamities? I must say, your honesty is refreshing. You should try it more often.”

  I frown. “Is that supposed to be a compliment? Are you saying you wouldn’t have believed us if we said that, say, houses were exploding all over town?”

  “Or, if we’d told you that the highway was at a standstill because they were shooting a movie scene on two lanes?” Jack adds.

  “Or, that when a sports car slammed into a van, a bunch of captive slaves jumped out and we stopped to round them up?” I ask.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Craig, I’ve always admired your very active imaginations,” Ryan retorts. “And considering your new mission, the home explosion line is at least believable.” He nods toward the elevator. “Ready to hear about it? The rest of the team is already waiting upstairs.”

  2

  Mercury in Retrograde

  [Donna’s horoscope today]

  * * *

  Mercury is in retrograde!

  Fair warning: no decisions should be made during the next three weeks. Otherwise, you’ll wreak havoc in your life and those you love. Here are a few worst-case scenarios:

  Example #1: Stay away from the shooting range. Even a crack shot can’t avoid Mercury’s gravitational pull on projectiles—especially when a colleague you remember less than fondly is within aim.

  Example #2: Don’t take on any new projects that may end in a raging inferno. Despite your expertise in pyrotechnics, the cosmic forces at work are ready, willing, and able to light a revenge-fueled fire under those who can do you the most harm. No need to see all you’ve worked so hard for go up in smoke!

  Example #3: Don’t let hurt feelings get in the way of making up with your beloved. Sure, the way he worded his latest thoughtless aside may have been petty and demeaning, but that’s no reason to poison the well of your relationship—

  Especially when crushed cherry pits in his dirty martini will do the trick just fine. Bottoms up!

  Even as the rest of America enjoys a lazy Saturday, Acme’s headquarters hums with the static urgency of a world fraught with peril.

  On our way to Ryan’s situation room, we pass a sea of cubicles filled with the handlers of Acme’s legion of field operatives, all murmuring into the microphones of the cushioned headsets clasped firmly to their ears. Although the conversations are sotto voce, from their postures, you can deduce the operative’s current circumstance. One handler leans back in his chair, chuckling as he shoots the breeze with an operative whose life he’s saved on numerous occasions. The rigid back and furious typing of another handler mimic her charge’s dire situation. Another stands up, shouting expletives before collapsing back down into his chair. His face is damp with tears.

  Apparently, Acme has lost an operative.

  I bow my head at this horrible realization.

  Ryan frowns. Like a seismograph, he is fine-tuned to his staff’s emotional quakes, fractures, and ruptures. “Go on in. I’ll be right behind you.” He nods toward the situation room.

  Before entering, I take a look back. The handler’s head is bowed. Ryan’s hand is on his back. I can’t hear what Ryan says to him. It won’t vanquish his grief, or lessen his guilt over the loss of a life.

  Together they head for the staircase that leads to Acme’s rooftop garden.

  Up there, one hopes that the ocean breeze will nudge away doubts of split-second life-and-death decisions. Benches, tucked deep in its tall hedges, give privacy to those who wish to
shed a few tears. Paths meander around the garden’s lush vegetation, but all lead to the center, where Acme has its memorial wall.

  And now, yet another name will be added.

  Can a few moments in stark sunshine warm away the chill of a life lost? Probably not. Still, it is a quiet, lush sanctuary for those whose nerves are pricked continuously by death, destruction, and the never-ending game of world domination with our enemies.

  Jet lag is a bitch.

  Apparently, not just for Jack and me but for the three other operatives who spent the past few days with us in London.

  Arnie is passed out over two chairs. His erratic snores are almost loud enough to shake him off his precarious perch.

  Emma Honeycutt—his wife, and also Acme’s Communications Intelligence director—doesn’t slow the breakneck speed of her typing even as she nudges his bum back onto the chair with her foot.

  Abu Nagashahi, a field operative who acts as our team’s lead cleaner, cutout, and driver, sits in a padmasana lotus pose. Is he meditating or merely sleeping?

