The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips

by Josie Brown

  “Here,” he hisses back. “We broke the cipher. One of the conference delegates is a plant. I’ve been leaving messages for you, too, asking you where you are!”

  “He’s right,” Arnie pipes in. “Cell phone service around the hotel is crappy. Something’s wrong. My guess is there is some sort of transmission jammer in the building.”

  When the elevator bell rings to announce us, Jack holds me back for a moment. “I’m sorry I forgot where the prom was being held. The hotel’s name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t remember why.”

  It’s understandable, considering you have a lot on your mind, I want to say, but I hold my tongue because, just then, the elevator doors open.

  Lee is standing there. He has a smile on his face, and anticipation in his eyes–

  Until he sees Jack, at which point he murmurs, “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.”

  Apparently, he considers the man who was staring at me from the balcony as part of the gang, because he’s here too.

  Walther grins when he sees me.

  I do my best to keep from scowling at him.

  Chapter 19

  Making Introductions

  A party only gets started when your guests have been introduced to each other. These tips will get the ball rolling at a breakneck pace:

  A: Make intriguing introductions. “Dolores, do you know Sylvia? No? Surprising! I could have sworn she was ‘the other woman’ for whom your husband left you. Isn’t that so, Syl? Can I get anyone a drink?”

  B: Don’t be afraid to introduce controversy. For example: “Lydia, I’d like you to meet Horace. He just got out of prison after serving time for manslaughter. Horace, Lydia believes in the death penalty for all kinds of felonies. Can I freshen anyone’s drink?”

  C: Be sure to point out commonalities. “Joe, do you know Elvira? No? Odd! I’d have guessed you would, since you attend many of the same orgies. Elvira, show him that little tattoo on your inner thigh. It may jog his memory. In the meantime, does anyone want a cocktail wienie? Oh! …No offense, Joe…”

  Lee introduces us to his other guests. Walther’s last name is Achterberg. He is a state secretary in Germany’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and recently assigned the additional position of chairman of the UN Middle East Peace Consortium.

  It’s why he rates the penthouse suite overlooking mine.

  Besides him, the United States Secretary of State, James Worthington, is here, as is Walther’s assistant, a young and beautiful woman named Gretta Kruger; and Luther Fried, the Consortium’s Chief of Security.

  Gretta doesn’t speak, so I can’t compare her voice to that of the woman I heard earlier today while I was sunbathing on the terrace. But by the casual way in which Walther touches her hand as he passes her a note, I presume she is one and the same.

  I recognize Luther’s name, if not his face. He is retired from Mossad, the Israeli intelligence agency, where he headed up the Political Action and Liaison Department, the unit charged with interfacing with other intel agencies from around the world.

  Everyone listens quietly as Jack spells out everything Acme now knows about the meeting that is to take place downstairs:

  That ISIL has been tracking their moves for quite some time; that there will be an attempt to sabotage the meeting–perhaps use it as a hostage situation; and that this intel is coming from the inside.

  When Jack is finished, all eyes turn to Lee. He, in turn, glances over at Walther.

  “Does your intelligence indicate how this attack is to happen?” Walther asks Jack.

  “No,” Jack concedes. “But if it is an inside job, the saboteur could do so by letting in the assassins once the meeting is underway, or he or she could release some sort of harmful agent that incapacitates the attendees.”

  “But we’ve taken every precaution! Our security detail has been well-vetted, as have the committee members,” Luther Fried insists. “If what you say is true, the source must have identified the saboteur in some manner.”

  “Only by a code name–Sin,” Ryan declares.

  Walther shrugs. “Even his name has an element of foreboding. Are we to presume it indicates the level of chaos to be expected?”

  “Our organization is leaning toward its Sumarian interpretation,” Ryan explains. “In that case, Sin is the mythological name of a deity–the Moon god. Even in that capacity, it represents darkness as opposed to light, war as opposed to peace. This god is symbolized by a crescent moon.”

