2 The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing

by Josie Brown

  The following afternoon, Asimov is treating the summit’s guests to a grand performance of the Kiev Ballet, which is in town for the week. Babette has arranged for the students in Janie’s ballet class to attend, as well as her new BFFs, the members of the Hilldale Women’s Club. Needless to say, Trisha and her friends are beside themselves. I imagine the same can be said about their mothers.

  And finally, that evening, unbeknownst to Babette, Breck has arranged for a surprise birthday extravaganza for her. The theme is a circus, which will be set up somewhere on their estate.

  Speaking of clowns, I text Emma a request to yank a straight-on picture of Carl off the security feed. A second later, I’ve received it. I pass it forward to Alan via text message, along with Carl’s whereabouts over the next couple of days.

  One way or another, I’ll be a free woman.

  Maybe freer than I want to be.

  I’m just about to jump into the shower when there is a knock on the door. This time I’m smart enough to ask, “Who is it?” before opening it.

  “Your breakfast, Madame.”

  Yea! That was quick. I open the door—

  Carl is holding my tray. “Rise and shine, sleepy head.”

  “Sorry, not what I ordered.” I try to slam the door shut, but he’s already got his foot in there. I could stomp on it, but what’s the use? I’ve got to play nice. Ryan’s orders.

  With his golf shirt over khaki slacks, he’ll certainly fit right in on Hilldale’s well-manicured and never-mean streets. The only giveaways that he’s not just another well-heeled suburban dad are those six-pack abs and his jacked biceps: a sight rarely seen in a town where desk-job paunch is more the norm.

  I wrap my thin silk robe around me all the tighter with one hand, and point to the coffee table by the chaise with the other. “I didn’t know you were doubling as a butler. Just drop it there. I’m sort of in a hurry. Jack and I are about to take a shower—”

  Carl frowns. But yes, he hears the water running. His face goes blank for just a moment. With a smirk, he sets down the tray and kicks off his shoes before sprawling out on the bed. “Great. Get him out here. I’ve got something important to say, and he needs to hear it, too.”

  The nerve of him! I don’t know what irks me more: that he’s not wearing socks and has his stinky feet on my bed, or that he’s about to catch me in a lie. “Jack is—he’s indisposed. Just speak your mind, Carl, and then get out of here.”

  He pats the bed. “What’s the rush? Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I said Jack and I are—”

  “Yeah. Something about jumping into the tub together. Sounds like fun. In fact, maybe I’ll join you.”

  He springs up and heads for the bathroom. I run toward the door.

  But I’m too late. He opens it and looks around. The glass shower door reveals I’m lying to him.

  Carl snickers. “What did you do, flush him down the toilet?”

  “I… He….”

  “Skip it. I saw him, downstairs, a half hour ago. Three’s a crowd, anyway.”

  To prove he means this, he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close. I try to push him away, but his grip is like a vice, pinning me up against him. I’ve seen that look in his eyes before. His longing for me lights their deep, dark recesses of regret.

  In the six years we were together, he learned to read me, too.

  I’m sad for him, for what he’s lost, and the loss still to come.

  But I’m angrier that he threw it away.

  Our family.

  Us.

  Me.

  He doesn’t back off from the heat of my anger. Instead, it fuels his desire all the more. I know this because his lips tell me so.

  As do his hands, which gently shove my robe off my shoulders, the better to stroke my nipples. Every piece of me holds some memory of him. This is the only way I can explain why they harden under his deft touch, and why my mouth thirsts for his.

  He’s out of his shirt in no time. I freeze when he unbuckles his pants and they fall to the floor. When I see his thick, stiffened cock, I’m so mesmerized by the surge of emotions within me that I back away, into the shower. As the water pulses onto us, I’m blinded in a haze of steam and desire. Under the heat of his kisses, common sense melts away. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t some part of me, deep down inside, that doesn’t ache to feel him inside me again.

  He was my first true love…

  But he isn’t whom I love now.

  I love Jack.

  And Jack loves me. Whatever reticence he feels about my upcoming divorce can’t take that away.

