The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky

by Deborah Coonts

  I pushed myself off of Adam who was beginning to stir. Sitting on my heels, I took a quick appraisal—all body parts attached and functional. “Did you do that?” I asked her as I looked at the hole in the sky where the chopper had been.

  “I can neither confirm nor deny,” she said as she stood, looking sad and satisfied at the same time.

  I so got that. But still, something about being judge and jury bothered me. Not my universe, I guess. And I was glad there were folks like Donna and Jack who could exact justice. Right now, I envied them, but I knew their shades of gray would not be a comfortable place for this black and white gal.

  “What happened?” Adam sat up, working his jaw.

  “You can thank the gentleman there,” I pointed to Jack, “for saving you from yourself.”

  Jack offered Adam a hand. “If you have to give up yourself to gain victory, the price is way too high, kid. Wait for a better opportunity.”

  “In my culture, it is considered holy to martyr oneself for the greater good.” Adam scanned the sky.

  “In my culture, it’s a waste of resources.” Jack said exactly what I was thinking.

  That seemed to get Adam’s attention. “The sheik. He is gone?”

  I jumped in, letting Donna and her crew off the hook. “In a manner of speaking.” I filled Adam in.

  Incredulity hiked his eyebrows toward his hairline. “It exploded? Does that happen often?”

  Now it was my turn to join in the group shrug.

  Dominic brushed himself off then helped me to my feet. I looked at the three of them: Jack, Donna, and Dominic. “Gerald?”

  “We’ll get him,” Donna said with a conviction that left little doubt.

  “You kept your promise. Not sure I agree with your methodology.” I looked at a few of the larger metal parts littering the area around us. They still smoldered. “But I’m not going to quibble.”

  Sirens sounded in the distance. The guard had taken refuge in his shack, keeping his distance from the mayhem. People drifted toward the bank of the river. No one jumped in to swim around looking for survivors. There wouldn’t be any.

  Suddenly the day turned cold—or perhaps the chill of death filtered past.

  Regardless, the warmth of the chase was gone, leaving only emptiness. I tugged my sweater closed, not that it would be any protection against the kind of chill I felt.

  Dominic touched my elbow. “I understand you need a ride to the airport?”

  “Damn!” I glanced at my phone. I could still make it, but everything would have to go without a hitch. “Shouldn’t I stay? The authorities will have questions.”

  “We’ll have the right answers,” Donna assured me. “But we can’t cover you. You were never here.”

  I nodded.

  She scanned our little group. “Lucky was never here, right?”

  “Right,” everyone chorused.

  “The motorcycle?”

  “I will return it to the club and pick up mine later,” Adam said, a hint of awe in his voice. “You really can solve problems.”

  “These guys made me look good. Always remember it’s critical to play for the right team.”

  “You need to go.” Donna said to me, then glanced at Dominic. “Did you bring what I asked?”

  “Right here.” He pulled a paper-wrapped parcel from under his shirt. “I’ve been keeping it next to my heart.”

  Did the guy ever quit?

  I unwrapped the package.

  The vintage Hermès Kelly bag.

  “And something that belongs to you is inside,” Donna added.

  I opened the bag. The vintage Chinese vase from the Royal Suite! “You saved me one hell of an insurance claim.” I took the vase out and held out the bag. “Thank you.”

  “Keep the bag. Mind you, it’s just a loan,” Donna said, pink coloring her cheeks. “I figure it might impress your future mother-in-law. Maybe soften her up a bit to see you have some class.”

  I ignored the ‘some’ thing—in Vegas, we didn’t put a premium on class—and wrapped her in a bear hug.

  “I’ve had my share of bad men,” she whispered in my ear. “Don’t settle. Listen to your gut. Your heart and your brain can’t be trusted.” She pulled away.

  “How will I know how to get the purse back to you?” I nestled the vase back inside the protection of the bag.

  The sirens grew louder.

  Donna smiled. “I’ll find you.”

  “Allow me?” Dominic touched my elbow. “We need to leave.” He wouldn’t take no for an answer, that much I could tell. “I have a friend who works on fine automobiles just around the corner. From time to time he lets me borrow one.”

