The Housewife Assassin's Husband Hunting Hints

by Josie Brown

  I sigh. “Seriously, dude, where are you?”

  I hear a clatter behind the door to my right.

  I glance around. No one is watching, so I open it—

  Just in time to see Arnie climbing down from a ceiling vent inside this little janitorial closet. At least he’s dressed like Lee’s Secret Service detail: white shirts, black suits and ties, obviously ear pieces and a firearm bulge in the right place: his right side, at the waist.

  “Really, Arnie? That’s the best you can do?” I slap my forehead to tamp down the urge to throttle him.

  “Since this Middle Eastern summit started, this place has more security than the White House! Hell, I should know. I’ve busted into there, too.”

  Whatever. I hand over the envelope. “Get cracking.”

  The flap on the envelope is folded under, so it opens easily. Arnie lifts it open. As I suspected, the only thing it contains is a measly slip of paper: white, with two rows of numbers typed on it.

  “Damn it!” he mutters.

  “Shhhh!” I put my hand over his mouth. Thank goodness the walls are four inches thick in this place. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I was hoping for a delivery method of some sort—you know, a microdot, or a thumb drive.”

  “Why? What difference does it make?”

  “See this top line of numbers? It tells us the location of the intel: apparently some digital cloud. If this had held the intel, all I’d have to worry about is hacking it. Oh, well.” He holds it up to the light. “There are no watermarks, and no fairy dust. That helps.” Next, he pulls out his iPad and scans the paper to make a jpeg of the encryption before handing it back to me. I start to open the door, but he pulls me back. “Don’t leave yet for the city. That way, you buy me time to hack this baby—”

  “Donna! Arnie! A housekeeper is headed your way!” Emma hisses in our ears.

  There’s nowhere to hide.

  The doorknob jiggles, then there’s a pause. The next thing we hear is the tinkling of keys.

  I grab Arnie’s face between my hands and plant my lips on his kisser.

  “Oh!”

  We break apart to find that the housekeeper’s eyes are open wide in alarm. Rattled, she takes few steps back into the hall and slams the door.

  When I turn to Arnie. His face is bright red. “I…um…I think we better get out of here.”

  “I agree!” Emma doesn’t sound too happy. “And you two lovebirds better hurry. The housekeeper is talking to one of POTUS’s Secret Service detail. I’d hate for Arnie to end up in some penitentiary for breaking and entering, let alone for impersonating an officer of the law. His roomie may want to do more than steal a ‘kiss.’”

  While Arnie sputters out an apology to his wife, I duck out the door.

  Gunter is exactly where I left him: cooling his heels beside the limo. I snap my fingers at him so that he can open my door like a proper chauffeur.

  He practically pulls it off its hinge. After I slide in, he slams it shut.

  We have pulled out of Hilldale and inched onto the 405 when I realize I’m missing something.

  “Arnie! You have the envelope,” I mutter under my breath.

  I hear a screech of wheels and honking horns. “Oh, shit!” Arnie moans. “You’re right. Okay, we skipped our exit so that we can follow you to the Montage. Before we get there, we’ll figure out a way to hand it off to you there.”

  “That’s only half my problem,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “You’ve still got to tell us what’s in it.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know, okay?” Arnie’s voice gets high and squeaky when he’s scared.

  “Just keep working it, baby,” Emma coos. “It’s the 405. You’ve got plenty of time.”

  For once, I thank providence for LA traffic.

  “Got it!” Arnie’s whoop rings through my ear. I close my eyes from the pain throbbing behind them.

  Gunter looks at me through the rearview mirror. “Did you say something?”

  “Just that I think your driving is superb.”

  His frown deepens.

  “You need to learn how to take a compliment,” I scold him.

  “Donna, here’s the deal.” Ryan’s calm determination brings me back down to my deadly reality. “Apparently, Eileen has hidden audio feeds in Lee’s office, as well as in the conference rooms.”

