The Housewife Assassin's Horrorscope

by Josie Brown

  As I exhale in time with my heart rate, I squeeze that final fraction on the trigger.

  The heavy round leaves the rifle with a muted clap of thunder.

  The TAC-50’s recoil packs quite a punch against my shoulder, but I hold firm through the pain. When I climb out of this glittery glove of a dress, I expect to find a bruise on my shoulder.

  The crowd is now counting down: “Ten…Nine…”

  Not me. I am praying—

  Until they scream: “One!”

  The rocket lights up—

  It lifts off—

  No…

  It blows up.

  A fireball engulfs the rocket and its scaffold, leaving just a charred shell. As the missile’s bulbous head topples off, the crowd gasps as yet another explosion follows. They are cowed into stunned silence by the fireball blazing before their eyes.

  With so little wind, the black smoke from the fire envelops Ascendant’s now skeletal frame. More flashes follow, as does a cacophony of additional explosions.

  It sounds like a war.

  Instead, Armageddon has been prevented.

  Tiny whiffs of black smoke drift our way. Soon the crowd will be headed inside.

  Quickly, I peel off my gear and put it back. Then I move the rifle back onto its stand, close the window and its metal shield, and get the hell out of there.

  Jack must be upstairs with POTUS and our host. They are likely to be wondering where I’ve been all this time.

  I go back to the bathroom. This time when I walk out, Arnie leaves it on the surveillance footage.

  “Ah, Mrs. Craig—there you are!” Half-heartedly, Charles beckons me over. He’s no longer smiling. “I suppose you saw the fiasco.”

  “Yes—from a lower terrace.” I pat his hand. “Charles, I’m so sorry.”

  His guests of honor are also sullen. Jacob’s dark scowl is accompanied by a full-body tremor. Edmonton’s face is bland, but his disappointment shows itself in his hooded eyes.

  I don’t suspect he’s too upset. Despite the failed launch, his PAC’s coffers are fuller, thanks to the many lobbyists and donors who used this event as an excuse to rub shoulders with him.

  Edmonton greets me with an appraising gaze. “I’m glad to hear you didn’t miss the launch altogether. When Charles mentioned he’d given you the grand tour and how enthralled you were with Capone’s machine gun, I assumed you went back for a second look.”

  I chuckle. “If men wore Spanx, they’d never question why it takes women such a long time to leave a bathroom. Besides, his panic room is a fortress!” I glance around. “I do hope Jack was able to catch the launch too.”

  I don’t want to come out and ask Edmonton if he sent Jack packing before the main event began.

  Edmonton nods to the far side of the terrace. “He’s standing over there with Congresswoman Grisham and a few other of her esteemed colleagues.”

  “Smart move. Ryan will be happy to hear he's so attentive to those who butter Acme’s bread,” I reply.

  “Only I can do that, so tell Ryan not waste Jack’s time—or yours.” From his tone, he’s not joking.

  “Acme will always be at your beck and call,” I purr.

  “I’ll hold you to that, Mrs. Craig.”

  I don’t doubt that in the least.

  Considering all the somber faces, I’m surprised to see Jack and Elle Grisham sharing a laugh.

  Or maybe more than that, by the way, she places her hand on his chest as she leans into him.

  “Don’t let our host see you giggling,” I warn them. “He’s not in the mood for any jokes.”

  Elle sighs grandly. “I can’t say I blame him. At this point, his investment in Ascendant merits a breakdown.” She shrugs. “But, he’ll recover in no time. He has a fleet of rockets. Just as soon as Ascendant finds out the cause of this failure, another missile will be ready to go, filled with twenty more satellites. With the current demand, Ascendant could fly a payload a week.”

  So it was all for naught. Eventually, Horoscope will launch.

  Something behind me catches Elle’s attention. “Poor Charlie looks so forlorn! I know just the thing to cheer him up—a reminder that there’s another government contract coming his way. If you’ll excuse me…”

  As she goes off in one direction, Jack steers me in another: to the elevator.

  Neither of us speaks in the limousine back to the base.

