The Housewife Assassin's Fourth Estate Sale

by Josie Brown

  At that second, the men’s room door swings open again—

  And into B.J., knocking her off balance and onto her knees. Her gun goes off—

  But I’ve already taken a step to my right, just in time to dodge the bullet that catches Park in his left eye. Life leaves him with a jerk and a gasp.

  Like me, B.J. turns around to see who walked through the door:

  Jack.

  Though still on her knees, with both hands B.J. swings the gun in his direction.

  But before she positions him in her sights, I pull out my stiletto and plunge it between her ribs, angled up to her heart.

  B.J. gazes down, mesmerized by the slick, ruby red bloodstain now mushrooming on her shirt and coat. When she looks up again, her eyes meet mine. Finally, they roll back in her head, and she folds to the floor like a rag doll.

  I reward Jack with a kiss. “I’m glad you came looking for me.”

  “When Arnie confirmed that none of the other high bidders left the building, he slipped me the security code, and I thought I’d come snooping,” he replies. “Abu and Dominic are just down the hall. Arnie is looping the security footage to erase this killing party. He’s also put the sales offices in lockdown while they clean up this mess. In the meantime, we should get the hell out of here.” He nods toward an alley exit door.

  “I still haven’t verified the intel,” I point out.

  “I suggest we take it with us to the Ritz and do it there.” Jack grins. “That way, we’re closer to some celebration bubbly.”

  I kiss his cheek. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

  “Despite having paid four times the amount requisitioned for the intel, and having almost lost it in the process, the CIA deems the mission a success—especially since you kept it out of the hands of enemies that could have done us irreparable harm.” Ryan’s cheery declaration comes in over the speaker on Jack’s cell phone in our Ritz Hotel suite. “In fact, you’re to stay in London for another assignment.”

  Hearing this, I choke on a large swig of Charles Heidsieck Brut Reserve NV champagne. What if this means Jack and I will miss seeing the kids off for their prom?

  As if reading my mind, Ryan assures us, “This assignment is a simple pick-up. Donna is to rendezvous with a CIA asset at the Babylon London, a private club in Mayfair.”

  Dominic exclaims, “By Jove, I happen to be a member of the Babylon! They hold a room for me on call.”

  Abu snorts, “Is there a club in this town you haven’t joined?”

  Dominic shrugs. “Can I help it if I’m a social animal?”

  “You’re half right,” I mutter under my breath.

  Dominic misses my slight because he’s too busy preening in the sizeable gilt mirror over the dresser.

  To Ryan, I ask: “For just that reason, wouldn’t it be simpler to send Dominic?”

  “It has to be someone who has access to the club, but at the same time is not familiar with the club’s employees or other guests. As it turns out, the club’s guest quarters are booked up. However, as Dominic’s companion, you’ll certainly attain access.”

  The word ‘companion’ raises brows—Jack’s and mine.

  To make the situation even worse, Ryan adds, “Dominic can also provide a diversion if necessary.”

  “For that, we’ll need to stay in my room.” Dominic winks at me knowingly. From his smirk, I realize that he genuinely believes his own malarkey.

  “Trust me, I won’t be hanging around that long,” I vow.

  “But I have a reputation to uphold!” Dominic insists. “I get at least two front desk calls—sometimes three—about the alacrity in which my guests exclaim their joy.”

  Jack smothers a guffaw. “Seriously? Joy?”

  Dominic shrugs. “As a matter of fact, my manhood has been bequeathed the nickname ‘Joystick’ by several satisfied damsels.”

  “You can invite other, more boisterous guests to your playpen when Donna is in the clear,” Ryan proclaims. “Donna, you’re to rendezvous with the asset—codename ‘Nightingale’—at 20:10, in the Royal Suite. You’ll find it on the top floor of the club. Knock twice, pause, and then knock again.”

  “I assume the contact will be the only one there?”

  “That’s the plan,” Ryan replies. “And since we don’t know what form the intel takes, the face-to-face may need some instruction. Unfortunately, Nightingale can’t leave the club, so it has to take place there. And since every other room is taken for the evening and the handoff can’t happen in any of the club’s public spaces, the Royal Suite was suggested as the best location.”