  I’m now backed up against cold marble. With all my might, I try to push Carl away. But Carl doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he grinds into me. When I lift my knee as a cockblock, he takes hold of my leg and uses it as leverage to position himself so he can enter me. The look in his eye is not one of love, but lust. There is no love there, just retaliation.

  This is how he takes his revenge for what he sees as my desertion.

  I close my eyes in disgust—at him; more so, at myself—and brace myself for the inevitable—

  Then I hear it, loud and clear: the sound of a punch is followed by a groan, smashing glass, and a body slamming into a wall.

  Carl’s body.

  By the time I open my eyes and jump out of the shower, Jack has Carl on his back and is about to pummel his head into the bathroom’s marble floor.

  “Jack—Jack, don’t! We didn’t…. You can’t!”

  He freezes as if my voice has brought him to his senses, and leans back on his haunches. His chest rises and falls with pent-up adrenaline.

  Make that hate.

  Pained and still wary of his attacker, Carl sits up with a grunt. “Damn it, you asshole! I think you gave me a black eye.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you,” Jack mutters.

  “Oh, I’m not too worried about that. Not with my little insurance policy over there.” Carl nods toward me. “Go ahead, Donna, hon. Tell your stooge here he had no right to break up our little party.”

  Jack shifts his icy stare my way. What does he read in my eyes? My guilt over a momentary lapse in judgment? My hurt over our argument last night? Would he believe I’m just following Ryan’s orders to get as close as possible to the target, and his possible killer?

  I wouldn’t believe it, so why should he? Still, I hope so…

  For just a brief second, Jack’s eyes flicker with hurt before his face hardens into a mask of resignation. “Ah! I see. Sorry to have interrupted.”

  “That’s okay. The party was over before it began.” I’m not being flip, just truthful.

  “Hey, wait! If you’re casting aspersions on my—”

  “Can it, Carl. I’m not in the mood.” I’m cold, I’m hungry, and I’m naked. I reach for a towel, which remedies two of the things driving me crazy.

  I can feel Jack’s and Carl’s eyes on me as I tighten it around me. Too bad. Show’s over, boys. “You said you had something to say to us together, Carl.” Despite my state of dishabille, I keep my tone business-like. “Don’t leave us in suspense.”

  Carl attempts to rub the pain out of his jaw. “Oh yeah, before we were so rudely interrupted. Okay, here’s the dealio. The Quorum wants a truce for the duration of the summit.”

  “A truce?” I can’t believe my ears. “This isn’t a game of Capture the Fort. What do you take us for, fools?”

  “No, not at all. In fact, we find it commendable you’ve already exterminated two of the hitters who answered the bounty call on Asimov’s head.”

  Jack glares at Carl. “If the Quorum didn’t put the bounty on Asimov, then who did?”

  “Hell if we know. But whomever it is has thought it through carefully. They’ve reached out to the entities who h
ave the most to benefit from it and then gotten at least one of the hitters into Lion’s Lair.”

  This sends a chill up my spine. “So, you think it’s an inside job, too?”

  “It’s got to be,” Carl says. “Which brings me to Acme. Asimov is impressed that you’ve eliminated two of the assassins—”

  “Whoa, whoa, hold up here.” Jack looks from Carl, to me. “Did you tell him about the interceptions?”

  I shake my head.

  “How do you know we did it?”

  “Well, granted the first one threw us off, but since the second one was last seen entering this room…” He looks under the bed. Disappointed that there’s nothing, or I should say no one, under there, he shrugs. “Hey, how did you get her out of the room, anyway?”

  I smile innocently. “Just because you’re shoveling some high-test crap doesn’t mean we’re going to give away our trade secrets. How we know it wasn’t the Quorum who put out the hit on Asimov, in order to justify the need to hire you in the first place?”

  “The protection racket? Donna, get real. We’re not the Cosa Nostra. Besides, we need Asimov. When he isn’t buying the Quorum’s services, he’s selling us the WMDs that make the world go ’round—or, inevitably, go ‘boom.’ If Asimov gets taken out by any other goody two-shoes who’s left on his trail, we lose one big-ass kahuna.”

