3 The Housewife Assassin's Killer Christmas Tips

by Josie Brown

  “I know one thing. You’re not part of their future.”

  “Oh, no?” The next thing I know, he’s holding my face between his hands and we’re staring straight into each other’s eyes.

  Feelings churn within me as the memories of the Carl I loved rise from the deep, dark depths of my subconscious. I remember how my heart leapt into my throat the first time I saw him, how my nerve endings tingled at his very first touch. Our first kiss promised excitement, fun, and passion.

  And the first time he entered me more than delivered the bliss I’d hoped for.

  As if reading my mind, his lips linger on mine, tempting me to forget all that has happened since he left us—

  Since he left me.

  I think that deserves a punch in the face.

  My fist against his nose takes him by surprise. The pain makes him roar like a speared boar. But a sidekick to his gut makes sure he got my message loud and clear. It lays him flat on his back. I grab my gun from where he kicked it under the couch, but before I can finish him off, I hear Trish shout out, “Mommy, no! Don’t kill Santa Claus!”

  I freeze when I see the look of horror on her face.

  This gives Carl just enough time to roll out from under my heel and onto is feet. When he catches his breath, he gasps, “Trisha, don’t grow up to be naughty like your mother.”

  As I shove him out the great room French doors, I hiss in his ear, “Hey, I’m not the one planning to blow up a plane, remember?”

  “How do you think Santa earns the big bucks for all those presents?” Before I can answer him, he kisses me hard then disappears into the evening’s shadows.

  I turn back around to find Trisha staring at me. “Will Daddy be mad because Santa kissed you?”

  “He . . . I . . .” Okay, how do I explain to a five-year-old that the man she thinks is her father isn’t, but that Santa is, and he’s a killer and a complete asshole?

  I don’t. I just smile and hope that, when she wakes up tomorrow she will have forgotten all about this.

  She’s yawning when I pick her up and carry her up the stairs.

  She’s too drowsy to fight me when I tuck her in.

  She murmurs, “That’s okay, Mommy. He kissed me, too. Right here, on my cheek.”

  She touches it softly with her hand as she drifts off to sleep.

  Carl took away my innocence. I’ll be damned if I let him take hers, too.

  When Jack gets home, he finds me curled up in her bed with her and nudges me away. “Nightmares?” he asks.

  “You could say that.” I don’t think now is the time to tell him about Carl.

  Is there ever a good time? Not if it leaves him angry and disgusted.

  At me.

  I look over at Trisha’s Disney Princess wall clock. “It’s only three o’clock in the morning! What are you doing home so early?”

  “Acme got some new reconnaissance. Turns out the MANPAD isn’t being smuggled in via a cargo container.”

  “So, how are they getting it into the country?”

  “Ryan wants us in the office tomorrow, so he can tell us in person. But he wanted me to warn you. You’ll need to pack a bikini and suntan lotion.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Beats a burka.”

  “You’re telling me.” His kiss starts out gentle, but ends up leaving me breathless.

  I love it when he lifts my in his arms. The stroll between Trisha’s room and ours may be only twenty seconds, but it’s filled with an eternity of anticipation.

  Maybe he doesn’t need to know about Santa’s visit after all.

  Chapter 10

  Christmas Vacation

  Want to get away for the holidays?

  Hey, maybe that’s not such a bad idea! Just think: No rushing around to hang lights outside. No decorating a tree. No worries about getting out Christmas cards. You don’t have to open the door to off-key carolers and listen politely when you’d rather take a gun to your head (or to theirs). And you’ve got the perfect excuse to pass on your boring neighbors’ holiday parties. You certainly won’t have to reciprocate and have them over, too.

  So, where should you go? Perhaps take in a madcap Manhattan week? Nah. Too many holiday shoppers and store windows dressed up for Christmas. Not to mention a Salvation Army Santa, ringing his bell, on every corner.

  Same goes for Chicago, Atlanta, Raleigh, Houston, Seattle, San Francisco, even Los Angeles. It also leaves out London, Paris, Rome, Madrid, Berlin, Rio de Janeiro, and Amsterdam.