  I wait until we’re airborne before asking: “How did it go with POTUS?”

  Jack shrugs. “Fine and dandy.”

  “You mean, POTUS wasn’t upset when you told him about Vera?”

  “On the contrary, I informed him his target was exterminated.”

  I frown. “But she wasn’t the target! She’s not Lilith!”

  “Edmonton wanted Vera dead, whether she was Lilith or not. And if I’d told him I knew her true identity, he would deny all plausibility, leaving me to be his scapegoat.”

  I arch a brow. “No surprise there.”

  “Besides, I found the real Lilith. She was at Riley’s party, in fact.”

  “Get out of here! Who?”

  “The esteemed Congresswoman Elle Grisham.”

  Suddenly, I remember something Tommy said:

  I hadn’t seen her in a long while—until last week…

  I left as fast as I could. She was with someone—who would have killed me…

  “You’re right, Jack! Elle is Taurus. Tommy mentioned that he saw Lilith not too long ago. My guess: when she was on the greens at Lion’s Lair.”

  “Tommy sure gets around. But hey, I don’t blame him for climbing that hill. I’ll bet Lee has the tastiest garbage in town.” Jack shrugs at his bad joke.

  “So, how did you figure it out?” I ask.

  “She’s wearing a necklace with a small Taurus charm.”

  Well, what do you know about that! “So that’s what Arthur meant,” I mumble.

  “Why? What did he say?”

  “He looked at my neck and said, ‘You’re not wearing it.’ He must have been referring to the necklace!” Stupid, stupid me. “Arthur’s other traitors had similar charms: Jonathan, Carlton Miller, Jacob Grommet—”

  Jack’s eyes open wide. “Grommet, the artist?”

  “Universal Peace was Horoscope.”

  Jack laughs. “Then it’s a good thing the damn thing blew up on take-off! Talk about luck.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” I proclaim.

  It takes a few seconds until Jack grasps my meaning. Suddenly, he’s laughing even louder. Why, Mrs. Craig! I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  “First, we have to decide what we’re going to do about Lilith.”

  “‘We’ aren’t doing anything,” Jack warns me. “However, I will complete the mission POTUS assigned me.”

  I stare at him. “Jack—you can’t! She’s not just any terrorist. She’s a U.S. Congressperson! What if you get shot by some security detail before you can explain her true identity?”

  “She doesn’t hold a position that merits any assigned security. Besides, by tomorrow, Acme will have the dossier on her. But before I give it to Edmonton, Acme will backchannel it to Branham.” Jack shrugs. “A few minutes ago I had Arnie break into her top aide’s calendar. She’s in Los Angeles all day tomorrow.”

  I roll my eyes. “Another political fundraiser?”

  “No. She’s taking a personal day to attend a funeral. She’s sending her aides back to Washington.”

  A chill runs through me. “It must be for Arthur. Have Emma find out where it’s being held.”

  “Good call.” Jack takes my hand. “Well, Mrs. Craig, I believe this nightmare is almost over.”

  I pray he’s right.

  19

  Taurus

  The sun sign known as Taurus covers those born between April 21st and May 21st.

  Like its spirit animal—the bull—loyalty is the dominant trait of Taurus.

  Other people skills are also clearly evident. You’
ll note that Taurus is sincere, patient, and will see any and all projects to completion.

  But this sun sign has a few negative traits. If you are a Taurus, I’m sure you’ve noticed that you’re a bit…well, narcissistic…

  EXCUSE ME! Do you mind putting down that mirror when I talk to you?

  The most troubling trait of all is indicative of this fact: the world’s most heinous despots and dictators —Hitler, Pol Pot, Hirohito, Saddam Hussein, Jim Jones, Louis Farrakhan—were born under this sign.

  Not to worry, Taurus! There is an easy way to mitigate any comparisons with these tyrants:

  Leave no bodies.

  Remember: dead men tell no tales.

  Jack left the house before I woke up. Maybe he’s hoping to be first in line to catch Ryan. That way, he can make his case for going rogue.

