The Housewife Assassin's Husband Hunting Hints

by Josie Brown

  Another example:

  You've been out drinking with your buddies when you told her you were working late. Since you reek of liquor, your option now is to (A) fudge and say your boss invited you out for a drink; (B) lie and say someone at work opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate a big account acquisition; or (C) tell the truth.

  If you think either A or B will do because they are, at worst, little white lies, think again. Only the truth will set you free.

  Well, that, and a good lawyer who can document spousal abuse.

  Jack’s car is in the hotel’s parking lot. Knowing it’s being watched, I steal another car from down the block: a ubiquitous black Lexus with darkened windows. Perfect.

  My first stop is Acme. It’s a long shot that Ryan is there, as opposed to tucked in and sound asleep in his bed. Except for the skeleton crew of handlers communicating with field agents on active missions, just two hours ago, he, along with a majority of Acme's operatives, were partying down at our wedding.

  I access Acme via the tunnel leading to an underground garage positioned directly under its headquarters building. I don’t use my access code or even Jack’s, but that of our debonair British associate, Dominic Fleming. He divulged it to me one evening when he was too drunk to drive his Aston Martin home, and asked me to do so for him.

  I smear the tunnel and garage’s security cameras with grime so that images are blurred. I’ve only got twenty minutes, tops, before Acme security notices, so I’d better move fast.

  Dominic’s code is Perfect1. Wishful thinking, but hey, we all need goals in life.

  As I suspected, Ryan’s car is nowhere in sight. Despite this, it’s worth it for me to break into his office so that I may find some clue as to where he lives. He truly is an enigma. But if I’m to save Jack, I need to fill in at least that piece of the puzzle.

  Before moving into the elevator in the underground parking lot, I pick the lock on the car trunk of our research director’s car, Lydia Kimpton, where she keeps a few spare lab coats, shoe booties, gloves, facemasks, and bonnets, even lifting tape. She has night blindness, so I presume that after work she hitched a ride with Abu Nagashahi, the street operative who usually acts as my cutout. He hasn’t noticed, but she’s sweet on him. From the samba they were doing at my wedding, my guess is that he finally caught on. For both their sakes—and mine—I hope so, and that she’ll be riding into work with him in the morning too.

  I take what I need from her trunk. This includes the lifting tape, which I use in order to get Lydia’s fingerprint off the car’s steering wheel.

  As I enter the building, I give a wave to a security guard before pressing her print onto the security touch pad.

  The guard waves back with barely a glance.

  I’m in.

  I do my best to walk casually through the handler pit, toward Ryan’s office. Thank goodness, the few handlers on duty don’t even bother to look up. The operatives in their care are their first and only priority, as it should be.

  I’m surprised that Ryan didn’t lock his door. I wince at the thought that it proves he has nothing to hide, and therefore nothing to find that will help me locate him as soon as possible. The blinds to the glass wall that faces the office pit are drawn, so I won’t draw attention to his office by having to do so.

  The top of his mammoth-sized desk holds nothing but a Meisterstück Solitaire Blue Montblanc pen in its custom-made holder. None of the desk drawers are locked. There has to be some clue as to where he goes home at night. I'm sure it's an exercise in futility, but I try the drawers anyway.

  There are two on either side off his chair and a slim but wide one in the middle, which holds his laptop. Unlike the one belonging to the hotel's general manager, Ryan’s password is a ten-characters-long combination of random digits, letters, and characters. Acme passwords are changed out daily, and different for every Acme operative. All keystrokes are recorded. Should it be done in the wrong combination, the supposed hacker is automatically locked out after the third incorrect attempt, and a silent alarm is set off.

  If all else fails, I’ll have to try it.

  First, I try the drawers to the left of the desk chair. The smaller one on the top holds a stapler, paper clips, and a few sharpened pencils. The larger drawer below it holds a bottle of scotch and a tumbler. It’s half full.

  No one should drink alone.

  I move to the large bottom drawer on the right. Inside is a laundered shirt and roll-on deodorant. Ryan is big, hairy, and has many reasons to sweat, so no surprise there.

  The top right drawer has a few lined pads, but nothing else. I flip through them, to see if he’s written down anything of consequence, but all the sheets are blank.

  Sort of.

  If you look closely, you’ll notice that the bottom pad has some faint indentations on its last page, the one next to the pad’s cardboard backing. I take one of the pencils from Ryan’s top drawer and rub its tip gently over the page. The images are faint, but there they are:

  LQ#5N5*3BX

  Is this today’s code?

  There is only one way to find out.

  I open the drawer containing Ryan’s laptop. The drawer’s front panel folds down, so that when I pull it out, it is the right height for typing.

  I lift the cover on his MacBook. Other than the password input bar, a black screen stares back at me. It taunts me to tap in the code.

  I hesitate for two reasons. First, I don’t need a phalanx of security guards storming Ryan’s office and arresting me. And next, I hate being the one to shatter my boss and dear friend’s privacy.

  But, I have to. Jack’s life is at stake.

  I type in the code just as I see it written.

  And wait a moment—

  Before a screen-sized photo of the Lincoln memorial greets me.

  I’m in.

  A multitude of folders beckon. I don’t recognize the names attached to them. I presume they are nicknames of missions or operatives.

  One is labeled BLACK WIDOW.

  It’s mine.

  To prove I’m right, I click on to it.

  As I suspected, my life opens before me: Before Acme, even before Carl; my Acme missions, and the mission reports assessing them; Ryan’s assessments of me, after every mission. There’s much more, but as curious as I am, I realize I don’t have time look through this. I have to save Jack.

  To do that, I need to get up close and personal with Ryan.

  So, which one holds the key to his kingdom?

  I scan the names on the other files. I’m sure most of them refer to other Acme operatives, but there’s got to be a file or two with some personal items—

  Perhaps this one: ROSEBUD

  If it’s not yet another operative’s dossier, it’s one of two things: either Ryan is a movie buff, or he’s into gardening.

  I open the file. It holds a bunch of jpegs. I click on to one tagged MOLINEUX, only to find myself staring at stunningly beautiful yellow rose. The velvety folds of its petals are like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

  It is clasped within a beefy palm—

  Belonging to Ryan. I can tell from the scar on the skin between his thumb and his index finger: a souvenir from one of his First Gulf War missions.

  The location’s GPS coordinates are embedded in the photo’s EFIX data. Hopefully, it was taken in his private garden versus on some outing.

  I take the coordinates and input them into Google Earth. By zooming in, I can barely make out a rooftop through a thick copse of trees clinging to a hillside that ends in a sheer drop into the Pacific Ocean. It’s about fifteen minutes from here.

  In the seven years I’ve known him, I have never been to Ryan's home. To the best of my knowledge, neither has Jack.

  Ryan Clancy is an enigma in so many ways. I’m sure he won’t welcome my solving this part of his puzzling life.

  Still, he loves my husband like a son. He’ll understand that if I’m to save Jack, I must go to him now.

  Ryan
may live in a small cabin, but it has the security protocol that would shame Buckingham Palace.

  Except where the property drops off an ocean cliff, a ten-foot-high chain link fence is buried deep in the high bushes that surround the perimeter of the property. With my night vision goggles, I’ve detected an infrared beam. It comes from a camera attached to a drone that zips over the two acres of overgrown brush and forest, assessing the thermal heat signatures of every crow, coyote, and raccoon that may wander onto it, not to mention an uninvited human who emanates too much heat to be mistaken for a wild critter.

  Believe me, I’d love it if I could simply walk up to Ryan’s front gate, stick my adorable mug into the security camera, and wave at him. But given the urgency, I’m not taking any chances. I may have given the Quorum the slip, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t watching Ryan, his abode, or his security feed.

  The drone hovers nearby, but apparently, its sensors aren’t calibrated to detect motion from anywhere outside the fence.

  So instead, I climb a Manzanita tree that is taller than the cabin.

  I pray that the drone isn’t equipped with a semi-automatic rifle too.

  I chuckle at the thought.

  It takes me six slow, torturous minutes to inch my way onto the thickest branch hanging over Ryan’s roof. I right myself, bracing myself against the trunk.

  It’s going to take a flying leap onto the roof to beat detection. Then I’ll have to scramble to the skylight. From what I can tell, it’s the type that cranks open in order to let in fresh air. Ideally, I’ll be able to slip through it, or at the very least, yell down to Ryan.

  The weakness of the branch doesn’t work in my favor. Already it is swaying, and it is so narrow that a misstep will send me hurtling down the rocky cliff to the beach, six stories below. Still, I’ll have momentum on my side.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  I take a deep breath and gauge the number of running strides needed for liftoff. The sharp crack of the branch beneath me tells me I have no time to waste.

  Four would have been ideal, but I’m mid-air in three.

  I land hard on both feet—

  And come face-to-face with a raccoon.

  Hissing, he raises up on his hind legs.

  To make matters worse, the drone swoops overhead.

  Oh, fresh hell—its beam has locked on to me!

  Something emerges just below the drone’s electronic eye—

  The barrel of a gun.

  Really, Ryan?

  I have one second to do something—

  It’s the last thing any sane person would do: I grab the raccoon, and hold it in front of me.

  The raccoon is too shocked to do anything but freeze.

  It takes a bullet in the heart.

  I am spattered in its blood and guts. Pee-yoo—the smell!

  Enough of this merde. I throw the raccoon at the drone. The carcass is heavy enough that when it hits the drone, the whole mess slams downward—

  Crashing through the skylight.

  “What the HELL?” Ryan’s voice thunders up to me.

  Yikes.

  I take a step backward—

  Big mistake. There are so many leaves on the roof that one foot slips out from under me. The roof’s pitch is steep enough to send me rolling to the edge. I grab hold of the gutter, but it breaks away from the cabin—

  And I’m swinging over the cliff.

  With all my might, I sway the gutter back toward the hill—

  But it gives way, and I’m airborne.

  I slam to the ground, and am rolling to the edge when I bump into something hard.

  A gravestone.

  There are fresh flowers at its base: twelve white calla lilies.

  Carved into it is a name: Natalie Lynn Bevins Clancy

  Ryan was once married? Well, what do you know?

  The date of her death is four years prior to my meeting Carl.

  I do the birth-to-death math in my head: she was only thirty-three when she died.

  I’m still staring at it when I hear Ryan’s voice behind me: “What the hell are you, of all people, doing here?”

  I spring from the ground in order to shush him with a finger on his lips. I’ll be damned if we’re going to speak until we were safely inside his home, away from prying eyes (human, drone, or satellite).

  He may be tired and bleary-eyed, but he gets the message. He jerks his chin toward the cabin.

  I nod my thanks and start up the hill.

  I’m halfway there when I realize that he isn’t following. When I turn around, I see why: he’s staring down at the grave.

  Sadly, a couple of the flowers were crushed in my fall. He takes them, sighs, and throws them down the hill.

  Yes, I feel guilty. If only I’d known of his loss.

  As soon as we’re on the other side of his door, my sorrow will soon have the company it craves.

  There will be quid pro quo, if Ryan allows it.

  “You know I wouldn’t have shown up on your doorstep if it wasn’t urgent.” I sink into one of the two large worn leather chairs that flank the living room’s fireplace. It holds ashes, long dead.

  Suddenly, it dawns on me how filthy I am.

  I rise, but Ryan motions me to sit down again. Realizing that I am shivering, he pokes one of the dying embers in the hearth, as if willing it to come to life. It flares just a second before accommodating his wish and warming into an amber halo.

