2 The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing

by Josie Brown

  As if hearing me, the Leprechaun breaks hard to the right. The three of us are flung forward. The next thing we hear is the deafening rat-tat-tat of a semi-automatic.

  “He’s shooting at me,” Charlie says. “And I’m tethered to the truck. I’ve got nowhere to go.”

  The Apache is a sitting duck, and so are we, unless we make a run for it. If we scatter, at least one of us may have a chance to take out the Leprechaun before he kills us all.

  My mind is racing. “Charlie, on the count of three, we’ll jump out of the back. The second we do, program the Apache straight up, and fast, on autopilot. Then eject!”

  Harry nods slowly. “Brilliant!”

  In theory, perhaps.

  “Mind the gap!” I yell as we jump onto the asphalt and roll into scrub. Then we scatter over the wide-open plain. A second later, the Apache jerks the truck skyward. The Leprechaun is flung forward onto the truck’s windshield. He is stunned at first, but still game to take a shot at his target. He fumbles around the floor of the cab for his night goggles and his AP4 LR-308. Finding it, he positions it quickly, so that he has the running prince in his site.

  He is just about to pull the trigger when the helicopter loses the tug of war, and is yanked back to Earth. When the shrieking, twirling dervish slams into the forty-ton truck, the explosion tosses off debris in all directions.

  The truck’s back bumper hurtles toward me, but I duck just in time. It scorches a path in the dry desert bed before skidding onto a low bank of scrub. I’m choking on the acrid smell of a burning bush.

  Despite my tears from the smoke, there is enough light from the fireball for me to scan the desert for Jack and Harry. Yes, they too made it safely beyond the carnage.

  Like an errant cloud of fog, Charlie’s parachute passes over our heads. A moment later, I hear a thud. “Bollocks! Fecking cactus,” Charlie cries. “I won’t be able to sit on my arse for at least a week.”

  Charlie’s pain is nothing next to what Jack and I will endure when we break the news to Ryan Clancy, our boss at Acme, that we’ve demolished one of the Navy’s sixty-one million-dollar toys.

  In fact, if it weren’t for Harry, my guess is that Jack and I would be walking back to San Diego, as opposed to grabbing a seat on the second RAF-piloted Apache sent to retrieve the prince.

  Back at the base, the prince hands me a pair of trollies. His parting gift to me is signed xxx! Harry with his distinctive scrawl.

  I smile at Harry. “Thanks, mate! What can I say? It’s bazzin’.”

  Okay, now we’re even.

  Chapter 2

  The Art of Gracious Lying

  The ideal hostess has one mission: to make her guests feel as comfortable as possible, at all times. Sometimes this means lying to them.

  Should such a time come, little white lies must flow trippingly off the tongue. For example, telling a zaftig friend “You look marvelous, dahling! That floral muumuu is divine…” will certainly thrill her to no end.

  However, a greater test is your ability to smile sweetly as you slash the jugular of any thug who has the nerve to crash your soirée as you whisper, “This won’t hurt a bit…”

  When my children are mad at me, they pout. All it takes is a dozen homemade cupcakes to get back in their good graces.

  My hope is that this will also work on my boss, Ryan.

  Testing this theory, I place a plate of red velvet cupcakes on his desk, but the scowl stays on his face even as he mutters, “How many of these would we have to sell to recoup the cost of that Apache?”

  “Considering the cupcake craze is still going gangbusters in the fly-over states, maybe not as many as you’d think. In fact, if we decorate the icing with tiny pink hearts—”

  He lets loose with the sort of groan you hear when a guy watches his favorite team lose the Super Bowl.

  Nope, more like what you’d hear from a man who got called on the carpet by POTUS.

  “Donna, Donna, Donna. What am I going to do with you?” He holds his head, as if the decision is a painful one.

  It could be—for me. Spooklandia urban legend has it that Ryan once ran the CIA’s notorious travel agency. You know the one: it specializes in extraordinary renditions, better known as one-way tickets to hell.

  Not the best way to see the world.

  Its version of Business Class is strapping the passenger, naked, to a hard metal chair and dunking him upside down into a bucket, then threatening to toss him out the door.

  The first forty thousand feet are a doozy.

  “Sir, surely you can imagine our goal wasn’t to crash the copter. And the Cousins have to be satisfied with the mission. We exterminated the Leprechaun while keeping the prince alive.”

  “They are. Unfortunately, they aren’t our client, who must now explain to a committee of media-hungry senators why the prince was joyriding in one of the Navy’s precious helicopters before it crash-landed beside a Mexican resort. You’re lucky the prince corroborates your story, and luckier still that he’s taking the fall.”

  It’s true. The prince is claiming he crashed the Apache.

  But the powers that be aren’t impressed,” Ryan continues. “It would’ve helped had he not given his testimony via webcam while soaking in a hot tub with five co-eds. Of course, now our client wants assurances you won’t be a liability on any future missions.”

  “I can vouch for Donna, sir.” Jack’s flippant tone makes me flinch.

  “Don’t be a smart-ass, Jack. Both of you would’ve been burned by now, if he hadn’t lied to save you.” He shakes his head as he sighs. “Well, you can redeem yourself on your next assignment. Another dignitary is being threatened with assassination on American soil.”

  Great. I pray this one isn’t another party animal. “Who is it?”

  Ryan tosses a dossier across his broad, slick desk. “The newly elected Russian president, Alexei Asimov.”

  Jack frowns. “Another one of Putin’s puppets.”

  The dead cold eyes in the photo staring up at me send a chill up my spine. “Wait… isn’t he the one they call ‘the Grim Reaper of the Ukraine?’”

  Ryan nods. “The one and only. We’re already hearing chatter about a Ukrainian rebel marksman embedded stateside. And another thread Acme ComInt is following places both Chechen and Russian dissident cells here as well. ”

  I shake my head in disgust. “Why must we protect the bad guys, too?”

  Ryan shrugs. “He’s a statesman now. And as long as our country acknowledges him as such, we do, too.”

  “Is this to be a whirlwind tour of the country? Those are always fun.” Ryan knows I’m being sarcastic. I have three kids between the ages of twelve and five. To ensure their lives go on normally, I’ll have to line up my Aunt Phyllis.

  That’s easy. The hard part is putting up with the cattiness that comes with bowing out of carpool. Aunt Phyllis is no help there. Her lead foot on her Volkswagen Beetle is notorious. The Hilldale Police Department is on full alert whenever she’s in town, Chechen and Ukrainian assassins be damned.

  “Nope,” Ryan responds. “In exactly five days, he’ll be flying directly into Orange County, specifically for three days of pomp and circumstance, followed by a two-day nuclear disarmament summit. He, POTUS, and twenty-two other heads of state are being hosted by billionaire Jonah Stanford Breck IV in his retreat in your neck of the woods, Hilldale.”

  When Breck was building Lion’s Lair, his posh compound, some of our neighbors had a tizzy fit. What right had he to build an eighty-six-room mansion on the peak of the hill overlooking our quaint little town?

  Building his private Getty-worthy museum in the town was the olive branch proffered to, and accepted by, those who were the most upset: the Hilldale Women’s Club.

  And lucky me, I carpool with the coven running it: Penelope Bing, Tiffy Swift, and Hayley Coxhead.


  “The museum is nice, but as for that monstrosity on the hill—well, someone has to say it. There goes the neighborhood,” Penelope had muttered.

  That doesn’t stop her from inviting the Brecks to every social function in town.

  They’ve ignored each invitation, and every one of us, too.

  Jack lets loose with a derisive chuckle. “That’s a hoot! The richest man in the world, who’s made his fortune on military contracts, has turned over a new leaf?”

  Ryan shrugs. “Something like that. He’s got a new young wife, and a five-year-old daughter. Since his latest marriage, his corporation has sold its arms manufacturing subsidiary. Breck Global Industries now invests only in green technology start-ups, with a focus on sustainable energy and agriculture. To prove it works, he’s developed several luxury resorts throughout the world, which rely specifically on eco-friendly energy sources. Fortune has nicknamed him ‘the Jolly Green Giant.’”