  At this point, I’d toss a coin as to whether Ryan will sanction a hit on Elle Grisham. It won’t depend solely on whether Emma finds discrepancies in Elle’s background. The decision to either exterminate or arrest a foreign operative—specifically one who has risen so high in our government—belongs to the CIA director. And his decision may need to be seconded by DI Branham.

  As Jack predicted, by the time I walk into Acme Headquarters, Emma and her ComInt team—with assists from Dominic and Abu—have pieced together the life and times of Elle Grisham, a.k.a., Taurus.

  In awe, I ask, “How did you do it?”

  “We attempted a reverse timeline,” Emma explains. “Although the media and public records have meticulously documented Congresswoman Grisham’s voting record and her actions as a politician, the rest of her life is as emaciated as a model during Fashion Week.”

  “Before she was Elle Grisham, she was Ellen Lilith Black—at least, that’s what she’s claimed,” Abu adds. “The name was stolen from the birth certificate of an Iowa-born infant who died from SIDS within a month of her birth.”

  “Lilith Black’s school transcripts were bogus too,” Dominic cuts in. “They mirrored those of a female student who graduated first in her class in a small agricultural town in the uppermost western corner of the state. When a Stanford admissions department clerk called to verify it, the response, given via fax and around midnight Central Time, was signed by the school’s secretary: a spinster with a penchant for gambling. When she died a few days later in a freak accident, her heirs—two nephews—were surprised to discover fifty thousand dollars in a purse hidden in a shoebox in her closet.”

  “Except for her freshman year at Stanford, Lilith Black lived off campus, kept to herself, and aced all her classes,” Abu continues. “After graduating with a degree in Political Science, she moved back to Iowa—if she was ever there, to begin with.”

  “There, she took the name ‘Elle Black.’ She signed on as a campaign volunteer with an incumbent congressman from a very rural district: James Tucker,” Emma continues. “When he won, he invited her to join his DC staff.”

  “Was he the congressman Jonathan met through her?” I ask.

  “If our timeline is correct, it had to have been. Tucker was on the Budget and Intelligence committees,” Dominic replies. “Within a year, she married a Gulf War veteran—Luke Grisham, who suffered from PTSD. Less than a year later, he killed himself with his Army-issued pistol.”

  “Tucker was voted out of office six years later because of some scandal,” Emma reveals. “Elle ran for his seat, using Veterans’ rights as her campaign’s rallying cry. The rest is documented history.”

  “My guess: she made sure that Tucker’s scandal was revealed,” I mutter. “We should pass this information onto Jack as soon as possible.”

  “He already has it,” Emma informs me. “I briefed him before he took off.”

  “Jack already left? So, Ryan gave him clearance?”

  Emma stares blankly. “Ryan never met with Jack. He’s out of the office until late this afternoon.”

  As I run to the door, Emma shouts, “Clearance? For what?”

  This time, when I call Loma Linda Care as Arthur’s niece, I’m sobbing because I’ve just seen the obituary notice of his death.

  “Thank goodness you called!” Jennifer Crenshaw exclaims. “I knew how much Arthur meant to you, but I had forgotten to ask you for your contact information!”

  “I read that he died yesterday—just after I saw him!”

  “You were right to insist on seeing him that afternoon,” Jennifer sniffles. “I feel guilty for having attempted to turn you away.”

  “Not to worry, Mrs. Crenshaw. And it was kind of you to make the funeral arrangements.”

  “Oh…but it wasn’t me! It was your cousin. You know, his other niece. What was her name again? Oh, yes—Lilith. He talked about her constantly. It’s probably why I never knew you even existed.”

  “She always was his favorite,” I mutter. “Sadly, I’ve lost Lilith’s telephone number. I’d love to attend the service. Did she mention where it was to take place?”

  “I overheard her talking to the mortuary where he was sent. It’s called Beyond Heavenly. She decided on cremation. It’s to take place there. You’ll find it on Venice Boulevard, close to Culver City. She’s headed over there now.”

  I’m sure that’s where Jack is headed too.