  “In other words, she was recording U.S. state secrets so that the Quorum can sell them to our enemies,” Emma points out.

  “Exactly,” Ryan replies. “I presume these Middle East talks will soon find their way into the hands of ISIL, which will endanger the success of our military efforts in the region.” He sighs. “I’ve informed POTUS of the breech. He’s authorized the immediate destruction of all data in the cloud. And to keep the Quorum and its clients in the dark, Acme has already started the process of producing audio playback that should have them moving their cells right into the hands of our allied troops in the region.”

  “But first things first,” Arnie mutters. “We’ve got to get this envelope back to Donna. Unfortunately, we’re pulling up to the Montage now.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Emma declares. “Donna, we’ll follow you and Gunter into the elevator. Arnie, when I pinch you, pass the envelope to Donna.

  “You’re pinching me?” Arnie is miffed. “But…you know I hate that! Let me guess: you’re getting back at me for kissing Donna—”

  “Oh, get real!” Emma retorts. “Although I should point out that you seemed to enjoy it—”

  By the time Gunter pulls to the curb, I’m ready to get out.

  I stroll to the elevator as if I have all the time in the world.

  Gunter doesn’t like it. He gets there at least ten seconds before me.

  To make him even madder, I stop in front of one of the lobby’s gilt mirrors in order to check my lipstick. A bit smudged—from my kiss with Arnie, I guess. No problem. I smack my lips, and smile pretty at my reflection.

  By the time I get to the elevator, Emma and Arnie are on my heels. Arnie has unbuttoned his coat jacket and lost the tie and Secret Service earbud. The way Emma has spiked his hair, he now looks like the casual hipster he’s always wanted to be.

  Angrily, Gunter slams his fist into the button for our floor: the penthouse level.

  Seeing this, Emma giggles.

  “Not nice,” Arnie reprimands her.

  The elevator is rising.

  “Ooh, does that make me a bad girl?” she coos.

  Arnie looks perplexed. “Um…no…yes? …No, I mean…maybe?”

  Through the mirrored doors, Gunter catches her eye.

  She winks at him. Who knew she was such a natural?

  Certainly not Arnie. His eyes open wide as her hand walks up his gut and over to his right nipple. She tweaks it between her fingers.

  Gunter is just as mesmerized as Arnie, especially when Emma pulls him by the neck toward her.

  But when her lips meet his, he’s the one in control. He slams her up against the elevator so hard that it hops.

  She wraps one leg around him, then the other.

  Gunter turns to stare, specifically at Emma’s hand, which is loosening the top button of her blouse.

  Soon, Arnie is helping her.

  No better time to pluck the envelope out of Arnie’s other hand.

  Just in time, too, because the doors open. We’ve reached our penthouse floor.

  Gunter is still staring at them when the doors close shut again.

  When I knock, Eric opens the door.

  I hand him the envelope. He smiles and honors me with a half bow.

  Noting Gunter’s absence, he cranes his head down the hall. “What’s wrong with him?”

  I shrug. “He’s busy watching a couple have elevator sex.”

  “Ah.” He nods knowingly. “That’s what I get for hiring a eunuch.”

  Chapter 14

  Jack’s Diary, Day 7

  Dear Donna,

  W
ord of my death matches has spread throughout the village. Not one to stop the flow of bread and circuses to his people, El Maestro has moved the events out of the prison yard and directly into the town’s plaza, which is on the opposite side of his palace.

  Today, the villagers gathered several hours before the match, only to be pushed by El Maestro’s militia behind the ropes that cordoned off the center of the plaza. In no time, the horde of onlookers stood five or six deep. There was a carnival atmosphere: while the mariachi bands played, children ran around, and vendors sold platters of rice and beans, churros, tamales, sopapillas, and Coca-Cola in the carts placed behind the undulating crowds.