  Jack flops down into a chair. “If that’s the case, why is he at the summit in the first place? He could have skipped it; stayed home to torture some more student protesters or something.”

  “These patty-cake sessions are par for the course. You know, make the rest of the world think the boogey man is staying in his own backyard. But in the long haul, promises are made to be broken, right? And besides, if he’s here in LaLa Land, it takes the rabble’s mind off the protesters.”

  I glance over at Jack. His nod is barely perceptible.

  He may be convinced, but I’m not. “Okay, let’s say we agree to this ‘truce.’ It doesn’t mean we’re going to lie down and roll over so that you can pull a fast one.”

  Carl’s sardonic laugh sends a chill down my spine. “I’m through with the fast ones, babe. My diplomatic immunity gives me a new lease on life. In fact, after this assignment, I’m calling it quits. You know, settling down. Here in Hilldale, in fact.” He smiles. “You were right, Donna. Without you and the kids, my life has been an empty shell. I’m ready to man up, be there for you.”

  This is a nightmare. One of us needs a wake-up call. “A shot… with me? Carl, you already took two ‘shots’ at me. One ended up in my shoulder! Or have you forgotten that?”

  “Hey, you shot back.”

  Okay, yeah. He has a point.

  “Marriage is tough, babe,” Carl continues. “But with a little counseling, I’m guessing we’ll be okay. Besides, from what I saw there in the shower, you’re just as eager as I am to kiss and make up.”

  Jack looks like he’s about to explode. His stare leaves me tongue-tied. But what am I supposed to do, blow this chance to save the target?

  He walks out of the room without saying a word, and before I find my voice.

  Carl leans down and kisses me on the forehead.

  My love tap back to him is a punch to his gut. “Like I said, Carl, I’m not falling for your bullshit anymore.”

  “Gotcha,” he rasps. “I’ve got to earn it. Starting today.”

  That’s what he thinks. He’ll know better when Bulldog gets a hold of him.

  I shove him toward the door and toss him out.

  Then I go through my suitcase. What do you wear to an event where you may have to save one of the most corrupt human rights abusers in the world? I settle on a St. John tweed knit jacket and pencil skirt, worn over a scoop neck shell.

  Here’s hoping I don’t get any bullet holes in it.

  Chapter 12

  How to Treat Your Guest of Honor

  To a hostess, every party guest is special! But above all, the person being fêted should be treated like royalty!

  Besides introducing him to all the guests, he should seated in a place of honor, usually the largest chair, or the one most centrally located in the room. At a formal sit-down dinner, it should be the one to the right of his hostess.

  That way, should he get out of line or prove to be a total bore, she can easily pull the lever that drops him into her alligator moat.

  The Hilldale High School marching band’s rendition of Gosudarstvenny Gimn Rossiyskoy Federatsii, the Russian national anthem, hits a few sour notes. Despite this, their honored guest claps enthusiastically.

  Mayor Quimby beams as the national press cameras roll, click and flash while he shakes President Asimov’s hand with one hand and hands him the key to the city with the other.

  Alongside Asimov is Jonah Breck. Scanning the crowd, he sees me and licks his lips.

  I try not to shiver, but I can’t help it. I’m not some steak he can order. Here’s hoping we spot the last assassin sooner than later, so that this mission can be over and done with.

  Jack stands beside me, but he is aloof. All business. I haven’t had time to explain to him that what he saw in the shower wasn’t what he thinks it was. Once the divorce papers are served, he’ll realize it was one big misunderstanding; that Carl was trying to get his goat.

  Where is Carl, anyway?

  Finally, I spot him to the right of the crowd. His eyes shift left to right and left again. What he doesn’t see is the short, bucktoothed string bean of a guy who sidles in beside him. The guy wears a T-shirt proclaiming him Single And Disease-Free.

  I can guess why.