  And now, so am I.

  Old habits die hard.

  In Jack’s case, it means avenging a wrongful death.

  It also means exterminating a traitor.

  I break the sound barrier to get to the Beyond Heavenly Funeral Home and arrive just as Elle is getting into her limousine, urn in hand.

  Jack is parked on the street. He’s made the wise decision to hold off on the kill until he can get her alone.

  He pulls out after her car, and I’m on his tail.

  The limousine drops Elle at a small boutique hotel in Beverly Hills—one that caters to out of town actors, directors, or billionaires. Its website boasts “only twelve sumptuous suites, three on each floor.”

  That should make things easy.

  Jack pulls into one side street. I drive onto another.

  He will tail Elle to her suite.

  Jack rarely goes rogue. Having done so myself (admittedly, on far too many occasions) I’ve come to appreciate a team effort. It’s truly a joy to have another watch your back—your front, your sides; really, watching your every move—and constantly whispering sweet, very important somethings in your ear; feeding you details that allow you to do the job quickly with as little outside interference as possible.

  Today, I’m Jack’s guardian angel.

  The lobby is grand for such a small hotel. Designer muffins and fruit are laid out for guests. There is only one receptionist and she’s busy signing in a guest. Two others are also waiting for their rooms.

  I’m sure there’s a video monitor behind the desk. As busy as it is now, she won’t have time to watch it as it switches feeds between the hotel’s four floors and public spaces, which includes a pool off the lobby.

  I walk in just as the door of the hotel’s only reception elevator closes on Jack. I watch its light to see where it takes him:

  All the way to the top floor.

  I slip down a side hall, having guessed correctly that it will take me to a service elevator.

  I take it to Elle’s floor.

  All the suites are on the same side of the hall. The doors to two of the suites are closed. A third is open. A maid’s cart is in the hall.

  Cautiously, I glance inside the open suite. The maid is in the bathroom. I hear her humming a Beyoncé tune. She has her back to me as she scrubs out the enormous tub.

  I walk into the room and onto the balcony.

  The suites’ balconies aren’t connected. No pun intended, I must take a leap of faith. I climb over the railing, say a prayer, then stretch beyond the gap between it and the next balcony. Once I’ve grabbed hold of the railing, I pull myself onto it, tossing one leg over and then the other.

  If it turns out that Elle isn’t in this room, I’ll have to repea
t these contortions on the third and fourth balconies.

  I’m in luck. The floor-to-ceiling sheers have been opened, filling the room with light. I peek through the balcony’s French door in time to see Elle enter her bathroom.

  I try the door: it’s unlocked. I open it a mere crack. This allows me to hear the running water as she turns on the shower. Because the bathroom is angled against the far side of the suite, I can watch through the bathroom vanity’s mirror as she drops her robe and enters the shower.

  I duck low when I notice the front door open slightly.

  Slowly, Jack enters the room. He scans it. He realizes Elle is in the shower.

  Jack is wearing latex gloves. He pulls a syringe from his pocket, uncaps it, and then positions it in his right hand before moving to the bathroom.

  Elle is shampooing her hair. The fact that she is holding both arms up over her head makes it easier for Jack to grab her from behind, hold her tight, and plunge the syringe of aconite into her armpit before she can react.

  By the time she realizes what just happened, her muscles are already freezing up.

  I watch as Jack waits for her last gasp.

  He lets her drop onto the shower stall’s tile floor.

  Jack gets out of the shower stall. He’s sopping wet. His eyes narrow when he finally catches sight of me, seated on the bed.

  I just have to ask: “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

  “Mrs. Craig, what am I going to do with you?” he mutters.

  Granted, Jack has a right to be annoyed. Still, I roll my eyes as I pout, “Oh yeah right—shame on me for crashing your unsanctioned kill!”

  “You’re now a witness,” he reminds me.

  “A wife can’t testify against her husband,” I counter.

  That declaration earns me a long, deep kiss from my very wet husband. When we part, Jack murmurs, “I knew I married you for a good reason. Last one home feeds the dogs.”