The Housewife Assassin's Greatest Hits

by Josie Brown

  The Housewife Assassin’s Greatest Hits

  Josie Brown

  Contents

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  1. That’ll Be the Day (That I Die)

  2. Every Breath You Take

  3. Don't Fear the Reaper

  4. Stayin’ Alive

  5. It’s a Sin

  6. Only in my Dreams

  7. Don't Rock the Boat

  8. Rip Her to Shreds

  9. Runnin' with the Devil

  10. Loser

  11. She's Not There

  12. Sacrifice

  13. Home

  14. Life Goes On

  15. To Lose My Life or Lose My Love

  16. Live Like You Were Dying

  17. Believe

  18. I Don’t Wanna Fight

  19. You’re Gonna Get Rocked

  20. Fallin’ for You

  21. Back Off Bitch

  22. He Stopped Loving Her Today

  23. Let Me Rest in Peace

  24. Come Fly with Me

  25. I’m Sorry

  26. One Way or Another

  Listen to the Chapter Titles' Music

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  Next Up for Donna!

  How to Reach Josie

  The Housewife Assassin Series

  The Totlandia Series

  The True Hollywood Lies Series

  Other Books by Josie Brown

  Copyright Information

  1

  That’ll Be the Day (That I Die)

  Recorded by Buddy Holly and the Crickets. Released May 1957, the song spent one week on the greatest hits chart at Number One.

  You find a man’s body in a ditch. It is face down and seems to be unconscious—or worse yet, dead. How can you tell if he is still alive?

  First, check for a pulse. You do this by placing two fingers on the man's wrist. If a few minutes go by and you haven’t felt a heartbeat, time to face up to the fact that you’ve been holding hands with a dead man. Drop it before someone sees you and thinks you have some sick fetish.

  Next, hold up a mirror under his nose to discern if any vapor is exhaled. If indeed some condensation collects, well then huzzah, you’ve got a live one! (Tip: Do wait a bit after he gains consciousness before suggesting he clip any nose hairs you found particularly disgusting.)

  A final suggestion: give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. If he doesn’t come to, restrain the urge to tell any future blind dates that you kissed a stiff. Seriously, you don’t want a corpse’s kiss to be your last.

  The howls from the Russian hacker whose spine I’m crushing with my knee could easily pass for Chewbacca’s signature wail.

  Despite this, no one else on this floor of the San Diego Marriott seems a bit concerned. In fact, applause can be heard coming from up and down the hall. It is, after all, the middle of Comic-Con.

  I’m dressed in a replica of the iconic Slave Girl outfit: perfect for luring my Star Wars-obsessed target into my ad hoc torture chamber. In fact, Russian Hacker is dressed as Darth Vader—or was, until I convinced him that stripping naked except for his helmet was a much better look for a princess with daddy issues.

  Darth’s costume is apropos since he and a few of his tech team in Russia’s intelligence agency, the GRU, successfully hacked the cell phones of every member of the United States Congress and the U.S. Senate. (Really? Would our elected officials believe POTUS would send a personal email invitation to his wife’s book launch party with her name misspelled? But I digress…)

  My Leia-kini may not leave much to the imagination, but hidden within the links of my fifteen-foot-long slave girl chain are all sorts of goodies that will give any man nightmares he’ll never forget. Whereas a few twists of the nipple clamps got Darth to follow me anywhere—even to the bed, where he now lies, spread-eagled—he has yet to give up the intel I need: his phone’s password. Through the device, the CIA can release an undetectable virus that will allow it to peruse all the GRU’s dirty little secrets—

  Especially as they pertain to all that Putin and company know about us. One good hack deserves another, right?

  It should be interesting to see how their dictator—COUGH—president reacts when he learns that he’s lost Russia’s next election.

  Darth’s hacking mission was so successful that he and the rest of his tech team—for now, let’s just call the other two guys Han and Luke—were rewarded with a trip to anywhere in the world they wanted to go. Where did they choose? You guessed it: Disneyland!