  At first, Carl ignores the guy’s gentle tap on his shoulder. I’ve got to hand it to the dude. He’s persistent. Finally, Carl turns to him. I can’t hear what the man is saying, but I can read his lips. Are you Carl Stone?

  Carl, confused, nods slowly.

  That’s when the guy slaps him with the summons and shoots off into the crowd.

  So, that was Bulldog?

  After watching his technique, who am I to knock his nickname? I’d say he’s earned it.

  Carl stares down at the paper. When he realizes what it is, he shakes his head in disbelief and smirks.

  Then he sics his security team on Bulldog.

  Alan’s process server doesn’t get far. By the time he’s reached the outskirts of the crowd, he has an entourage. A couple of seven-foot thugs in dark suits and sunglasses grab hold of each arm, lifting him so high his feet can’t touch the ground. Soon Carl is there, too, by their side. He yanks off Bulldog’s baseball cap, stuffs the summons into it, and crams it back onto his head before they toss him into the back seat of one of their glossy black Hummers and screech off.

  Damn it. So near, yet so far.

  I’m about to flip open my cell phone and give Alan the bad news when Jack tosses me the keys to our car. “Edwina just called me. Breck wants me to ride back to Lion’s Lair with him, so you’ll have to cover the middle school event by yourself. Better get hopping. Asimov’s already on the move.”

  He walks off without a good-bye, let alone a kiss.

  Yes, that’s it. Time to kiss and make-up.

  We need to get on with our lives: the one we’ve built together, without Carl.

  The Hilldale Middle School auditorium is abuzz with excitement. As Principal Belding welcomes President Asimov, the PTA chairs—Penelope, Tiffy and Hayley—are giddy enough to curtsey at him, and to hug Babette for pulling this off.

  I spot Mary and her girlfriends, Wendy and Babs, in the front row. All the girls are wearing skirts and sweaters, which are half-buttoned over matching pink T-shirts. It’s something I’ve not seen in Mary’s wardrobe. I wonder when they shopped for it?

  Carl and his security team cover all the exits and the balcony, where most of the parents have been sequestered. Because Carl is standing just a f
ew feet away from the stage, he can’t help but notice Mary, too. His hard stare softens at the sight of her. I can’t imagine what it’s like for him to see her again. Has he noticed she’s a few inches taller, the different way she now wears her hair, and the natural grace that replaced her gawkiness?

  Asimov’s speech is short. Sadly, it’s also patronizing. He uses movie clichés when describing the differences between our two countries, likening the USA to Spider-Man in that we always see bullies and feel the need to fight them. In his analogy, Russia is Batman and technology rules supreme.

  “You’re the bully,” some eighth-grader yells from a back row. “You arrest students for speaking out against you!”

  As if on cue, Mary, Babs and Wendy take off their sweaters and stand up. Written in black block letters on their pink T-shirts is the slogan Free the Pink Tacos! They chant this at Asimov and rouse the crowd to do the same. Asimov frowns out at the audience, which is now following their lead.

  A rock song roars over the loudspeaker, but I don’t understand the words because it’s in Russian. I’m guessing it’s the same tune that got the Pink Tacos put in prison.

  Suddenly, the audience is pelting Asimov with pink taco shells. Principal Belding is shouting for everyone to sit down and behave, as if that will do any good. Some of Asimov’s security team clusters around him and nudges him off the stage. Others, Carl included, grab the girls and pull them out of the auditorium.

  I run after them, but I have to fight through the cameras and reporters who have caught all of it on camera.

  Here’s hoping Mary’s role in this public relations debacle doesn’t get Jack and me kicked out of Lion’s Lair.

  “You almost incited a riot,” Belding roars at Wendy, Babs and Mary. “You’ve made our school a laughing stock!”

  The girls, sullen and silent, slump down deep in their chairs.

  “He’s right! Your daughter and her friends are a disgrace,” Penelope hisses at me.

  I shrug. “In our country, they have a right to protest, which is exactly the point.”

  “This calls for a one month suspension.” Belding’s tone is ominous. “If you aren’t able to make up your classes, you’ll repeat them in summer school.”