4 The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide

by Josie Brown

  A blithe conversation between the svelte, fashionably attired middle-aged couple at the next table puts a smile on his lips. He nods in the woman’s direction. “Her lover just walked in. Her husband insists she invite him over.”

  Now I am laughing, too. “You miss it here, don’t you?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe someday, when the children are older, we’ll have an opportunity to spend more time here.”

  “That would be interesting.” I mean that on many levels. I wonder if he means we should request a joint transfer. Or does he plan on us resigning from Acme?

  But that’s the problem: assassins don’t retire. We’ll always be looking over our shoulder, if not for Carl and the Quorum, then for the next Carl, and the next Quorum.

  Sadly, Paris is not the sort of place one can hide in plain sight.

  And then there is the issue of his past with Valentina. Even if she wasn’t buried here, Jack is more likely to feel her presence in this town, where he loved her so passionately, and where she left him so callously.

  At this point in our relationship, Jack knows me well enough to guess my thoughts. “I’d go to the end of the earth with you, Donna, you know that. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter where we are, as long as we’re together. Forever.”

  This is my wish, too.

  Unfortunately, so would Carl, I think. That’s why we have to put him away, once and for all.

  When our meal comes, we eat in silence.

  As we get up to leave, I notice that the woman and her lover hold hands under the table while her husband rubs her neck. When the husband gives me a wink, the wife frowns petulantly.

  Passion is simple, whereas love is complicated.

  I am happy to get out of there. Now that the rain has stopped, the air smells fresh and clean and new.

  Jack and I have a chance at a new beginning.

  I won’t let Carl ruin it for us.

  “We’re here,” Jack says.

  I look around us. We’re now about three miles down and across the river from the Musée d'Orsay, driving onto a stone bridge called Pont Marie. It takes us onto a small island known as Ile St. Louis, which sits in the middle of the river. On the far side of the island is Notre Dame.

  Jack drives around the island until we are facing the Seine’s left bank. Finally he pulls into a narrow alley and turns off the engine. “We’re here.” He points up to a top floor window in one of the many centuries-old buildings which jut out over the river.

  “Is it some sort of safe house?”

  “No. It’s the home of a dear friend.” His smile fades. “The man who lives there, Anton Gregorescu, was a friend of Valentina’s. He brought home three medals for the Romanian Men’s gymnastics team. He was very much in love with her.”

  “Did he defect with her?”

  “If he had, he wouldn’t be a paraplegic today. Without his help, she couldn’t have escaped. He covered for her. Anton paid dearly for his lies. To make an example of him, his spinal cord was severed, and he was institutionalized.”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “Yes, it was. Thank god Ryan was successful in negotiating his release.” Jack takes a flashlight out of the glove compartment, points it to the top window and flicks it on and off: fast three times, slow twice, then fast twice once more.

  A moment later, we spot a candle’s glow in the window.

  Jack nudges me. “Time to go. And by the way, he took the news of Valentina’s death very hard.”

  As hard as Jack took the same news, I wonder? If so, she certainly cast a spell on the men in her lives.

  On everyone but Carl, that is.

  The sixth and highest floor of 38 1/2 Quai d’Orleans is reached by a narrow, rickety staircase. By the time we reach Anton Gregorescu’s door, we are both out of breath.

  I can see why Jack felt the need to warn me about our host. His red-rimmed eyes and grimace are proof signs of a man in mourning.

  He is the paraplegic we saw earlier this evening, in the cemetery.

  I shake his hand when Jack introduces us. Jack bends down to give Anton a hug. They have a quick exchange in French, then Anton hands Jack a small metal box. When Anton asks him something about Valentina, Jack frowns, and is eyes shifts toward me.

  Anton follows his gaze. He pauses then asks in English, “Did she die quickly?”

  Without hesitation, I lie and nod. Otherwise the tears welling up in his eyes and falling into his lap. And yet, I don’t get the feeling that Anton is a helpless man.