  Suddenly, he says softly, “Yep, Manny, that’s right—another two thousand shares of Apple stock. But dump half my Facebook…Yeah, the Russia hacking bugged me too…”

  I know for a fact that Manny is his stockbroker. For the first time, I notice he’s wearing an earbud. Abu is multitasking.

  Jack grabs a tennis ball from a box on the room’s credenza. With a practiced arm, he tosses it onto the floor at an angled trajectory so that it bounces off a wall and back to him, which he catches one-handed. He repeats the pattern again and again and again—

  But then finally misses.

  The ball hits Dominic Fleming—blond, British, and too handsome for his own good—on the side of his head. Today he’s certainly not living up to his bad boy player reputation. His usually clean-shaven face now sports a rough scruff. There are dark hollows under his eyes, and his hair has a lopsided cowlick. I guess he didn’t sleep a wink on the plane, or in the few hours we’ve been home.

  Annoyed, Dominic looks up from the task at hand: texting. “Old boy, do you mind?” he declares stiffly. “I’m in the middle of a very delicate negotiation.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s her name?” Emma rolls her chair beside him so that she can look over his shoulder.

  She’s not yet aware that Dominic just had his heart broken recently, by a suspect we’d run across on our recent mission in London. The woman, a casino owner appropriately named Lucky, turned out to be a wonderful asset. Unfortunately for Dominic, she’s also engaged.

  “I think we should give him some slack,” I warn Emma.

  She’s having too much fun to take the hint. Seeing what’s on his phone’s screen, she gasps, “You’re on eHarmony?”

  “I hear it’s an outstanding app to use when one’s desire is to meet women with serious intentions,” he retorts.

  “The operative word there is ‘serious’,” Emma reminds him.

  “I am very serious,” Dominic insists. “Having already perused the talent on Match, OK Cupid, and Zoosk—”

  “They aren’t ‘talent,’” I point out. “The quest for a life partner isn’t a Hollywood cattle call.”

  “That it isn’t,” He mutters disappointedly. “Although, in too many cases, ‘cattle’ is an apt metaphor.”

  Emma snickers. “If you’re judging women solely on their looks or what you deem are acceptable physical attributes, it’s no wonder you’re striking out.”

  “Are we talking your American football?” Dominic asks.

  “Baseball,” Jack informs him as he smacks the wall again with the ball.

  “My dear Mrs. Locklear, I’m doing anything but!” Dominic’s face flushes. “If you must know, my responses have been quite deferential.” He shrugs. “Perhaps, to a fault.”

  Abu puts a hand over the phone before adding, “What he means to say is that he’s batting zero.”

  Befuddled, Dominic shakes his head. “Pardon? Did you mean that as a cricket reference?”

  Jack catches the ball with a sigh. “Again—baseball.”

  Dominic’s eyes get smaller as his scowl grows deeper. Still, he acknowledges this insight with a nod.

  “Look, Dominic, be honest with yourself. The type of woman you’re looking for is more likely on Tinder, Pure, and AdultFriendFinder,” Emma reasons.

  “Y–yes. I suppose.” Dominic’s stutter undercuts his emphatic declaration, as does the longing in his eyes. Trying to shrug off his primal instincts, he sniffs, “In the past, that may have been the case. This time, however, I am not looking for yet another fast, tawdry one night stand!”

  I can’t believe my ears. But, okay, yeah: I’ll go along with this new, improved and markedly more politically correct Dominic Fleming. “How about Happn? I’d think you’d be perfect for any woman who believes in ‘love at first sight.’”

  “I would second that motion,” Dominic retorts. “But, while I may look like Prince Charming, those damsels find my responses to be anything but.”

  “What about The League?” Emma suggests over Arnie’s buzz saw snore. “It should be right up your alley. You’ve got the whole snob thing down pat.”

  “Too well, it seems,” Dominic admits. “Even for its female subscribers.”

  “And Wingman is certainly out.” The words slip out before I have a chance to realize what I’m saying.

  “What are you implying?” Dominic growls.

  I wince. “To be honest, you’re not exactly someone a real friend would set up with her bestie.”