  Finally, El Maestro appeared on the balcony of his palace like a feudal lord facing his fiefs. He was flanked by an entourage of AK-47-carrying thugs. He also had a stranger with him: golden blond hair, with piercing blue eyes, clad in a very expensive suit. The look on his face wavered between fascination and disdain.

  There was something oddly familiar about him, but I couldn’t place it.

  El Maestro waited until the throng grew silent before explaining the rules of the game, both in Spanish and in English, the latter I presume was for the benefit of his guest:

  The gringo was his chosen executioner.

  The men I would face had wronged El Maestro. In doing so, they threatened the livelihood and wellbeing of the villagers themselves.

  Different weapons would be used in each match.

  The game commenced when El Maestro’s bandana fell to the floor.

  And finally, the match would always end with one competitor’s death.

  El Maestro’s way of channeling Caesar’s ancient Rome was to pronounce in a stentorian shout: “Let the games begin!”

  The crowd roared its approval.

  If my life hadn’t depended on it, I would have laughed at the absurdity of this insane spectacle.

  My first challenger was a big bull of a man. He glared at the crowd and waved his fist at them. Then he did the same to me.

  “That’s Fillipe Abano,” Jaime muttered. “He’s one bad son of a bitch. He’s from the Baja cartel.”

  “That explains the tan,” I murmured back.

  Jaime snorted with laughter.

  But I wasn’t laughing. Neither of us had any doubts as to what would happen in the next few minutes:

  Either Fillipe or I would die.

  Neither of us intended to be the vanquished.

  As part of the pageantry, the guards holding the weapons marched in, side by side, from the palace to the middle of the plaza before one turned left and the other turned right. The weapons left for us were a whip and a spear.

  Neither was ideal. If I chose the spear, I’d get one shot to hit or miss.

  If I chose the whip, I could disable my opponent to the point where he couldn’t throw the spear. On the other hand, I’d have to get close enough to him to do it. Too close, and he’d pierce me easily enough.

  Before I could make up my mind, the countdown had begun.

  By the time El Maestro’s bandana had fallen I was running as fast as I could to the bullwhip—

  And so was he.

  Fillipe got there first.

  He scooped it up in a roll and came quickly to his feet.

  I kicked a cloud of dust in his face. It sent him gagging and clawing at his eyes with his left hand, but he still got off a quick flick of the whip with his right wrist, gashing my chest. The next lash caught my shoulder.

  Enough of this shit, I thought.

  I charged right at him, my head bashed into his gut with such force that his feet left the ground until his back smashed into the stucco wall some six feet away.

  It was like pinning a spider.

  Time to pluck off its legs.

  His hand loosened on the whip. I pulled it out of his hand and wrapped it around his neck a few times. It was the perfect leash to drag him a few feet over so that I could pick up the spear.

  By the time I stabbed him in the heart, he’d already choked to death. I looked at it like an insurance policy: It never hurts to double up.

  El Maestro nodded his approval.

  I bowed. The crowd’s cheer roared through the plaza in a thunderous wave.

  Was it a stroke to my ego, making my name as a killing machine, and impressing one of the most vicious narcos in Mexico?

  No. I’m just trying to stay alive, Donna. And I have only one thought that feeds all my desires:

  Coming home to you.

  The next man to face me was a priest.

  His eyes were closed and he was kneeling, as in prayer, despite the fact that two guards carried him from under his arms into the plaza. They dumped him onto the ground about fifty feet from me. A moment later, a third guard came into the yard. He was holding two medieval hatchets. He held them up to the crowd so that they might get a good view of the instruments of carnage before he tossed one down in front of each of us.

  When El Maestro’s bandana fell, I picked up the hatchet.

  The priest continued to pray.

  I don’t know what the man did to anger El Maestro. All I knew was that we were both innocent in this macabre situation. I would not have blamed him in the least had he defended himself. The reality that this holy man was not going to do so—that he was going to let me slaughter him in cold blood, in front of a hushed crowd, many of whom were members of his flock—racked me with guilt.