  The fire provides the only light in the room, so I can’t see much. The room, small, holds a tiny dining table and a couple of straight back chairs. They are placed directly in front of the window. The drapes are drawn, so I can’t see out.

  A galley kitchen is on the far end of the room. Open planks, anchored onto its brick wall, act as shelving for a few cups and plates. Next to the front door, a narrow staircase leads up to the second story.

  Anticipating my need to scan my surrounding, Ryan waits until my eyes move back around to him before asking, “Donna, what’s happened?”

  “It’s Jack. He’s been…kidnapped.” I blink away the scrim of tears that cloud my eyes.

  “Do you know by whom?”

  “Yes,” I nod, “the Quorum.”

  “I guess it Eric’s way of retaliation for our taking down Eileen Woodley and Frannie.”

  Ryan’s summation is valid, considering that Jack and I discovered that the Quorum had two operatives planted within the White House staff: President Lee Chiffray’s long-time trusted secretary, and his stepdaughter Janie’s nanny.

  Eileen was murdered by Lee’s Secret Service leader, Lurch Muldoon, as she attempted to kill me for discovering her duplicity. As for Frannie, I cornered her on the president’s bedroom terrace, but I didn’t take her out. That honor went to the First Lady, Babette Chiffray, when she discovered Frannie was sharing her lover: Salem Rahmin al-Sadah, the CEO of Graffias International, an international banking and software conglomerate that is really a legally-run corporation that laundered money for the Quorum.

  I had already killed Salem. It’s a wonder Babette didn’t use that as an excuse to try to chuck me over the balcony too, considering he was the father of the child she is carrying.

  I’m still not convinced that Babette isn’t as big of a threat to national security as either Frannie or Eileen were. But it’s something Acme will have to prove to Lee.

  But first things first: I must save Jack.

  Hopefully, Ryan feels the same way. I’ll know soon enough, by how he responds to my answer: “He claims he’ll release Jack if I…that is, if I become a Quorum operative.”

  “Oh? And did you agree?” Ryan frowns, but his finger stays off the trigger of the gun in his hand.

  I hesitate because telling Ryan shows just how far I’ll go to get my husband back where he belongs: home, in my arms.

  It may also earn me a bullet between the eyes.

  Finally, I nod.

  To my relief, he places his gun on the table. “You d
id the right thing.” He grins. “I’ve always wanted someone on the inside.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” I sink further into my chair. “Seriously, Ryan, do you think it’s possible for me to fool Eric?”

  “You can, and you will—and you’ll do it with Acme’s help. But we should keep your triple-agent status on a need-to-know basis.”

  “Agreed. Arnie, of course. And Emma. Abu too.”

  He nods. “They’ll be your shadows and provide any necessary intercepts. I’m adding Dominic to the team too.” Noting my wince, he adds, “Trust me, he has his own reasons for seeing Eric fail.”

  “If you say so.” I shrug. “In any regard, it won’t be easy. Eric promised to put me through some tests, whatever that means.”

  “It means that Acme has to figure out how to neutralize the results of your successes. As long as we’re kept abreast of your next mission, we’ll be able to stay one step ahead of you. That way, we can tweak the outcomes so that they satisfy Eric, but ward off an international incident. Speaking of which”—he hesitates, then adds—“are you okay with keeping POTUS in the loop as well?”

  His question stops me cold. “I…I really hadn’t thought of it. If you’re asking me if I trust Lee, the answer is yes.” On the other hand, up until yesterday, Jack has always had doubts about Lee Chiffray. This is one way in which Lee can prove him wrong, once and for all. Ryan and I both know this.

  Ryan nods. “I feel the same way. And now that both Eileen and Frannie are no longer part of the equation, I don’t think we have to worry that the White House is still compromised.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, Babette is still a wildcard,” I insist. “She’s always in the wrong place at the wrong time, and with the wrong people. Tell him sorry, but Babette does not make the cut.”