  Dominic glowers at me.

  Emma mutters, “So…I guess that leaves…Bumble?”

  “Bumble?” Dominic cries as he rises half out of his chair. “Are you inferring that I’m some kind of social pariah?”

  “That’s not what Emma meant at all.” I’m using my sing-song mommy voice. “Sometimes a more modest demeanor works better than a full court press.”

  Dominic’s brow arches. “Baseball yet again?”

  “Basketball!” Abu, Emma, Jack and I say in unison.

  We’re so loud that Arnie falls off his chair. Waking with a jolt, he mumbles, “What did I miss?”

  “Nothing,” Emma sighs. “Except that Dominic has lost his mojo.”

  Dominic sputters, “I have not!”

  “I’ll second that,” Jack proclaims.

  We turn to him, shocked—even Dominic.

  “You just need a different M.O. You know, something a bit more subtle,” Jack assures him.

  “Really?” Dominic sounds doubtful.

  “Believe it or not, Dom, some women like a guy who doesn’t come off like a machismo narcissist who thinks he’s a stud.”

  “My sexual prowess has been lauded the world over,” Dominic bristles.

  “That just says you do better in person than online,” Jack points out. “But to meet these ladies, you have to impress them with your online profile first.” he bounces the ball in his palm. “You know, I could help you with that. Massage a few words so that you get more times up to bat.” Jack grins slyly. “Maybe even a few home runs.”

  “Baseball?” Dominic guesses.

  “Bingo!” Jack assures him.

  “Game time is over, children.” Ryan’s voice, coming from the doorway, puts us at attention. When he realizes that a Bingo game isn’t actually happening, his grimace softens. “Grab a seat. The Director of Intelligence is on the line—and he’s not a happy camper.”

  “So, what you’re telling us, Director, is that the gas leak fires taking place this morning throughout Los Angeles were caused by Russian hacking of the California Electric & Gas company’s utility grid?” Jack asks.

  “Although other nation state-funded adversaries—China, North Korea, and Iran, to name a few—have had limited success, in this case, again, affirmative: Russia is the culprit.” Through the conference table’s speaker, Marcus Branham’s voice is adamant. “Not just in L.A. This morning there were also attacks in Boston, Atlanta, Dallas, New York, Seat
tle, San Francisco, and Philadelphia. As we speak, DARPA’s ACD—it’s Active Cyber Defense program—is assessing all known U.S.-based Russian assets.”

  “Why focus on Russian actors here in the U.S.?” Emma asks. “As you know, sir, the hack would not have necessarily been made from this country. The Russians’ infiltration of Estonia’s utility grid is proof of that.”

  “The same was true of several Russian cyber attacks on our state-by-state election process,” Arnie adds.

  “Agreed,” Branham admits. “Granted, those successful system hacks had been traced to outside the country. And yes, while U.S. utility companies are individually owned and operated, our nation’s public utilities are part of a national grid, which makes such a hack from an enemy state easier to cause online havoc. But in this case, the coding changes that set off the energy surges didn’t come from an overseas hack. Although it has the same fingerprints, it was done on U.S. soil.”

  “In other words, sabotage,” I say.

  “Exactly,” Branham replies. “We intercepted chatter that bears this out. For a few mere seconds, the perpetrator left a traceable footprint: a satellite call.”

  “Was the message intercepted as well?” Ryan asks.

  “Yes. A voice said, simply, ‘Zodiac is in place. Repeat: Zodiac is in place to coincide with Mercury in Retrograde.’”

  “What does that mean, ’Mercury in Retrograde?’” Dominic asks.

  “In astronomical terms, retrograde is an optical illusion,” Emma explains. “At any given point in time, from Earth, another planet may look as if it’s stopped its rotation around the sun—or even gone backward—when, in fact, no such thing has occurred. Astrologers assign fateful events to these times. For example, Mercury goes into retrograde three times a year, for about three weeks. During that time, one is advised to reconsider any change in plans; to take things slowly, or wait things out. You should never start a new venture, and so on.”