  So, off they went in a private plane formerly belonging to a Russian oil oligarch who disappeared after refusing to allow Putin’s cousin to buy his company for a few shekels on the ruble. However, the moment the plane landed in Orange County, Darth, Han, and Luke ditched their GRU babysitters and hightailed it to Comic-Con instead.

  I intercepted Darth at a Star Wars Cosplay meet-up sponsored by Tinder. His English is good enough that he understands the words sex, drugs, and nipple clamps. Who’d have figured that our revered statesmen’s texts could serve as the perfect S&M language primer for our enemies?

  What Darth didn’t understand is that he’d be wearing the nipple clamps—not me.

  And because this interrogation is taking much longer than I anticipated, it’s time to bring out the heavy artillery.

  So that he can see the full extent of what I have planned, I yank the slave chain that is now wrapped around his neck, gagging him unless he follows his tether that insists he flip over onto his back. His eyes bulge as I pick up Leia’s weapon of choice: the laser sword. When switched on, it becomes a glowing green beacon—

  Of truth.

  His.

  I stab the bed a few inches from his right foot. The sound of the sword searing a perfect slit into eighteen-hundred-thread count Egyptian cotton bed sheets is nothing compared to the pungent smell it makes when it hits the Duxiana mattress's goose-down layer while making its way through memory foam.

  “It’s a real laser?” he screams.

  “You betcha,” I assure him. “Cool, huh?” My black-ops mission team’s tech operative, Arnie Locklear, had a blast designing this adorable little gadget.

  To squash Darth’s doubts to the contrary, I trace the inside of his leg—ankle, calf, knee, and thigh—with the beaming blade. When it gets within an inch of the appendage he’ll miss the most; I allow it to hover there. “Ah! Little Darth has never been circumcised.”

  I click my tongue as a way of pointing out the obvious: how, with a flick of my wrist, I can remedy this dilemma, perhaps by an inch or two.

  Darth is sobbing so loudly that, at first, I don’t hear the trill of my cell phone.

  Annoyed, I sigh loudly. “Hold that thought,” I command him as I glance down at the phone.

  It’s the baker who’s making the cake I ordered for tonight’s intimate gathering—

  To which Darth is certainly not invited.

  The baker is talking a mile a minute. Unfortunately, between Darth’s whimpers and all the shouts and murmurs from the cosplay out in the hall, all I can make out is, “—concerned that this record heat wave we’re having will melt the seven-minute egg-white icing on the cake before being delivered to the hotel! Would you prefer we switch to buttercream, or marzipan?”

  “Wait…what? Look, hold on a moment, please. It’s a bit noisy here,” I explain calmly before muting my cell phone.

  So that Darth gets the hint to shut the hell up, I stab the bed with the sword just an inch from his ear. As it sizzles through the foam, I growl, “If you make one more sound, I’ll give you the closest shave of your life. Get me?”

  He stifles a groan and then nod
s his head vigorously.

  Much better.

  Back to the baker: “Here’s a thought: bring it in a refrigerated van.”

  The baker pauses before asking, “Well, okay…but you do know it will quadruple your cost, right?”

  “Doesn’t matter. In fact, I don’t mind renting the hearse—I mean, the ‘van’ for the whole night. I’ll get it back to you in the morning, all spick and span”—I mute the phone again, but Darth doesn’t know it—“from any blood or DNA.”

  My declaration brings tears to his eyes. Darth finally gets the picture:

  The Force is not with him.

  “Sure.” The baker sighs with relief. “Then egg-white icing it is.”

  I hang up before she can hear Darth, who is now blubbering incoherently.

  Okay, time for me to play good cop. “Look, handsome, I know what you’re thinking. On the one hand, all it takes is one little oopsie and you’re a eunuch—or worse still, a dead man. On the other, is that any worse than what’s bound to happen when one of your buddies is eventually given the task of tracing the virus to your cell?” I click my tongue at his dilemma. “Vlad and his GRU Impalers will toss you into a Chernobyl cell so deep that the only way anyone will be able to find you is that you’ll be glowing in the dark from all that radiation.”

  His patented Chewbacca howl echoes off the walls.

  Enough of this crap. I’ve got places to go, and a very special someone to see. Tonight, I’m hosting a very important soiree:

  A surprise birthday party for my husband, Jack.

  I should never have allowed Ryan Clancy—my boss at Acme Industries—to talk me into this assignment, and today of all days! I only agreed to this mission when Ryan promised that I could keep any and all swag I picked up. My fourteen-year-old son, Jeff, will be beside himself when he sees that I scored autographs from Felicity Jones (Star Wars), Ryan Reynolds (Deadpool), Benedict Cumberbatch (Dr. Strange), and Scarlett Johanssen (Black Widow).

  (To be honest, Darth collected those goodies. Well, too bad. They fall under the category of spoils of war.)

  With my sword, I cut figure eights in the air. “It’s your lucky day, Darth. Now, if you can shut your pie hole, you’ll hear an offer that I’m sure you’ll find hard to refuse.”

  He purses his lips to keep them zipped.

  “Much better. Now, here’s what you’ll do.” I hold up his cell phone. “You give me your password, and then redial your GRU babysitters. Heck, they’re probably so frantic by now that they’ve already got the Kremlin in a tizzy! Better to get a jump on this thing before they figure out on their own how and why you ditched them, right? It’s the only way to save your manhood.” I aim the sword within an inch of little Darth. “And for that matter, your life.”

  No need to ask twice.

  I hold up his cell phone. “What’s the passcode?”

  “R2D2…twice,” he sighs.

  Duh. Gee, I could have guessed it.

  After I punch in the code, I dial Arnie Locklear, my tech-op at Acme. When he picks up, he chortles, “One-two-three…Mother McGee!”

  It's his way of signaling me that he’s ready to release the virus without a trace of its originating source.

  Next, I re-enter the number of Darth’s Russian babysitters, who’ve left a message every minute on the minute. The second they pick up, the virus will be released.

  Darth is still cuffed, so I have to hold it up to his mouth. Another twist of the chain around his neck lets him know that I’m monitoring every word—and that the wrong one will kill him.

  My handler, Abu Nagashahi has had eyes and ears on me since the start of this mission. Fluent in Russian, he also listens in. A few minutes later, he murmurs into my ear: “They’re pissed, but they’re buying his story. All’s well that ends well.”

  “Good, because I need closure on this anecdote.”

  “I hear yah.” Of course, he knows what I mean:

  I’ve got a pressing engagement, one that cannot be missed.

  With that in mind, I end the connection.

  Before Darth can protest, I’ve stabbed him with a needle filled with Kickapoo joy juice—as it turns out, of Russian origins. Known as SP-117, it works as a truth serum and also erases any memory of events that took place before taking the drug.

  In other words, Darth’s torture at the hands of Princess Leia will soon be just a pleasant fantasy, if he remembers it at all.

  “Better get hopping. The GRU is already en route, and Darth’s buds are banging on doors, looking for him and ‘Princess Leia with ‘zee hoot bood…’”

  I snort. “‘Hot bod?’ Gee, I guess I should feel flattered.”

  Well, of course I am. Perhaps I’ll hold onto this costume if only to see if Jack finds it alluring. Not that he needs any cosplay to get in the mood. He’s got a pretty impressive laser sword, and it’s EverReady.

  Thank goodness it doesn’t glow in the dark.

  By the time Acme’s helicopter lands back in Orange County, Abu has already briefed Ryan on my mission’s success. As I drive home, he calls to congratulate me.

  “All in a day’s work,” I respond glibly. “Ryan, I presume you’ll keep Jack busy so I have the afternoon to take care of business?”

  “Not to worry. Something major has come up that should have us tied up for at least a couple of hours: a conference call with Marcus Branham.” Ryan is referring to the United States Director of Intelligence who replaced Carl Stone, my ex, who blackmailed the United States president, Lee Chiffray for the position before his terrorist activities were once again exposed by Acme.

  And, yes, we took Carl down.