  I’m examining another photo in the dossier: that of Breck and his wife. He’s square-jawed, just gray enough at the temples, and his mouth is set in a knowing smirk. Jolly indeed. Babette is a comely blonde in Carolina Herrera. Their daughter, Janie, is a miniature version of her, pearls and all. Babette is his third wife. From the sad look in her eyes, she may not be the last.

  Ryan tosses Jack an official-looking badge. “Several financial and media bigwigs have also been invited. Peace isn’t a cheap endeavor. Someone has to invest in it, and to get the rest of us to believe they mean it. Acme recently arranged for you—that is, ‘Carl’—to accept a partnership in one of the Swiss investment firms invited to this powwow. In the past, the bank has made very substantial investments in Breck Global Industries. As the bank’s sole stateside officer, ‘Carl’ has a ticket to this shindig.”

  “What’s my cover?” I ask.

  “You’re to become Babette’s closest friend in the neighborhood. Your daughters are the same age. Start by setting up a playdate. While this cover won’t exactly give you day-to-day access to Lion’s Lair, you’ll be Jack’s plus-one to the reception welcoming Asimov. That would be the prime time for a hit. And if you snuggle up to Babette right, you may have other opportunities to cover Jack, should the need come up.”

  I can’t believe my ears. “What makes you think she wants a new BFF?”

  “She’s lonely. Breck keeps her on a very short leash.”

  Jack smiles. “I can see why.”

  Ryan’s slight grin tells me he does, too. “And besides, with the boatload of political dignitaries in town, Breck will be too busy to pay a lot of attention to her.”

  “Won’t the other guests be bringing their wives along for this junket?” I ask.

  Ryan shakes his head. “I doubt it. If anything, they’ll be relying on Breck to provide any ‘diversions’ needed. He’s a notorious womanizer.”

  I glance down at the photo of Babette. No wonder she looks so sad.

  He points to the pit of humanity beyond his office’s glass wall. Case officers are babbling into headsets to deep-cover assets. The eyes on the surveillance operatives dart from webcam to webcam, following targets and warning field agents of any imminent danger.

  “Acme already has your team in play,” Ryan continues. “Your ComInt will be handled by Emma Honeycutt. If it’s okay with you, Donna, we’ll have her work out that bonus room you have over that garage.”

  Jack smiles. “Ah, perfect! The return of the Swedish exchange student, ‘Inga Larsson.’ I guess Emma’s not too happy about going blond one more time, and she fakes a lousy Swedish accent. Ryan, can you ask her to work on that?”

  Ryan shakes his head. “Ha! Not on your life. But be my guest.”

  Just beyond Ryan’s glass wall, Emma sits at her desk. She’s trying on a long, ash-blond wig over her jet-black punk cut. Jack gives Emma a thumbs-up. She returns his greeting with a middle-finger salute.

  Some things never change.

  “Because of the tight security mandated by the participating heads of state, everyone attending will be in lock-down mode inside Lion’s Lair,” Ryan explains. “We’ve got Arnie Locklear, in tech ops, placed with the florist who will be providing the bouquets in all rooms throughout the estate. That way Arnie can plant bugs where we need them, and monitor them as well. We’ll also tap into Breck’s security feed, in case we need to divert the guards from seeing you at work. Arnie is working on cracking it now, but the feed is buried pretty deep. In fact, we’ve yet to find out what security firm is handling it.”

  Jack nods. “How will we handle any necessary drops?”

  “Abu Nagashahi will still be your cutout. He’s putting the ice cream truck on hiatus during the summit, so that he can moonlight as the Breck’s dog whisperer. That puts him inside the estate, pretty much whenever we need him there. Janie has a Jack Russell that goes by the name of Eddie. Unfortunately, Eddie pees all over the place. If this habit can’t be broken during the summit, Breck is threatening to give the dog away.”

  Well, that certainly has my attention, and not just because I know every kid in Hilldale—including my own—relies on Abu for their mid-afternoon sugar fix. “But Abu hates dogs!”

  “For this mission, he’s getting over his aversion. We’ve made sure he came highly recommended from the Brecks’ dog trainer.”

  Jack laughed. “Between handling us and saving Eddie, Abu will have his hands full.”