  “Any discerning details about Nightingale?” I ask.

  “Female, and in her early twenties. Dark hair and eyes. Middle-Eastern descent. By the way, she’ll be wearing a teardrop amulet around her neck,” Ryan explains. “She’ll need something to recognize you as well.”

  “I’ve got just the item,” I purr. “The Hermés bag.”

  Ryan sighs. “At least, the CIA can’t say it wasn’t worth every penny you spent on its behalf.”

  All ears perk up at that. “The intel must be vital,” Jack replies.

  Ryan’s pause is so long that I wonder if he’s still on the line. Finally, he murmurs, “It may mean peace will finally be achieved in the Middle East.”

  “Hot damn,” Arnie murmurs.

  “Donna, the key to this mission is discretion,” Ryan warns. “You’re to be as unobtrusive as possible.”

  “Got it. No one will even know I was there.”

  “Famous last words.” Jack winks at me.

  He says this because he only has eyes for me.

  And, yes, I feel the same about him.

  Now, that’s true love.

  Dominic doesn’t miss an opportunity to play the lothario. The moment a doorman ushers us through Babylon London’s revolving door my colleague’s hand slides to my waist, drawing me so close that I almost pass out from his pungent aftershave.

  His way of doubling down on this Acme-sanctioned Me-Too moment is to nuzzle my cheek and whisper, “Let me do all the talking.”

  I giggle as if he’s just told a scintillating aside. At the same time, I stifle the urge to drive my fist through his kidney. “You know, I’ve walked into more harrowing situations. I think I’ll survive the scrutiny of your hoity-toity club’s staff.”

  I nod toward the stuffy little man who stands beside the reception desk. While this slight, pale fellow’s thin mustache practically bristles at the sight of us, two of the three comely receptionists—one raven-haired, the other auburn—perk up at the sight of Dominic to the point of licking their lips. In contrast, the third one, a slight, prim blonde, stiffens at the sight of him.

  Smart girl.

  Maybe it’s because I made the stupid mistake of allowing Dominic to pick out my wardrobe, which he felt would “be up to snuff as it pertains to the club’s code—and my own personal taste.”

  I’d have never said yes except for the fact that he agreed to put it on his own personal Harrods expense account.

  So here I am, trussed up in a candy apple red leather dress suit that hugs every curve, along with matching red leather booties, gloves, and a full set of bright red Michael Kors luggage and a matching purse. A red silk scarf draped over my blond gamine wig, its ends crossed beneath my chin and then knotted behind my neck starlet-style, completes the look.

  From the way Sir Stuffy’s upper lip curdles, nothing I wear will offset Dominic’s reputation for bedding screamers.

  Sir Stuffy cringes when, in unison, the brunette and redhead receptionists sing out, “Good evening, Mr. Fleming!”

  “Ah! Lavinia, Prunella, and”—he pauses as he leans in toward the third woman—“Julie. A pleasure to be in your quite capable hands again.”

  Whereas Lavinia and Prunella exchange sly glances, Julie winces.

  Before the ladies can respond, Sir Stuffy sternly intones, “Your suite is ready, Mr. Fleming. However—”

  Dominic shifts
his gaze to the man. His eyes narrow, as if noticing him for the very first time. “Adderson, is it not?” He snaps his fingers. “No?...Give me a moment. It’s on the tip of my tongue. Ackerman, then? Ableson?” He snaps his fingers. “Ah ha!—Ahern!” Pleased with himself, Dominic smiles supremely. “So kind of you to greet us.”

  Ahern’s glare never wavers. “Yes, now, about your guest—”

  Dominic interrupts with this cockeyed pronouncement: “You’re right. A proper introduction is in order. Her Royal Majesty, Princess Maja, of Sweden, may I present Mr. Ahern—”

  What the….

  Now he tells me I’m playing a princess? How is this ‘low profile’?

  Ahern’s eyes widen at the title.

  Okay, yeah, maybe I should go along with this. I extend my right hand.