  Ryan adds, “MI6 will also be on the call, along with the Bundesnachrichtendienst, and the D.I.H.”

  “Sounds like an important powwow,” I murmur. The fact that Branham’s counterparts in Great Britain, Germany, and Japan are included indicates something big is going down, and it won’t be pretty.

  Well, here’s hoping it doesn’t happen before the evening is out. Otherwise, Jack’s party will have to be postponed—

  Leaving me with a cake that’s dripping seven-minute egg white icing in this Godforsaken heat wave.

  “I’m sure Jack will fill you in on it when you see him.” By Ryan’s wistful tone, I can tell he’s hoping that I’ll suggest joining them.

  Ain’t happening. The night belongs to Jack.

  With that in mind, I remind Ryan, “Remember, mum’s the word.”

  Ryan sighs. “Don’t worry your pretty little noggin. Hell, if he finds out about this shindig you’re planning, my head will be on the chopping block along with yours.”

  “Seriously, Ryan, unless the world blows up, try not to hold him any later than seven o’clock, okay? And if you permit the rest of my party guests to clear out of the office by six, all the better.”

  By that, I mean everyone on Jack’s and my mission team—not just Ryan and Abu, but Arnie too, along with Emma Honeycutt, who is Arnie’s wife as well as our team’s COMINT supervisor.

  “Speaking of POTUS—”

  “Who? I never brought him up.” My heart lurches.

  “Oh…I thought you had.” It’s wishful thinking on Ryan’s part. President Chiffray’s infatuation with me has worked out well for Acme, but it’s put a strain on my marriage. As much as I appreciate Lee’s trust and respect him as a friend, I’ve made it very clear to him:

  I’m a one-man woman.

  I think he gets this now. But the way in which his wife, Babette, unsheathes her claws whenever I’m within scratching distance, tells me she has her doubts about it too.

  That’s okay. Whenever Lee’s name is mentioned, Jack growls, which is just as disconcerting.

  “In any event, Lee will also be on the call. In fact”—Ryan pauses—“he’s in town. Babette is due to go into labor any day now.”

  “I know. And from what I hear, she insists on having the child at Lion’s Lair.” I try to keep my annoyance out of my voice. The Chiffrays’ monster man
sion is in my hometown: Hilldale, California.

  I’m doubly pissed when Ryan declares, “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of inviting the Chiffrays to Jack’s surprise party tonight.”

  “Mind?” I mutter. “It’s the cherry on the cake of my day.”

  I don’t even wait for Ryan to say goodbye. Instead, I slam down the phone.

  “Tell me again why you won’t be on this call?” Jack asks me before he heads out the door.

  I find it easier to lie if I don’t have to look him in the eye. Scrutinizing my lip gloss in my compact mirror, I murmur, “Ryan assured me that I’m not needed. Frankly, I’m glad. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have time to run into Beverly Hills and pick up Mary’s dress for her prom tomorrow night.” As if annoyed by the time crunch caused to run my errand, I glance at my watch and frown. “If I leave now, I’ll just barely make it back before traffic on the 405 backs up.”

  Jack laughs. “Yeah, well, good luck with that.” We both know I’m kidding myself, since Los Angeles’ I-405 is at a standstill almost night and day, especially in evening traffic.

  I snap my fingers as if a thought has just occurred to me. “Hey, I’ve got a great idea! Since you’ll be leaving the office by seven, why don’t we meet up in Beverly Hills for a drink? That way, we can hang out there until traffic lightens up.”

  His brow arches, proof that my offer tantalizes him. “You mean, have drinks and then maybe dinner out, like two carefree adults?”

  If only he knew.

  “Sure, why not? Aunt Phyllis is already on her way. Her Rumba class is on this side of the city." It’s true, so why not use it as a convenient excuse for her imminent arrival? "I’m sure she won’t want to fight the traffic to get back to her place. And she won’t mind chaperoning the kids until we get home. She can warm up Tuesday’s leftover casserole for the kids. They’ll be glad to have a break from us too—if only to watch Game of Thrones without us hounding them about their homework.”