  “Something wicked fast, I hope?” I asked half in jest.

  “Is there any other kind?” He steered me away from the group.

  “How fast can you drive?”

  “I’m a past winner at LeMans.” He said it without his usual conceit.

  “Of course you are. I’d be delighted, but this time I’ll be very receptive if you want to show me your skills.”

  24

  Donna

  As we watch Dominic and Lucky drive off, Jack heaves a sigh. “Don’t they make a cute couple?”

  I laugh. “I’m glad Lucky didn’t hear you say that. She may have suckerpunched you again.”

  “No shit. And she packs quite a wallop.” He winces at the thought.

  I give him a sidelong glance. “Now that she promised to let Dominic down easy, don’t you get him revved up again about her.”

  “Scout’s honor.” Jack crosses his heart before holding his hand in the official three-finger salute.

  As he does, his cell rings.

  I reach into his pocket to retrieve it.

  “Feel free to do that more often,” he murmurs.

  So that I don’t encourage him, I suppress a grin.

  The Caller ID shows Arnie. I tap speaker mode. “Make me happy,” I command him.

  “I’ll—I’ll try my best,” Arnie stammers. He knows it’s a demand I usually reserve for Jack.

  Jack clicks his tongue at my quip at our tech op’s expense. “Donna’s just being cute, Arnie. What’s up?”

  “Two things. Ryan already has MI6 fielding all police inquiries over Sheik Ben’s untimely demise. No need for you to hang around.”

  “Works for us,” Jack declares.

  Three screaming cop-mobiles are careening onto the tarmac. Suddenly, they screech to a halt, make U-turns, and follow Adam as he drives off the heliport’s tarmac on Lucky’s stolen motorcycle. Whereas Adam turns right in order to go north and over the Battersea Bridge, the coppers are routed south.

  “I guess they just got the memo,” I say.

  From the tarmac we can see police boats circling the burning debris. “It’s the Thames River Police,” Jack explains.

  “I guess the Saudi prince was pretty pissed to learn that his brother not only had his daughter murdered but was a prime funding source for jihadi terrorists and Islamist populists,” Arnie muses. “Talk about making the UAE look bad to its Western allies!”

  “‘Pissed?’ Considering the payback he requested be made by the CIA, I’d say that’s an understatement.” Jack nods toward the burning wreckage bobbing just above the river’s wake. “The Prince would have much preferred that any funding of radicals stay its family’s dirty little secret.”

  “What with all the turmoil currently happening throughout the Middle East, I guess POTUS was glad to accommodate the UAE’s request to make Ben’s death look like an accident,” I add. “If word of Ben Halabi’s role in this had gotten out, Saudi civilians may have revolted against the monarchy.”

  “That’s funny,” Arnie muses. “News outlets are already calling it ‘an act of terrorism.’ And the source being quoted is the UAE’s Federal Supreme Council.”

  Frowning, Jack glances my way. “I guess the council felt it needed a boogeyman after all.”

  “Anything to keep its citizens in line, rig
ht?” I reason. “The monster you know is better than the one you don’t.”

  “I imagine POTUS assumes it’s better to shore up an autocracy with a lousy civil rights track record than to bet on the alternative,” Jack mutters.

  “But who’s to say a democracy in the Middle East wouldn’t work if we don’t let the chips fall where they may?” Arnie wonders aloud. “Adam seemed to think change would bring about democracy.”

  “Feel free to bring that up with POTUS,” I snap. “What other great news do you have for us, Arnie?”

  “Trust me, you’ll love this!” Arnie pauses for emphasis: “I found Gerald.”

  “I’m impressed!” I exclaim. “How did you do it?”

  “Ryan got permission to tap into MI5’s new crowd scanning facial recognition system—doable since we stole it from the Chinese and shared it with the Brits in the first place.”

  Jack snorts. “It’s a small world after all. Where is Gerald now?”

  “I found him in the thick of the underground rush-hour traffic,” Arnie boasts. “He jumped on the Piccadilly Line from the Knightsbridge Station. Rode it up to the Kings Cross station. From there, he walked the couple of blocks to the St. Pancras Station.”

  “Gerald is going to jump on the Eurostar train for the continent,” Jack declares. “If we get there in time, we can pick him up before he boards.”

  I’m on his heels as he heads for the car.

  The traffic to St. Pancras is stop-and-go.

  Via the station’s CCTV, Arnie has found Gerald buying a ticket to the Paris station—Gare du Nord—so he secures two Business Premier tickets for Jack and me. That way, we can roam through all of the train’s cars until we find our target.

  “I’ll hack the train’s security feed as soon as possible in order to loop it for the security wonks,” Arnie murmurs in our ears. “At the same time, I’ll monitor the live feed. If I spot him first, I’ll give you his car number.”

  “Smart idea,” I reply.

  Thank goodness the doors are still open on the sleek, bullet-nosed high-speed train. A porter frowns at our tardiness, but still eyes our tickets and nods us on.

  Once inside, I murmur, “We should split up. We’ll find Gerald more quickly that way.”

  “Agreed. I’ll roam through the Standard Class. You take Business Premier,” Jack suggests. “If one of us comes across the target, we’ll immediately text the other, but stand down unless backup is needed.”

  I nod and we part with a kiss.

  Because Gerald knows me, I’ll need to disguise myself.

  The train is only half full. Still, there’s enough luggage stored in the alcoves located in the back of the car for me to find something usable.

  I start with the most stylish bag in the first car: a classic Louis Vuitton keep-all bandouliére. Its owner is easy to spot since her handbag matches it. She seems about my size.

  It takes all of a few seconds for the tiny rod on my specially designed Swiss Army knife to release the bandouliére’s lock. It holds some usable items: large Dior cat-eye sunglasses; a cherry scarf and leather gloves the same exact hue; and a chic black Givenchy coatdress that ties with a sash.

  Sold.

  Okay, really, only borrowed.

  I take the keep-all into the adjacent lavatory, locking the door behind me. Four minutes later, I’m a new woman.

  After slipping the keep-all back in its cubby in the luggage alcove I begin my hunt for a cold-blooded killer.

  I stroll through two half-filled Business Class cars, avoiding the owner of my newly acquired disguise. I’ve just entered the third when Arnie murmurs in my ear, “Donna, Gerald is in there—all the way in the back.”

  “On my way,” Jack replies softly.

  At first, I don’t see Gerald. The car’s other passengers—four in total—have staked claim to two-seat rows near the front of the car.

  Finally, I spot him. Gerald sits alone in a large captain’s chair facing a four-top table that has its back to the rest of the car. He holds a copy of the Financial Times, high, like a shield.

  As if that will protect him from me.

  Not while the vision of Nigel haunts me: flat on his back, stabbed in the heart, the elevator door hitting his extended leg before sliding back.

  Not while the memory of Aziza incenses me: the beautiful young woman, taken before her time by being shocked to death—a fatal condition that only a family member, her devious uncle, might have known about. Had Aziza’s body been found, the cause of death would have been deemed a freakish heart attack.

  Instead, Gerald Morten, a.k.a., Edgar Black, was her angel of death.

  And now I am his.

  Gerald is surprised when I, a veritable stranger, slips into the seat beside him. “Darling, what an unexpected pleasure,” I purr.

  I leave him flabbergasted while I raise the armrests between our chairs in order to caress his face with my right hand. By the time I put my left hand behind his head, his primal instincts have kicked in and he turns his body toward mine.

  From his stare, I take it that he’s more amused than concerned. But just as he starts to say something, my right hand strokes his right cheek. At the same time, I raise my left hand in order to cradle the crown of his head. But before he can pull away, I’ve slid my right hand to his chin, shoving it high and to the right. At the same time my left hand jerks his head down, to the left.

  As his neck and spinal cord break, he releases his life with a grunt.

  He slumps in his seat like an oversized rag doll.

  I close his lids and leave the paper propped up on his chest, as if he dozed off that way.