  “He’ll have some help from Arnie. He’s got a few new toys up his sleeve for both of you. He’ll debrief you on them tomorrow. ”

  Through Ryan’s glass wall, I spot Arnie at his desk, fiddling with a dog collar. Just then, Emma walks by. Arnie can’t help but stop and admire the view. Unfortunately, he doesn’t notice that the collar is smoking until it burns his hand, at which point he mouths, Damn! Damn! as he drops it to the floor and stomps out the flames. There is no hope this particular gadget is being prepped in time for Abu. In the meantime, I wonder if Emma will ever catch onto the fact he’s got a crush on her.

  “Jack, now that you have place at the table, try not to break anything while you’re there.” He’s speaking to both of us, really.

  I smile innocently. “If Breck doesn’t own a helicopter, I’d say it’s doable.”

  “Are you kidding?” Ryan raises a brow. “He owns a fleet of them. He builds them, remember?”

  “Oops! My bad.”

  “I’m not kidding, Donna. No one but us knows how close the prince came to being the cause of a retaliatory action. If the Ukrainians or Chechens have their way, President Asimov may not be so lucky. Just make sure World War III doesn’t happen on your watch.”

  To prove I’m duly chastised, I nod and keep my mouth shut. Ryan is in no mood for backtalk.

  I have kids. I get tired of it, too.

  As we turn to leave, I reach for the plate of cupcakes, but Ryan slides it just out of reach.

  “Take the dossier. Leave the cupcakes.”

  It’s nice to know I’ve been forgiven.

  My mother was right. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

  As Jack and I walk toward the car, I toss him the keys to the SUV. “You don’t mind picking up the kids, do you? If I’m going to play bestie to a fashionista, I need to do a little shopping.”

  “Can’t it wait? We’ve got an hour before school lets out. Seeing Harry with his hot tub harem made me realize we rarely take advantage of our own double Jacuzzi tub. What’s the use of owning one if we never use it together? You know there’s nothing I’d love more than a little afternoon delight. But duty before pleasure. Story of our life, right?”

  “Do you mind picking up Trisha from her ballet class? And on the way there, can you drop Mary at her piano teacher’s house? Jeff has my permission to hang with Cheever Bing until dinner time.”

  “I’m getting used to this new Wednesday drill.” The tone of Jack’s
voice is nonchalant, but his smile has faded. His eyes, usually the hue of fresh evergreen, have deepened, too. “I’ve done it, what, every week this month, am I right?”

  “Oh, have you? I hadn’t realized.” I feel my cheeks flush with guilt.

  He shrugs. “No hassle. I love hanging with the kids. You know that.”

  They love him, too. He is the only father they know. To them—and to the rest of the world, he has lived up to his alias, ‘Carl Stone.’ The real Carl—the one I loved, lost, avenged heartily, then discovered how he deceived me heartlessly and cruelly—is long gone.

  It’s finally time to bury him.

  “Sure, whatever. I’m sure you’ll make it up to me, somehow.” He puts his arms around my waist and draws me close to him. His kiss is firm and filled with longing.

  I can’t help but melt into it. But his loving gaze breaks my heart.

  He is an infinite quantum of solace to a woman whose life is pitted with deceit, death and revenge. I guess that’s why he doesn’t ask what I’ve been doing on Wednesday afternoons.

  Trust me I want to tell him…

  But I can’t. Instead, I touch his cheek gently with the back of my hand. “Ha! The other moms will be thrilled to have you there. The ballet master, Dimitri Yerkov, is more Nureyev than Baryshnikov. They’ll appreciate your male energy.”

  And let’s face it. Jack Craig is primo beefcake.

  Best yet, he’s all mine.

  My kiss good-bye—long, deep, and filled with desire—seals my vows: to him, and to myself.

  As soon as I break the vow I made to Carl.

  “You still love him, don’t you?”

  I gasp as I turn to face the man who probes me so deeply. His words cut me deeper than any knife.

  My God, I’m in such pain! Does he see it? Why doesn’t he care?

  But he does. I know this.

  Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here, like this, together again.

  No one knows where I am. The thought of this frees me to be myself in this small, dark room. For the past six Wednesdays, it has been my sanctuary, and he has been my release.