  Despite the fact that his legs are as thin and lifeless as a marionette’s, Anton has large biceps, and his shoulders and chest are massive. His walls are lined with photos that show him at the peak of his vigor, brimming with youth and promise, floating in perfect formation over the uneven parallel bars.

  I’ve no doubt he is still a brute of a man.

  Another wall is a shrine devoted to Valentina: as a child, performing somersaults with other tots her age. As a pre-teen, her arms raised in triumph as she accepts a medal. As a young woman, in jeans and a man’s pea coat, mugging for the camera.

  There is another picture, too. In it, she stands beside Jack on the steps of a Paris courthouse in a simple white shift, and a bouquet in hand.

  Anton isn’t there. I presume he was in some Romanian hellhole of a jail.

  “We all do what we must,” he says, as if reading my mind. “I have never regretted the path that got me here.” His hand swings to the double French doors. Directly beneath them is the Seine. Across the river is Notre Dame. Beyond it is a breathtaking view of the western half of the city, all the way to the Jardin du Luxembourg. “I live in the very heart of Paris, and I am free. The cafes, the restaurants, the Jardin des Tuileries. What more can one ask for?”

  I let loose with a chuckle. “How about an elevator?”

  He laughs, too. “Ah! But you see? I have one!”

  He rolls himself over to a low cupboard on a far wall. When he opens it, I see what he means: inside is a dumb waiter large enough to hold a wheelchair. “Up until this week, my home has been my fortress.”

  Jack raises his head from the task at hand, memorizing a tiny sheet of paper in the box. “Why is that?”

  “In a day or two, I will have yet another visitor.” His smile holds only sadness. “He too will be given a box. It is somewhat bigger than your own. I have no idea of its contents, only that Valentina presumed it would buy you the time needed to complete your mission.”

  He stops at the sound of creaking steps, coming from the stairwell outside the apartment. Anton shoves his wheelchair to a desk, where a computer sits. A tap of the keyboard brings a webcam visual onto the screen. Two men dressed in black can be seen, inching their way up the stairs. They are already on the third landing.

  “Alas, the guests I dread have arrived early. It would be wise that you leave before they reach my door.” He points to the dumbwaiter. “It will be a tight squeeze for both of you, but you’ll find it a very quick exit.”

  I shake my head. “We can’t just leave you here!”

  “But I insist. I owe my life to Valentina. If it is time to pay that debt, then so be it.” He lifts his head defiantly. “Don’t worry about me. Once they get what Valentina promised them, they’ll see no need to hurt the poor cripple.”

  Jack pulls me with him toward the dumbwaiter. We have to crouch down to enter. By pulling a small lever, we begin our descent.

  The dumbwaiter lets us out into the alleyway where we’ve parked the car.

  We’ve just hopped in when Anton’s windows open. The next thing we see is his wheelchair being rolled out and over the side, by one of the men.

  He falls with a splash into the Seine.

  Jack is about to leap out of the car when suddenly we hear a blast. Anton’s apartment is a smoky fireball.

  “Their box! It held a bomb!”

  “That’s my girl.” I can’t begrudge Jack his pride in Valentina. “Maybe it’s for the best that Anton was
pushed.”

  I shake my head. “God rest his soul.”

  Jack laughs. “I doubt that will be the case.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Not only was he a gymnast, he’s an expert swimmer, too. For that he doesn’t need his legs.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not at all. How do you think he built back his upper body?” Jack starts the car. “So tell me, how do you feel about Mexico?”

  Chapter 16

  Flirting…. with Disaster

  There’s certainly nothing wrong with flirting to grab a guy’s attention. However, when doing so, keep in mind that men read signals differently than women. Here are six moves he’ll never misinterpret:

  1: A wink. He’ll find it sexy! (But just once. Otherwise he’ll think you have something in your eye, in which case he’ll think you’ll need a trip to the emergency room, and run in the other direction.)

  2: Tossing your hair to one side. The hair toss is the international signal that you want his attention. (However, forego the head scratch, which indicates crabs, lice, or other parasites.)