  “This is an insightful history lesson, but sadly, we are already a quarter-hour behind schedule.” Walther looks at his watch. “I can assure you that each of the committee’s members and its support staff have gone through extensive security checks–and not just by our own country, but yours as well.”

  Lee nods. “If that weren’t the case, I would not be here to participate.”

  “Mr. President, if what Acme suspects is correct, at the very least, our operatives–or for that matter, your Secret Service detail–should do one more security check before you go into that meeting room,” I counter.

  He stares at me before conceding with a nod. He turns to Worthington. “It is presumed no one else knows I’m to attend. Is that correct?”

  Worthington nods, as does Walther.

  Walther turns to Gretta. “Escort the president’s men.”

  Lee turns to his Secret Service detail. “Ed, you and Charlie from Secretary Worthington’s detail will go with Ms. Kruger, Mr. Fried, and Secretary Worthington. So that the delegates aren’t alarmed, let me suggest that Gretta introduce them as hotel security, as opposed to White House personnel. If you feel the coast is clear, send up a white smoke signal.”

  “I’d like Mara to accompany them, too,” Jack suggests.

  “Good idea,” Lee agrees.

  If Mara hadn’t been here, it would have been me. Instead, I must get back downstairs to see what other havoc has taken place in the ballroom since I left it.

  As I follow them to the Emmy Suite’s elevator, Jack grabs my hand. “Where are you going?”

  “To deal with more mundane issues. There are two hundred children downstairs, having a food fight while a chorus line of trannies lip syncing through a pop star’s greatest hits. Do me a favor and send me a text if it turns out we need to evacuate.”

  “Trust me, Donna–cancel the party.” From the look in his eyes, I know he’s worried about collateral damage.

  I nod to let him know I hear him, and run after the group going into the elevator.

  Since everyone else is getting off first, I position myself near the back of the elevator. Mara notices this, and finds her way back there with me.

  The ride is a short one. No one speaks. Instead, everyone looks forward.

  When the elevator door opens, the others bolt down the hall toward the meeting room. The door is open, but no one can be seen, except the four security guards. They allow the newcomers to enter, then close ranks behind them.

  Before I can push the button for the lobby, Mara places her hand over my wrist to get my attention. “Donna, don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”

  I nod, but I have nothing to say. I get it: she’s fearless. But that’s because she has nothing to lose: whereas I have everything.

  She’s about to walk out of the elevator when we hear it–the whiz of bullets and the screams.

  Mara and I duck back on opposite sides of the elevator. We’re shielded by the part of the elevator platform not exposed to the open doors, but we look out just the same. She’s already pulled her gun from her back holster.

  Having presumed that the only fights I’d be breaking up are between two girls crying over the same pimply-faced guy, I have no weapon. Then I remember that the stilettos I’m wearing really do have stilettos as heels, so I yank off the heels and pocket the blades so that my shoes are now flats.

  We look out just in time to see Charlie and Luther flailing backward as they are riddled with bullets.

  Ed runs back down the hall toward us.r />
  Just as he enters the elevator, someone appears in the hallway with a semi-automatic.

  The maid.

  Oh…shit.

  When Ed sees our faces, instinctively he turns back around.

  The bullets from her gun slam into his chest.

  I slide my hand up in order to push my security card into the slot above the elevator buttons.

  Just then, the maid realizes Ed wasn’t alone in the elevator. She points her gun–

  The bullets pierce the doors just as they slide shut.

  When the doors open again, we are in my penthouse.

  Mara looks around. “But…this isn’t POTUS’s suite!”

  “It’s mine,” I say.

  She and I grab Ed’s body and lug it into the foyer. I take Ed’s security card from his pocket. Lee’s other men may need it.

  Mara follows me to the closet holding the C Elevator. “Behind these doors is the elevator that goes exclusively to the concierge level,” I explain. “But each penthouse security card can summon it as well. It’s a security measure.” I tap the doors. “Help me pry open these doors. Afterward, we’ll call Jack and Lee on the house phone to tell them what happened downstairs. They need to pry open the doors to this elevator shaft on Lee’s side as well. That way we’ll be able to leap through the shaft.”

  Try as we might, the doors refuse to open unless the elevator is summoned–something I’m not willing to do.

  Time to call Jack.

  A Secret Service agent picks up Lee’s house phone. A moment later, Jack is on the line. “What happened? Where are you?”

  “In my penthouse, which is on the same level as POTUS’s. Mara is with me, but Ed and Charlie are dead, as is Luther.”

  I hear Walther’s voice in the background. He’s asking about Gretta.

  Before Jack can relay the message, I say, “Tell him we don’t know if Gretta was shot. She was one of the first to go into the room, so we lost sight of her.”

  I explain how the penthouses share the elevator bank with the concierge elevator. “Mara and I have to pry open the door on my side. Otherwise, I’ll have to summon the elevator, and it may contain a terrorist or two.”

  “Which means that we can’t summon it here, either,” Jack points out.

  “Okay, let’s play this out,” Mara says. “Donna and I push the button. The elevator comes up. The door opens. Donna doesn’t have a gun but I do, which I’ll use to take out the assailant. Then at least we’ve secured the elevator, leaving the rest of the terrorists on the concierge level.”

  “But if we piss them off, they may retaliate with more hostage executions,” I counter.

  She shakes her head. “Donna, we have a fifty-fifty chance that no one is in there now, and we can secure it before they figure out we can summon it.”

  She’s got a point.

  I nod. “Jack, we’re hanging up. Listen for our knock. Shave and a haircut.”

  “This is no time to joke, but I love you anyway.” He clicks off.

  Already, I miss his voice.

  Together, Mara and I move a solid wooden side table from a wall, and turn it on its side, facing the elevator.

  I summon the elevator, then I position myself behind the table, while Mara flattens herself on one side of the elevator with her gun raised.

  The elevator bell rings. The door opens–

  From what we can tell, it’s empty.

  Mara swings in, to check it out.

  A man who has been hiding behind the wall to the left of the open door moves forward. He rams her in the gut with his semi-automatic rifle. As she doubles over, he swings the gun into position to fire it–

  And I throw one of my knives.

  The stiletto finds its mark: his jugular. Blood gushes out of him so fast that his body jerks and twitches. He grunts as he falls backward, dropping his gun before slumping to the floor.

  I kick the gun away, and put the elevator on emergency hold so that I can drag Mara out onto the hallway floor.

  I sit with her until she can sit up. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yes…thank you.”

  I help her to her feet. “Let’s knock on the sides of the elevator shaft. One of them opens up into POTUS’s penthouse.”

  She follows me back onto the elevator platform. We tap hard on the right side for a few minutes, yelling Jack’s name. Nothing.

  We tap the backside, also calling his name.

  A moment later, he answers, “Donna! Mara! I’m here.”

  “Great!” A wave of relief washes over me. “Jack, you need to try POTUS’s security card in the exterior slot, to see if the door opens. If we can get it to crack just a little, we can wedge it open and pass through. But we have to keep the elevator on this level. Otherwise, the terrorists can get out, or come up.”

  “Got it,” he says.

  The next thing we hear is banging and the groan of the doors coming open, at least enough for us to slip through.

  With Jack and Arnie’s help, Mara and I do just that.

  “How many are there?” Jack asks.

  “You mean, besides the maid?” Mara asks. “The security detail was flanking the meeting doorway. There were five of them. They waited until the Secretary of State, Gretta, Charlie, Ed and Luther were in the room before the action took place.”

  “So, the hard men are the committee’s security team.” Jack turns to Walther for answers.

  “Impossible! Luther handpicked those men,” he insists.

  The penthouse phone rings. Everyone stares at it. Jack walks over and picks it up. “Yes?”