  Bowing slightly over it, Nigel Ahern murmurs, “An honor, your Majesty.”

  Before I can answer in what would undoubtedly be the worst Swedish accent ever, Dominic interjects, “Alas, Ahern, my acquaintance doesn’t speak English. And with all the inbreeding that went into making her the forty-fifth heir to the throne, I’m not sure she speaks Swedish with any fluency, either. To tell you the truth, Old Boy, I’ve never heard a peep out of her. For all I know, she’s a mute.”

  Hearing this, the receptionists’ faces mirror the same look: pity.

  For that heaping pile of hogwash, he’ll get an earful when we’re alone in his room!

  Lovingly, Dominic strokes my cheek. “However, in the language of love, she is quite fluent.”

  Dominic’s hand is close enough to my mouth that I could easily bite through his pinky. Ever the team player, I stifle the urge. The mission comes first. I did note that the club has a back alley. When we’re done here, Dominic may learn the hard way that he should never go there alone.

  Certainly, not with a mute pseudo-Swede royal.

  Ahern allows himself a stiff upper lip grimace. “I am somewhat relieved to hear—as I’m sure will be the case of guests with rooms adjacent to yours—that the usual ‘gaiety’ that invariably emanates from your suite will be…subdued.” He taps the nearest bell to summon a man to help us with our luggage. “And as always, the baccarat table should provide additional diversions.”

  Like magic, a bellman appears at our side.

  I guess I should be somewhat miffed that Dominic has taken it upon himself to slip each receptionist a personal calling card. When one of the women turns it over, I see that he’s written in bold:

  CALL ME LATER TONIGHT

  At least one of them considers his invitation as disgusting as me: the youngest of the three, Julie.

  As for the others, I’ll be clearing out as soon as I possibly can. I’ve got just a half-hour to change out of this getup and up to the Royal Suite. Once the intel is in hand, Dominic can walk “Princess Maja” out the front door.

  His penance for dissing me in front of the others: I’m keeping all my Harrods booty despite my promise to leave all tags attached so it can be returned.

  The only elevator that goes up to the Babylon London’s Royal Suite—the club’s penthouse—could easily pass for a small but well-appointed walk-in closet. Its walls are polished mahogany, a hand-knotted Persian rug lays on its parquet floor, and a plush chaise placed there to accommodate those too weary to stand during its slow ride from the lobby to the fifth floor of this private club. The one tip of the hat to its Victorian past is the quaint metal grill that must be opened before one can step in or out of it. Although its placement is quite discreet, immediately I spotted the elevator’s security camera.

  Princess Maja has disappeared. As per my mission directive, in keeping with my role as a club guest, I am dressed to impress—but this time my way, as opposed to Dominic’s fantasy fangirl.

  My cream tweed pencil-skirted Chanel suit’s plunging vee jacket is embellished with all sorts of shiny gold and crystal bling, as are its cuffs, and pockets. A matching bucket hat sporting a gold brow-skimming veil is perched over my naturally brown hair, which is pinned into a French twist. My hands are clad in cream-toned Fendi gloves, and my feet are strapped in to-die-for textured gold Jennifer Chamandi stiletto pumps.

  Needless to say, my favorite accessory is my newly acquired vintage Hermés Kelly purse.

  An elegant elaborately carved double door graces the end of a hallway that runs almost the full length of this block-long building. I am just a minute late, so I take my time. Out of habit, I scan the hall’s elaborate crown molding for security cameras. Yes, there are several.

  Since I was told to knock twice and then twice again, I’m surprised to find the door slightly ajar. Because the club’s security is as tight as a gnat’s ass and the Hermés purse serves as my bonafide, I’m not so worried that some inquisitive guest may have wandered up here and Nightingale may have passed him or her the intel by mistake. Still, I tap out the code.

  Silence.

  I do it again.

  Still, no answer.

  Odd.

  Slowly, I open the door.

  The lights are off, but the street lamps beyond a wall of intricately carved French doors cast eerie shadows on the heavy furnishings scattered throughout the large room. It is undoubtedly plusher and lusher than Dominic’s digs, but to be expected for something called “the Royal Suite.”