  In other words, you might as well embrace the inevitable. There is no running away from Christmas.

  So take it head on.

  If you’re wearing a helmet and a FLAK jacket, you’ll survive, and it will never know what hit it.

  I’m in the middle of mixing vanilla into a second batch of waffle batter when Trisha breaks her big news to the whole family, “Last night, I saw Santa kissing Mommy!”

  Mary and Jeff’s jaws fall open, revealing partially chewed Belgian waffle squares.

  Jack chokes on his coffee.

  I’m saved by the beep of the Mickey Mouse waffle iron.

  Jeff is first in line for seconds. Too bad! Its bounty is Trisha’s. At this point, I’ll do anything to shut her up.

  Maybe because Mary is still suspicious of Trevor’s infatuation with me, she scoots her chair closer to Trisha’s. “Oh, yeah? When was this?” Her smile seems friendly enough, but she’s drilling her little sister with a voice as determined as any homicide detective’s.

  “Last night, after everyone went to bed.”

  I plop Trisha’s plate down in front of her. “Eat it now, Trisha, before it gets cold.” I’m using my sweetest voice, but now that Trisha’s onstage, I might as well be outside with Rin Tin Tin and Lassie, who are scratching at the sliding door, hoping for leftovers.

  Mary shoves Trisha’s plate to the side. “Think really hard, Trisha. Was he young or old?”

  “Old. Well, ‘daddy’ old.” She looks apologetically at Jack. “And he’s built like daddy, too. I mean, he wasn’t fat like Santa is supposed to be.”

  Mary relaxes at this. Trevor is in the clear. On the other hand, Jeff mutters, “She’s full of it.”

  “No, I’m not! He left presents and everything! See?” Her hand sweeps out toward our naked tree.

  Aw, heck. I was going to hide the gifts first thing this morning, but I forgot they were there.

  Mary and Jeff run over and grab the ones with their names on them. Because idiot Carl didn’t bother to wrap them up, they can see instantly that they’ve got new iPad Minis.

  “Wow, Mom! Can we take these now?”

  I snatch them from the children. “No, you can’t! They’re Christmas presents, remember? Now, go upstairs and get dressed for school.”

  Mary and Jeff high-five each other. “Best Christmas ever!” Mary proclaims as she gives Jack a kiss and floats upstairs.

  Trisha frowns. “Why did she kiss Daddy? It was Santa who brung them.”

  “Go brush your teeth and get ready too, Trisha. Right now. Scoot!!”

  She’s heard that tone in my voice before and follows the others upstairs.

  Jack waits until she’s long gone before he turns to me. “I don’t remember you saying you were going to get the kids new iPads.”

  “I . . . it . . . what can I say? It was a great deal.”

  But nothing in life is free. There are always strings attached.

  Three of them bind me to Carl, for the rest of my life.

  Time to fess up. “Truth is, Carl stopped by last night. I mean, he broke in. He wanted to leave presents for the kids. Trisha heard him and came downstairs. When she saw he was dressed as Santa, he played along. She was so excited she woke me up.”

  “Carl?” Jack’s hand slams the table. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh, great! And how convenient that he just so happened to know I’d be gone for the evening.”

  I can’t believe my ears. �
�Are you inferring that I called him up and invited him over? Are you crazy?”

  “No. Not crazy, just . . . just fed up.” He shrugs. “He always finds a way around you, doesn’t he?”

  “I guess I could have shot him in cold blood—in front of Trisha. I thought killing Santa might scar the poor kid for the rest of her life. Sorry, my bad.” Oh, who am I kidding? Between catching Santa in an affair and seeing him die once already, it doesn’t look like we’ll be avoiding any shrink bills.

  Jack shakes his head with a smirk. “You didn’t shoot him because you didn’t want to.”

  I grab his arm and spin him around so that that he’s forced to look at me. “I would have, if I could! Why don’t you believe me?”

  Jack’s laugh is devoid of any humor. “Seriously? You want to go there again?”

  “Yes, let’s ‘go’ there.”

  “Okay, doll, you asked for it. We are so going there.” His face is so close to mine that his hot breath hits me in waves. “First off, despite the fact that you’re one of Acme’s best shooters, somehow every time he’s in range, you just so happen to let him walk! It’s happened like, what, four times already? And that’s just the times I know about! If the douche comes sniffing around every time I walk out of the house, I’m guessing your odds are much, much worse—”

  “You’re crazy, Jack! He’s not ‘sniffing around.’ He doesn’t have time. He’s out terrorizing, remember?”

  Jack shrugs. “Yeah, and that’s another thing. The dude is a sick psycho! Not exactly someone you’d bring home to Mom—”

  “My mom died when I was ten. Remember?”

  “—and he’s certainly not the best ‘dad’ material, either.”

  “Well, I didn’t know it at the time, now did I?”

  “That’s my point exactly, Donna. You sure know how to pick ’em. Which brings us to my second point. All he has to do is mention a, the kids, or b, how hot you are, or c, that he’s never gotten over you, and you get all gooey in the middle and melt into his arms. Or worse.” He nods, satisfied with himself. “Did I leave anything out?”

  “Yeah. You left out the part about you not trusting me.” I pause to reconsider this. “Oh! No, forget it. You did cover it, in points a, b, and c.”

  “Why should I trust you? You kissed him. Or are you going to tell me that Trisha is lying, that it’s just part of her imagination?”

  I start to speak, but what can I say? He’s got me there.

  He just doesn’t get it. “If you think I’m still—that I still love him, you’re wrong! I love you.”

  Jack jerks his arm out of my grasp. “I know. That’s what makes it so hard. I have to share you . . . with him.”

  He’s halfway to the staircase when I shout, “No, that’s not why you’re upset. You’re pissed because you had to share her with him.”

  This stops him cold.

  He turns back around. His eyes look so sad, so pained.

  I want to say I’m sorry, to run into his arms, to beat him with my fists so that he gets it. I only love him. I only want him.

  And I want him to feel the same about me.

  But I say nothing.

  We hold the gaze we share for what seems like an eternity, until he mutters, “Carl only loves one thing. Power. Too bad you haven’t already figured that out.” He shrugs. “But you’ve always been slow on the uptake right?”

  He turns back around and heads back toward the stairs.

  At some point, the waffle iron must have beeped again, but I didn’t hear it.

  I open it to find Mickey’s latest offering charred and petrified.

  I unplug the waffle iron. I’m tempted to throw it at Jack, but he’s too far away.

  Instead, I shout up to the kids, to hurry up before they’re late for school.

  By the time I get to Acme, Jack is already there. I’ve got to admit, he’s right about one thing. Carl can’t be trusted. That said, I’ve brought the iPads and Trisha’s doll with me so that Arnie can sweep the toys for bugs. If the items are cleared, they’ll go back under the tree.

  If not, I’ll have to replace them, which means more time elbowing my way through the Apple store, and getting back on eBay to outbid all the other mommies freaking over the Furby du jour.

  Ryan and Jack are holed up in Ryan’s office. I know Jack well enough to recognize all the signs that he’s irritated about something. He’s not smiling. He’s got his back up against the wall, literally. His fists are balled up and stuck deeply into his pants pockets. If his eyes were knives, Ryan would be sliced and diced into small pieces by now.

  I presume they’re talking about me.

  This is practically confirmed when Ryan glances over at me. Without even a wave, he strolls over to the Venetian blinds and turns them so that he and Jack can conduct their business in private.

  Okay, be that way.

  Something tells me the subject has nothing to do with my resemblance to Pippa.

  I can live with that.

  What I can’t live with is the thought that Jack actually thinks Carl means anything to me.

  Or that I’m right, and Valentina still means a lot to Jack.

  Or that Jack is requesting a transfer.

  If that’s the case, I’ll be broken-hearted.

  So will the kids.

  This is all Carl’s fault. The son of a bitch knew exactly what he was doing when he dropped off those gifts. He was goading Jack into doubting me.

  Well, he’s succeeded. For now.

  Until I get him in my sites again.

  Then he better run.

  But he won’t be able to hide.

  I’m not just a woman scorned. I’m a woman fighting for the best thing that ever happened to her, ex be damned.

  My Technicolor revenge fantasy fades into black-and-white reality when Ryan hollers, “Stone! Get in here.”

  I smile pretty and wave casually, but all the while, my heart and head are pounding.

  I need time to think things out, to recoup, to get a grip.

  Let’s face it. I need a vacation.

  “So, what you’re telling me is that Jack and I will be spending three days on a luxury Sapphire Cruise ship, as it makes its way from Cabo San Lucas to Los Angeles?”

  Ryan nods solemnly. “We received intel last night that one of the missing MANPADs is being transported on the ship. Your job is to search and seize.”

  “Works for me.” Yes! Yes! A few days of fun and sun.

  With Jack, no less.

  Or, maybe not. Usually I’d see that ghost of a smile on his lips indicating he’ll enjoy this assignment as much as I would. But today, he won’t even look at me.

  “This isn’t any ordinary cruise,” Ryan continues. “It’s being chartered by Greg Lardner.”

  Of course, the name is familiar to me. “You mean the Silicon Valley venture capitalist?”

  “Yes. It’s a private holiday party he puts on every year, for a close set of friends.”

  “How did we rate an invitation?”

  “A special friend of Acme put you on the guest list.” Ryan’s face turns a soft shade of pink. “But this isn’t some fun in the sun excursion. You’ll have to be open to a little—well, let’s just call it role playing.”

  I glance over at Jack. “I don’t get it.”

  Jack shrugs. “Greg and his wife, Persephone, are notorious swingers.”

  Ah. Now I get it.

  “He only invites those who are into” —Ryan gives a deep cough—“his bondage club.”

  In the silence that follows, Ryan’s face darkens to the shade of a ripe tomato.

  Jack may not give a damn, but I feel I should say something before the poor guy passes out. “What does this have to do with the missing MANPAD?”

  “Lardner’s company is the lead investor in Sapphire Cruises,” Ryan explains. “Not only does the party give him a chance to play rough, but also to showcase the ship to potential passengers and investors and provide a write-off. It also allows h
im to bring the MANPAD into a US port without going through the usual customs search.”

  I nod. “I take it then, Lardner is involved with the Quorum?”

  Finally, Jack turns to address me. “Donna, Lardner is one of the Quorum’s money men. Emma cracked one of the files on Jonah Breck’s hard drive with his name on it, along with records proving his role in the funding of Quorum terrorist acts. Apparently, Breck’s death left a vacancy on the Quorum’s controlling board of thirteen. Lardner is one of three Quorum members vying for the position. Getting the MANPAD through port security will get him the votes he needs to get on the board.”

  “Do we know the other two contestants, or for that matter, the other twelve board members?”

  Ryan shakes his head. “We’re working on it. But at the same time, we’ve got to stop the Quorum from taking down a plane. If our government folds to the Quorum’s blackmail demands, who knows what they’ll ask for next time?”

  He’s got a point. And there is always a next time.

  “The ship is one of the smaller ones owned by Sapphire,” Ryan says. “It’s called the Good Ship Lollipop.”

  He can barely say this with a straight face.

  He clears his throat, then continues, “There are fifty couples onboard. Everyone goes under assumed names. During their—well, for lack of a better word for it, ‘rendezvous’—Venetian masks are worn. Whomever Lardner chooses to partner up with for the evening will have access to his suite. It’s the only area within the ship in which Acme’s micro-drone surveillance hasn’t cleared, and that our AIT—advanced imaging technology—has not been able to penetrate, so it’s got to be in there.”

  I nod. “Do you presume it’s under his bunk?”

  “You should be so lucky if all he has in there is a bunk bed,” Jack mutters under his breath.

  He’s still pouting. Well, that’s too bad. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Let me put it this way. If you thought Breck was sadistic, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Don’t be surprised if Lardner doesn’t respond to your ‘safety word.’”

  Super duper. Why do I always get the sickos?

  “But don’t worry,” Ryan says soothingly. “You’ll be mic’ed. That way if something goes wrong, Jack will be right there for you.”