  He listens for a moment, then covers the receiver with his hand. “It’s Gretta! She’s alive, and asks to be put on speaker.”

  Walther’s face floods with relief, but a minute later, his relief turns to anxiety as he listens along with the rest of us.

  The fear is evident in her voice. Like him, she speaks English with a slight German accent. “Our captors are ISIL terrorists. They have purposely jammed cell phone transmissions going in and out of the building, and have cut all outside phone lines as well. All exits have been electronically sealed off.” She pauses before adding: “President Chiffray, I apologize, but I was…was beaten to confirm you are here.”

  Her sobs choke her. There is a slap.

  Walther winces when he hears it.

  When she collects herself, she continues: “Mr. President, you are to surrender to them. If not, they will begin beheading the delegates–one every twenty minutes. They have a live video feed and will be transmitting this event to news outlets all over the world, including CNN, here in America. Should you not accede to their demands, as soon as the delegates are dead, they will seize other guests in the hotel as hostages and keep beheading until you do. However, your life for the others will stop the beheadings. Are you brave enough to sacrifice yourself for those who are innocent of deeds as heinous as yours?”

  Lee sits there, stunned. Finally, he murmurs, “I will give them my answer in…in twenty minutes.”

  “As an incentive, they will kill an infidel–China’s Minister of State Security. It is being broadcasted now.”

  Jack clicks on the television and searches channels until he finds CNN. Anderson Cooper reports: “–exclusive footage. Let me repeat, this is a live feed, taking place here, on American soil; however, it has yet to be determined where. The international delegates had arrived, in secret, to meet with President Chiffray on the topic of a joint coalition to combat the well-funded terrorist organization known as Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant, also known as ISIL. The United States and Britain are the only countries that do not–I repeat–do not pay ransoms for hostages. In this case, the terrorists are not asking for a cash ransom. Instead, they are asking for the United States president to present himself in exchange for all the other hostages.”

  Cooper stops cold. His eyes grow large. “Excuse me, breaking news! We’ve just been told that one of the delegates is to be executed now! We have a liv
e feed, and viewer discretion is advised.”

  The newsroom dissolves to grainy footage of a man kneeling against the seat of a wooden chair. His hands are tied behind his back. His shaking is visible, despite the graininess of the camera feed.

  Another man stands over him with a large curved sword. He is wearing a hood, but in perfect English, he declares, “Our demand is simple–your American president for those he has turned against us and who now deny our sovereignty. The world will then decide if his ransom is worth paying–seventy trillion dollars.” He pauses, as if knowing this amount is eliciting gasps from around the world. “One by one, our hostages will be slaughtered if the coward does not come in their stead. The first beheading is now.”

  The sword swings downward.

  The man’s head falls from view, leaving his lifeless body.

  The video feed cuts away. Anderson Cooper shakes his head sadly as he murmurs, “Again, what you saw was a live beheading.” The journalist turns to his co-anchor, Wolf Blitzer. “Wolf, you’ve been talking to intelligence experts on United State’s policy regarding hostages and ransoms. What is the consensus? Should President Chiffray agree to the terms? And, if not, will our allies still stand with us as their own security ministers are being sacrificed?”

  “A bigger question, Anderson, is if the president acquiesces to their demand, will the United States pay a ransom, which no doubt will be larger than some of our allies’ annual budgets? Or is he the exception to the rule?”

  Jack turns off the television.

  I look at Lee. He has lost all color in his face. His hand shakes as he reaches for a glass of water.

  A rustling can be heard on the cell phone speaker. When Gretta gets back on the phone, she says, “You have twenty minutes before the next beheading.”

  The line goes dead.

  “How many delegates are left?” Ryan asks.

  “Four,” Walther answers. “The United Kingdom’s chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, as well as France’s Minister of Defense, and Secretary of State Worthington. And of course my colleague who heads da Bundesnachrichtendienst–Franz Heller, who is Federal Minister of Special Affairs.”