  3: A tee shirt that says, “Hey, you! I’m available!” Putting something in writing—especially breast-high–is the best way to get his attention, and he’ll love the fact that you tell it like it is. (In fact, forego the tee shirt altogether. Go ahead and get this message tattooed on your chest.)

  4: Hone a great pick up line. Nothing along the lines of “You don’t smell as bad as most guys your size” or “Watching you eat makes me want to barf.” Instead, make it positive and complimentary.

  5: A kiss. What a great way to greet a handsome stranger! Nothing is more inviting that an open mouth. (Word of caution: be sure to get off your knees. Otherwise you’ll give him the wrong first impression.)

  6: A low-cut blouse, paired with a micro-mini skirt and five-inch heels. Better yet, forget the blouse and the skirt. The heels by themselves say, “I’m available, and I’m all yours…and his….oh yeah, and I’m up for that dude over there, too.”

  You’ve been dating Mr. Maybe long enough that passionate desires are erupting in both of you. (Granted, his are more obvious, since he has an outie, and it has a mind of its own.)

  Isla María Madre rises higher and steeper from the turquoise Pacific Ocean than her sister islands, María Magdalena and María Cleofas.

  Am I the only one who finds irony in the fact that Mexico’s notorious prison was built on an archipelago named after the three saintly women who attended the Resurrection?

  That’s okay. My mission is a resurrection, too, of sorts:

  When I leave, I’m taking the prison’s biggest bad-ass with me.

  That would be Hector Negrón de la Moraga.

  This Forbes 100 billionaire’s cash flows in from the tons of methamphetamine he smuggles stateside. His drug mules are many of the American socialite junkies who hang at his Cabo San Lucas nightclubs and resorts.

  But because the gangbangers known as Los Corazónes Rojos are jonesing to take over his territory and have put a price on his head, the first six months of his prison sentence have been spent in solitary confinement.

  No wonder he felt it was time to cut a deal with the United States. Spill his guts, as it were. Before they are spilled for him, all over the prison yard.

  He got the Feds’ attention by explaining that he launders his dirty drug money through a blind corporation: a real estate company which builds Mexico’s many gated communities and private stucco palaces.

  Not only does he know where his rivals live, he’s also got the floor plans of all their estates.

  Including the security codes.

  If the note Valentina left in her father’s tin box is correct, he built the brand spanking new villa the Quorum uses as the south-of-the-border headquarters. This is where we’ll find Carl and his new friends.

  We must find them by tonight, if we’re going to stop them, once and for all.

  Happy birthday to me.

  The United States, Great Britain, France, Germany and Japan want to put the Quorum out of business, once and for all. But some crooked Mexican politicos have halted Hector’s extradition. Their allegiance is with Los Corazónes Rojos, which has a hit out on him.

  That’s where I come in. I’m breaking him out of this hoosegow. In return, he’s going to point out the Quorum’s safe house, and provide us with its floor plan and security system data. Afterward, the Feds will let him live stateside, where he’ll be put in the Federal Witness Protection Program.

  Hector’s financial portfolio may be humongous, but his physique is petite, which is why his nickname is El Chihuahua. Here’s hoping he lives down to it, since smuggling him off the island won’t be easy under any circumstances.

  Now that the prison is within sight, the tug’s low, sad bellow puts all hands on deck. The Mexican flag flaps loudly on the stern pole. I presume no masts are half-raised inside the prison, either.

  Certainly not El Chihuahua’s, now that his paid-by-the-hour puta is here.

  That would be me.

  The other women standing with me on the tugboat’s deck—all wives, girlfriends and whores on their way to their monthly conjugal visits with the murderers, thieves, and drug dealers who live within the prison’s walls—adjust their lips upward into smiles, while tugging the necklines of their too-snug blouses even lower.

  In lockup, orifices may be readily available, but bountiful cleavage is not.

  My breasts are already propelled high, front and center. My skirt is short and tight, whereas my high heels are long, pointy and packed for a punch: one is tipped with a knockout drug, the other with a serrated blade.

  So yeah, I guess I’m ready, too.