  I walk out the back door of the car and into the next.

  Jack has just entered the same car from the opposite side. When I give him a thumbs-up, he shows his relief with a grin and a nod toward two empty adjoining seats.

  As I sink beside him, I motion to my ill-gotten femme fatale accoutrements. “I should change out of these,” I lament. “Although, I must admit I could get used to designer duds.” Suddenly, it dawns on me: “Hey, since we’re on our way to Paris anyway, maybe Ryan will let us fly home from there! That way, I can do a little shopping before we go home. Mary was in tears over her prom dress fiasco. Imagine her surprise if I came home with some adorable little frock from Jean Paul Gaultier, or Thierry Mugler, or Christian Lacroix—”

  “And picked up a few pieces for yourself as well?” Jack teases. “Don’t tell me you’re already missing that Hermès handbag!”

  “Maybe just a little,” I admit.

  “Hey, after you ask for it back, maybe Lucky and Chef Boyardee can put us up for a night. I hear he whips up a mean soufflé.”

  “Now I know you’re teasing,” I pout. “And besides, if Dominic heard we might visit Lucky, he’d hop the next plane to Paris and track us all down! Lucky would never forgive me.”

  “Damn it! Now you girls are besties?” He shakes his head, awed. “Tell you what. If you can convince Ryan that we deserve an overnight in the City of Love, I’m in.” He hands me his phone. “Of course, you’ll also have to call Penelope and tell her where she can stick her prom decorations—”

  My kiss tells him I have one very important thing to do first. “Come with me while I change into something less…flashy?”

  Jack takes the bait. “Hey, what’s the train equivalent of a Mile-High Club?” he wonders out loud.

  25

  Lucky

  Traffic had thinned, and Dominic ran through the gears, letting the Lamborghini Huracan gallop. The press of speed pushed me back into the racing bucket. I ran my fingers lightly over the spartan panel, enjoying the feel, the experience of a finely-crafted machine doing what it was designed for. Fast cars made my heart beat accelerate. Fast men, like the one handling the car like an expert, not so much.

  Dominic pulled the paddle shifter to downshift, slowing to maneuver around a truck. “You are going to marry this man, this cook?”

  His inflection made me smile
. While the Brits were not known for their food, they were known for their ability to convey disdain in one syllable.

  With my thumb I twirled the ring on my finger. “Yes.” I said it, though I wasn’t sure I believed it. Was Jean-Charles a good man, the way Donna meant it? Yes, he was good at his profession and a good father, but, when it came to me…to his wife…would his inner-patriarch come out? How could I make him appreciate that my job was as much a part of the fabric of me as his was to him? So many men considered a job something a woman played at until she could find a husband. An offensive premise covered in the stink of decaying anachronism.

  Time would tell, but I’d better be damn sure before I did the “I do” thing.

  “I am not sure you are convinced.” Dominic pressed the accelerator. He finessed the machine, each movement subtle and precise.

  I stared at the city flashing past and didn’t answer. It would only raise the specter of a question: Who was I trying to convince, him or me?

  Dominic covered my hand with his. “I need to tell you something.”

  Amazingly, I didn’t jerk back. Instead, I left my hand there, enjoying the connection. We’d both seen death, witnessed it, and he was perhaps responsible for it. A touch would restore our humanity a bit.

  But death always exacted a price.

  I could feel his nervousness, which surprised me.

  He flicked a glance my way. “You have captured my heart.”

  “What?” That was so not what I was expecting—nor was it a complication I wanted.

  “You are so unlike any other woman.” He rushed into the awkwardness of my surprise. “I must have you.” He squeezed my hand. “You must feel it, too.”

  Leaning forward I could see planes on short final. The airport wasn’t far. “You know where the FBO is?”

  He gave me a curt nod but kept his eyes on the road. “You do have feelings for me. Please tell me you do.”

  I pulled in air, held it then let it out in a calming sigh. “Dominic, you only think you know me. This is your world. Spies and international intrigue. Blowing up helicopters and tapping into security feeds. This is not where I live. It is not who I am.”