  As I stood over him, I implored him in Spanish, “Padre, please—to live you must fight me.”

  He opened his eyes to look into mine. “Hermano, I do not blame you for your desire to survive. Please, do not blame me for my decision to leave this godforsaken place. By doing so, I serve God’s purpose, which is not to lead El Maestro’s sheep into an endless state of fear and self-loathing. Should my death at your hand bring the shame they need to right this wrong in their lives, so be it, for it is the will of God.”

  “You have one last blessing to give.” I knelt beside him, and closed my eyes as I bowed my head.

  Donna, at that moment, he could have taken his hatchet and chopped off my head. But unlike us, he wasn’t a killer.

  Unlike us, he celebrated life, first and foremost.

  He stood over me and prayed that I would find peace and joy in the life I’d chosen.

  Then he dropped to his knees.

  I made sure that the cut was swift, if not merciful.

  The crowd gasped.

  As I knelt again and prayed for my soul, the murmur “El Santo” buzzed through the plaza.

  When I opened my eyes, El Maestro and his gringo guest, the blond Adonis, had already left the balcony.

  Jaime hustled me back into the palace. When the door closed behind me, I asked, “Why him, Jaime? What did he ever do to El Maestro?”

  Jaime put a finger to his lips. His eyes floated upward to a video camera clasped in a corner. I stared at him until he had the guts to say it out loud, if only in a whisper: “He should not have preached against working in the fields.”

  “The crop they harvest ruins so many lives!”

  He shrugged. “They are farmers. No more, no less. As for those who take heroin, they choose their fate, amigo. If you choose wrong, you lose.”

  Lola was there, in my room.

  She waited until I closed the door and fell across the padded bench before lifting her flowing white cotton skirt high enough so that she could straddle my towel-wrapped waist.

  She then wrapped her feet around the outside of my thighs, as if using them as leverage while she warmed her healing lotion in her palms. As she kneaded my upper back, her hands, slick with the lotion, caused her to slide. With each forward stroke, her body rose and fell against mine, while her breasts stroked my back.

  Oh, Donna, how I wished they were yours.

  She is only playing her part in the illusion we present to guards monitoring the webcam. We imagine them chortling, or perhaps being aroused by our soft porn routine.

  In other words, watching our l
ittle show while never noticing that we’re passing each other information.

  I closed my eyes and yawned, as if I were dead to the world. But then, I turned my head to the other side, away from the camera. Gently, I whispered, “Any news?”

  Her murmur was slurred, the result of lips that barely moved. “They say that your competitors can no longer see their favorite putas until they step up and kill you. Los gladiadores are not happy about this, and neither are the women, who have lost their status among their own.”

  “Anything else?”

  “One of the guards heard me call you El Santo—‘the Saint.’” Through the mirror, I caught her reflection as she blushed. “So now, it is what the villagers call you. Look! It’s right here, in the village newspaper!” She points to the paper she brought in with her, which now lies on the dresser. “Even those who fear that they must fight you pray to you in the hope that you’ll give them a swift death.” She hesitated before adding, “But those without souls pray that death comes quickly to you, at their hands, so that they may be the next ‘verdugo.”

  “And what do you pray for, Lola?”

  “You have confused him because you refused my advances. He thinks that if he takes me, you may finally lose. Since he bets against your competitors with the other narcos, he doesn’t want that to happen. I thank La Virgen Maria that El Maestro loves money even more than he desires me.”

  There is no joy in my laughter. When I stop, I mutter, “Eventually, I will lose, Lola. It’s inevitable.”

  Or I’d escape. I must escape, Donna. I must come home to you.

  “Sì, Santo, but you must never let him in on that secret.”

  “My lips are sealed,” I vowed.

  Chapter 15

  How Do You Know if He’s Strayed?

  There are several telltale signs that a husband has been less than faithful. Wives, if his fidelity is important to you, be alert to these signposts: