Stand By Your Hitman

by Leslie Langtry

  Chapter Five

  OLIVE: I’d like to dedicate this to my grandpa, who showed me these moves.

  PAGEANT MC: Aww, that is so sweet. (Audience applauds.)

  PAGEANT MC: Is he here? Where’s your grandpa right now?

  OLIVE: In the trunk of our car.

  —Little Miss Sunshine

  I had to hand it to Georgia—she’d done a good job of getting those profiles. Sitting at the dining room table, I spread the sheets and photos out. There would be twelve of us in all. And except for one African American, it appeared that diversity was an afterthought. Oh well. I wasn’t really there to save the world.

  I was already bored. Isaac Beckett grinned at me from the tabletop so I thought it was time to play “Get to Know Your Vic!”

  He was cute. Actually, he was gorgeous, with dark, wavy hair, an olive complexion and striking green eyes. The profile told me he was forty-one, single, a pro poker player from Toronto who liked Mexican food and had never been camping a day in his life. I squinted at the picture, as if that would allow me to see something I missed. It occurred to me that I didn’t have a dossier on him yet. The Council was definitely slipping.

  “Mail!” Monty and Jack shouted in unison as they dumped a pile on the table. I moved my stuff out of the way. I liked mail. Granted, we had to go to the mainland to get it, but the boys loved doing that.

  “Hey!” Monty stared at a brown envelope on the table.

  Jack grabbed it. “It’s from the show!”

  I snatched it from my son and opened it. All that was inside was a checklist of things I could bring. Damn. I could only bring a couple sets of clothes, eyeglasses and one personal item. The examples included a Bible (a Bible?), a toothbrush, or a photo of loved ones. I guess that if you didn’t survive, you’d at least be able to see your loved ones for the last time, get last rites or leave the earth with clean teeth.

  “You have to be there in two days!” Monty read (loudly, I might add) over my shoulder.

  Again, I squinted, expecting a miracle of vision, I guess. “That can’t be right! I should have more time than that!”

  Jack shook his head with—did I detect glee? “You have to be in Canada the day after tomorrow.” He pointed at the small print.

  I threw my hands up in the air. “But I can’t be ready in that short amount of time!”

  The boys wisely said nothing. I picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Mom! I just found out I have to leave tomorrow for Survival!”

  “To survive what, dear?” My mother’s voice was relaxed. Too relaxed.

  “The show! I have to be in Canada for the show in two days!”

  I could feel Mom smiling through the connection. “That’s nice, sweetie. Drop me a postcard, okay?”

  What?

  “No, Mom, I can’t. We won’t have any contact with the outside world whatsoever.” I took a deep breath. “I can’t do this. There’s no time to get organized. You’ll have to call it off.”

  “Sorry, babe,” Mom said in a sing-songy voice. “A job’s a job. Oh! I knitted you a knapsack to take. Send the boys over for it, will you?” And then, she hung up on me. Yes, my own mother.

  To say that panic had set in would be unfair. I was on the edge of full-blown hysteria. I started to pace back and forth while my children calmly watched me rant like a lunatic.

  “I can’t do this! There’s no way I’ll be ready in time! And why do I have to fly to Canada just to come back down here to Costa Rica? That would at least buy me a day or two! Who are these people? If I kill the producer would they drop the show?”

  “It says here that you are a homemaker from Texas,” Jack said quietly. In spite of his mischievous nature he knew when to avoid a joke at my expense.

  “What?” I spun on my heel.

  He sighed as if having to deal with me was some sort of chore. “You’re a homemaker from Texas. Widowed. You went to college on a bowling scholarship and in your free time like to cook and decorate, and long to find another man to take care of.”

  “Bowling scholarship?” Monty asked, missing the point entirely.

  “Give me that!” I ripped the page from my son. Yup. That’s what it said, all right. Where in the hell had they got that? I can’t cook, and decorating the condo damn near killed me. Mom! She must have written this. I’d kill her!

  “You can’t bowl!” Monty informed me.

  I pointed at the door. “Go upstairs and tell Grandma I’m NOT going!”

  A few minutes later, my son returned with the bag and a note from Mom that read, “Hope you like the bag, honey. Be sure to get waxed before you go. Can’t get a man if you’re hairy like a monkey.” The tote bag she knitted for me said HOT TO TROT. GET ME WHILE I’M HOT.

  If she weren’t my mother, I’d have killed her.

  Chapter Six

  ELAINE DICKINSON: There’s no reason to become alarmed, and we hope you’ll enjoy the rest of your flight. By the way, is there anyone on board who knows how to fly a plane?

  —Airplane!

  Two days have never, in the history of womankind, gone so quickly. As my plane landed in Canada, I couldn’t help thinking about how stupid this assignment was. Mom agreed (like she had any choice after I zapped her with a Taser) to take the boys. Monty and Jack exchanged a grin when they found out they were under Grandma’s control. That made me worry.

  Monty and Jack tried to contain their excitement that I was leaving. It’s not that I’m the strictest mom, but those two can really cause trouble when they put their minds to it—which they do nearly 100 percent of their waking hours. And did I mention they are precocious?

  “Mom,” Monty asked, “how are you going to manage being around men?”

  “What?”

  Jack chimed in. “Maybe you should adopt a persona or something.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Did they want me to put on a brunet wig and pretend to be an ant farmer?

  Monty looked at his brother, and they communicated telepathically. “It’s just, maybe you shouldn’t be so much like yourself.”

  “Yeah. You are a little flaky,” Jackson added.

  I tried to get mad, but they did have a point. “Why are you two telling me this now?”

  “Well, you haven’t dated in like—” Monty started.

  “In forever.” Jack finished. “And if you start spouting off about explosives or rambling on about snack foods you’re gonna come off as weird.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. Normally this would indicate I was pissed off. In this case, it was a stab at stalling before I could figure out what to say.

  “Listen,” I said slowly, “I’m on this show for one thing—to do a job. I have no intention of dating any of the other contestants.” The photos of Lex and Isaac flashed through my mind and I winced. “Besides, I won’t be on long enough to win. It’s all about the job.”

  Monty stared at me. He was the introspective one, the dark-haired, serious son. If I was lying, he knew about it—sometimes before I even did.

  “Mom,” he said, “you’re not getting any younger.”

  Jackson interrupted my impending rage. “And we’ll be heading off to college soon. Do you want to spend the rest of your days with Grandma as your only companion?”

  Touché. Damn.

  “Just flirt a little,” Monty begged. “What can it hurt?”

  “Let me get this straight.” It was about time I said something! “You guys would have no problem with me dating someone?”

  Jack grinned dopily. My little redhead. He was the one who didn’t take life seriously enough. “No. Why would we?”

  “Just make sure to run him past us before you ask him to marry you,” Monty finished.

  Visions of my sons hooking up a future fiancé of mine to a lie detector, then waterboarding him afterward popped into my head. And why would I be the one to propose? I’m not old-fashioned by any means, but did they think I was desperate?

  I hugged them and told them
to quit hanging out with Grandma and her propaganda machine. That was the last time I saw them before I left for Canada.

  I’d managed to make a cuff bracelet with a serrated edge that could be straightened and used as a saw. It was steel with large, grayish, flint stones dotting the surface. I have to admit, it was a damned good idea. Never once did security at the airport stop me. So, I had my cutting device and fire tool.

  “Mrs. Bombay?” A thin, gangly kid in an ill-fitting chauffeur suit squeaked as I walked past. Turned out he was my driver. And in spite of five wrong turns, he got me to the studios in one piece.

  Shouldering my backpack (I’d made a new one—like I was gonna use Mom’s!), I joined the other eleven contestants on a soundstage. They all looked just like their photos. I’d memorized their stats before leaving.

  “Can I have your attention, please?” a young woman with a clipboard shouted. She didn’t need to. No one was talking to anyone else—which I thought was kind of strange.

  “Uh, thanks.” She forced a smile. “I’m Julie, your assistant director for Survival. I see you all brought a small bag with your belongings. If you would step over to that table”—she indicated a rickety card table in the corner—“our security will search your bags, removing anything that can’t go. When you’re all done, please have a seat over there.” She pointed to a set of folding chairs against the opposite wall.

  We formed a line at the table. I moved slowly so I could be at the end and observe my fellow contestants. I figured that the contents of their bags would tell me a lot about them.

  Ten packages of condoms, five bottles of lube and two porn mags later, I realized that there were things about these people I didn’t really want to know. I’ll tell you this, these people were either very randy or extremely lonely. Ick.

  I found it interesting that no one spoke during the whole thing. Had I missed something about a vow of silence in the memo? That would be a problem. Maybe the others were used to not speaking, but I tend to rattle on when nervous. At last they went through my bag, and finding nothing, moved me along.

  “Wait,” the security guard (whose name tag said IVOR—Ivor?) stopped me and pointed at my bracelet. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a religious artifact,” I responded smoothly, a little proud of coming up with the idea. I mean, who in these über-PC times would question that?

  “Really?” His eyebrows went up. “Native American?” By the smirk on his lips I decided he didn’t believe me. I mean, it could definitely have passed for Native American. But with my blonde hair and blue eyes, that might have been in doubt.

  My brain raced. I should’ve come up with a religion. Idiot! My mind grasped the first thing I thought of.

  “It’s one of the lesser-known faiths. FSM. I’m studying online to become a high priestess.”

  The guard looked as though he wanted to ask, but decided against it. He waved me on and I moved on wobbly legs toward my seat.

  “FSM?” The question came from Lex Danby as I sat down. Damn. He was even hotter in person—tall and built with deep, chocolate brown eyes. His khaki cargo shorts and Ramones T-shirt gave him an air of casual sexiness. Something about his smile made an electric spark ignite inside me.

  “Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster,” I whispered back. “I saw it on The Daily Show.”

  He extended his hand. “I’m Lex Danby.”

  I reached to grasp his hand in mine. I hoped he couldn’t feel my heartbeat pounding through my veins. “Missi Bombay. Nice meeting you.”

  “You look a little too tan to be here.”

  “I’m not from here.” I waved my arm as if that meant anything. “I live in the South.” That seemed like a good enough explanation without having to give too many details. “So how did you manage to end up here?”

  “Someone hit me over the head and I woke up here.” He smiled. Lex looked right into my eyes in such a confident way it made me tingle. I liked him immediately.

  I guess we had the same problem. “I wish that had happened to me. My excuse is an overly concerned mother with too many connections to Canadian broadcasting.”

  Lex laughed and I blushed. I loved the way his eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled—like he smiled a lot.

  I would’ve said more, but Julie was back with her clipboard.

  “Now that your bags have been checked, we’re going to go over a few ground rules before we get on the plane.”

  What? We’d just got here? And we were leaving again?

  “We’re heading for an unknown location.” She stopped and shook her head. “I mean, I know where it is. You don’t. Therefore, it’s unknown to you. But not to me. I know where we’re going.”

  I smiled. It was slightly reassuring to know I wasn’t the only one who thought in tangled sentences. I liked this woman already.

  “Anyway, we’re about to get on the plane. The only rule for the flight is no talking. You aren’t allowed to talk to the others until we land. Okay?” She asked even though we knew we couldn’t question it.

  No talking? How old do they think we are? Like they could really keep us silent.

  “I’m passing out an agreement you need to sign before we leave. This contract says you agree to the terms of the program and will follow all rules and regulations.”

  Yup. That’s what it said all right. I guessed they really could keep us silent. I signed the form and passed it to the end of the row. Julie told us it was time and we gathered our things and followed her to a bus. In silence. I’m not kidding.

  The bus took us to a private hangar at the Toronto airport, where we got on a small plane. The other contestants closed their eyes and I decided to also. If you can’t talk and the in-flight movie is some B-grade tearjerker about two lonely people in the Yukon, you tend to do that.

  Chapter Seven

  If a person offends you and you are in doubt as to whether it was intentional or not, do not resort to extreme measures. Simply watch your chance and hit him with a brick.

  —Mark Twain

  It was very dark outside when they rushed us off the plane and onto another bus. I would’ve thought we were still in Canada, had it not been for the heat and humidity. My stay up north lasted maybe thirty minutes and I was back where I came from. The whole thing made me a little grumpy.

  Dawn was poking through the jungle and more and more of us were starting to wake up. The bus had no conveniences whatsoever, which added to my foul mood. The woman who sat next to me on the bus smelled like patchouli. She had long, straight hair, no makeup and a lot of jewelry. Not the good stuff, more like dragons-and-goddesses shit. From the photos I’d seen earlier, I figured that she was Liliana, an artist in her fifties. I still wasn’t allowed to talk to her, which was good, since I needed all my lung capacity not to strangle on her perfume in the thick humidity.

  “How long is this going to take?” I mused aloud.

  Liliana looked startled. I’m sure she wondered if I was talking to her.

  “No talking!” Julie hissed. She looked pretty miserable.

  “I’m not talking to her,” I replied. “I’m talking to myself. There was nothing in the contract about not talking to myself.”

  Julie’s face twisted into a grimace. She looked at the pages on her clipboard, then at me. “Well, I’m making a new rule! No talking to anyone—and that includes yourself!”

  “Technically,” Lex said behind me, “you can’t enforce that.” Did I imagine it, or did he wink at me? Wow. A man hadn’t winked at me in years. It was a definite turn-on.

  “And you’re not a contestant, dumbass. So we can talk to you.” A thin, overly tanned woman with short hair spoke up. I recognized her from the files as Sami—a thirty-three-year-old electrician.

  Soon the whole bus opened up with conversation. I guess my peers needed to get it out. No one said anything important, really. But it was clear there was a need to speak just for the sake of hearing our own voices. This went on for a few minutes until the bus jerked
to a stop and we all fell forward.

  Julie stood and brushed her hair off her face. “Great. We’re here.”

  “Here” turned out to be the beach. As we got off the bus, everyone looked around, trying to figure out what was next. Apparently the novelty of speaking was replaced with the realization that we had, indeed, signed up for this stupid show.

  We all watched as the bus backed away and drove off and a small Jeep pulled up. A man who was so attractive he looked a little surreal jumped out of the Jeep and walked over to us.

  “I’m Alan, and I’m your host for Survival.” Julie walked over to him, handing him a large bag.

  “Welcome to Costa Rica!” Alan said with a smile. His cheerful welcome and gorgeous smile seemed to put us at ease. “This is where you’ll stay, in two camps, for the next thirty days.”

  I raised my hand and Alan nodded. “Here? We’re staying here?” I know it seemed like a stupid question.

  “Well, yes, actually. The two tribes will be about half a mile apart, but you will be on this beach.”

  “But”—I bit my lip—“I can see a resort from here.”

  The whole group followed my gaze to see that not more than five hundred feet away was a luxury resort, complete with vacationers gawking at us.

  “Um, well, yes,” Julie stammered. “The Blanco Tigre is our sponsor. And that’s where those of you who are voted off will stay until the filming concludes.”

  “So, they’re just gonna be right there?” one man asked.

  “How in the hell are we going to do this with a god-damned resort looking over our shoulder?” asked another. They were talking too quickly for me to identify.

  “I signed on for a realistic survival experience! How can this be the real thing if we can see that?” a smallish man with a weaselly face shouted.