  But I see no one.

  The room has a hallway at each side. On the left is the dining room and I assume a kitchen is just beyond. I choose the one on the right, which faces the park.

  There is only one room on this wing: the master suite. Its door, at the end of the short hall, is also open. My spidey-senses are tingling...

  I see her: on the floor and on her back, legs and arms spread awkwardly, like a human hieroglyphic. Her hair is swept to one side. Something shines out from deep within the long and dark tendrils:

  The amulet, still on the chain around her neck.

  I see no blood or bullet wounds. I drop down to take her pulse.

  There is none.

  I scan the room. Nothing moves. Quickly, I walk through it. No one is in the large walk-in closet or the well-appointed bathroom.

  I go back to Nightingale. My eyes take her in, inch by inch. Dying is not an elegant endeavor. One’s last breath is usually a quick gasp, an indignant gurgle, or a resigned sigh. We don’t gracefully fall in repose; instead, we crumple to the ground.

  In Nightingale’s case, her slim limbs look like playing cards that have somehow scattered, willy-nilly, from the rest of the deck.

  Her legs are spread apart enough that her skirt has risen above her thigh. On the left one, a tattoo is visible: letters of some sort. Maybe symbols? I can’t make them out, but on closer look, they resemble the characters on her amulet. I pull out my cell phone and take a photo of both.

  If her hair hadn’t been pushed to one side, I’d never notice the two tiny aligned holes on her neck. Odd.

  I unclasp the amulet’s chain. Gently I pull it out of her hair.

  I then pat her down: back, sides and pockets. I find nothing other than her cell phone. I take it.

  Nightingale’s left hand is palm down as if she attempted to push herself up. Her right hand clenches something: a tiny, exquisitely designed glazed ceramic vase, perhaps only seven inches in height. It is Chinese in provenance and an antique.

  Was this the intel she was to pass forward?

  Just in case, I slip it into my purse.

  Gently, I nudge her body to its side to see if she fell on something that might hold the intel we seek. She lies on a key ring with two room cards attached. I take it as well.

  If what Ryan said is correct and that there are no vacancies, she may have used the excuse of readying the room for the next guest to make our assignation. I don’t know how long the rest of the club’s staff anticipates she’ll be up here. In any event, eventually, they’ll come looking for her.

  All the more reason I need to get out of here.

  Buy The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky

>   ALSO NEXT UP FOR DONNA!

  The Housewife Assassin’s Horrorscope (Book 18)

  * * *

  EXCERPT

  Chapter 1

  What’s Your Sign?

  If your first exposure to this question took place in some bar, you’re forgiven for rolling your eyes at this 1970s pick-up line.

  However, if you are a serious student of astrology—the study of the movements and positions of stars and other celestial bodies—the question is relevant to the beginning and the end of your life’s journey!

  The science of astrology divines an individual’s personality traits and foretells events in that person's life. Those who practice it believe we are each born under one of the twelve sun signs: Aries, Leo, and Sagittarius, Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn, Gemini, Libra, Aquarius, Cancer, Scorpio, or Pisces.

  For example, if you’re a Cancer, your intuitive kindness means you hate any form of conflict. Ergo, when trapped by a player in a bar who insists on learning your zodiac sign, you’ll “accidentally” spill your drink on yourself as an excuse to go to the ladies room—but really, you’ll slip out the back door.

  However, if you’re a Taurus, you are ALL about honesty. Completely. Totally. Without a doubt. So, when a guy asks about your sign but you’re not interested in him, don’t just tell him; show him! Your middle finger can make your point succinctly.

  Finally, if you’re a Leo, you are dignified, self-confident, and fearless. When approached by a lounge lizard, your first answer will take the form of a raised brow and a withering glare. Hopefully, that will send him scurrying off. If he persists, you respond in a voice that means business and with a phrase can’t be misinterpreted. Perhaps, “You’re too ugly, and life’s too short.”

  Finally, actions speak louder than words. One kick to the nutsack, and he’ll get the message.

  Come to think of it, these methods work whatever your sign!