  There are at least forty guards on the grounds, and another six in the turrets of the towers topping this castle-like compound. Their whistles and catcalls can be heard loud and clear as we women maneuver our way up the chipped stone steps leading to the prison’s two-story solid steel gates.

  Being manhandled (ostensibly for hidden weapons or breakout tools) has many of the ladies wincing. But those who, like me, are looking for an extra half-hour with their menfolk smile and purr a few promises they hope will be forgotten when it’s time to leave this hellhole.

  The metal detector beeps when I saunter through. The guard on duty smells as if he’s taken a hit off every bottle of tequila that’s been smuggled in today. He presumes it is the thick-ribbed bracelet on my arm that set it off. All the same, he fondles my breasts between his rough palms, as if they’re a pair of ripe melons.

  Tit for tit, I pinch his breast harder than he tweaked mine.

  “Usted me está haciendo caer en amor con usted,” he says, with a smirk.

  Why am I not surprised that he actually likes a little rough play?

  “What a douche,” Jack mutters into my tiny diamond stud earpiece. Obviously, he doesn’t like what he sees. No boyfriend would, right? “Seriously, Donna, you have my permission to kill him, now, if you want.” By his tone, I know Jack means it.

  “Mas tarde, mi amor,” I murmur. Then I lick my lips, knowing that the guard will hear my soft taunt as a come-on.

  Later my love…

  First things first.

  My act is working. The guard is too distracted to notice all the toys, which will get my ass, and my asset, off this godforsaken island. In my clutch bag are my ID (a Mexican driver’s license that identifies me as “Lucinda Gutiérrez”), a nondescript lipstick, a seemingly innocent compact, a change purse that holds a few coins, and a rosary with a small metal cross.

  Here’s the plan: Once we’re alone in one of the prison’s flimsy straw love shacks, I’ll clue Hector in on the fact that nookie is out, but a run for the gate is in. Unfortunately, that should keep the smirk on his face. Then I’ll slap one of my tiny, but strong, neo-magnetic earrings onto the shack’s center pole before shooting the other earring—attached to the zip line hidden in my rosary—out the shack’s window with my lipstic
k case, which is really a miniature missile launcher. The missile’s GPS system will lead it to a three-person submarine anchored about thirty feet below high tide and about two hundred feet offshore, where Jack is waiting for us. Once the zip line’s magnet has locked onto the exterior antechamber of the sub, we’ll roll off this hot hunk of rock using my GPS-driven ribbed bracelet as a pulley.

  Since subs are the new vehicle of choice for running drugs between Mexico and the United States, El Chihuahua should feel right at home.

  Besides, prison has given him time to get used to tight quarters.

  Between the sub’s cloaking system and a submersion depth of sixty feet, we will be able to maneuver past any Mexican patrol boats. At a cruising speed of eighty nautical miles per hour, we should surface at the dock of our safe house in the posh tourist enclave Cabo San Lucas in three hours, tops. There, we’ll debrief El Chihuahua as to the whereabouts of the Quorum’s villa, and get the necessary entry data.

  After turning Hector over to his Witness Protection detail, Jack and I will break into the villa, download all files on the master computer’s hard drive onto a flash drive and then plant a worm that will allow us to stop Carl from whatever he’s got planned in order to impress his new BFFs.

  If we accomplish our mission, Acme will learn the identities of the Quorum’s new players, and break up the organization once and for all.

  My slow stroll through the prison courtyard is serenaded by the jeers and come-ons of the prisoners who, for this month anyway, are unlucky in love. “Siéntate en mi cara, perra…” and “Quiero que me chupe…” are the two most common ones shouted so often, and by so many that, to my ear, they sound like a mantra.

  I ignore them, and I certainly won’t translate them now for you.

  I’m too much of a lady for that.

  Hector’s lawyer has arranged for his client to be assigned the last love shack on the left. I’m sure Hector is in there now, waiting for me. It’s perfectly situated for this mission because it is the closest one to the island’s north shore, where the submarine is anchored.