2 The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing

by Josie Brown

  I’ve been in this hellhole for the past seven hours. I don’t plan on staying here another night. Still, Bitsy (whereas she uses this as a surname, I don’t want to disrespect her by calling her by the much less bestie-friendly Big or Bitch) is no fool. She sees me eyeing the bottom bunk near the window, and wants to set me straight up front that it’s hers. Bitsy’s fist shoots a straight shot for my nose. To her surprise, I’m able to stop it with my stiffened palm, and twist her arm out behind her, which is all it takes to warn her that not only sticks and stones, but pressure in the right spot, is all it takes to break her bones. Being raised by gentlefolk, I release her with a warning that doesn’t mar the reputation of the woman who bore her, or reference some embarrassing part of her anatomy.

  You’d think she’d take the hint that I’m not someone she should be messing with, but no.

  The long shadows cast by our cell’s fugly fluorescent overhead light tip me off that she’s about to stab me with a shiv made from a metal spring from Leona’s bunk. A roundhouse kick to Bitsy’s gut sends her reeling backward into the wall. I cram her head against it with my version of a Vulcan Mind Meld, where pressure points in three key spots on her cranium has Bitsy repeating every word I say. “I will act like a lady at all times. I will share with my bunkmates. I will talk in a lady-like voice. I won’t use my nasty pottymouth.”

  Works every time. Thank you, Mr. Spock.

  “Tsk, tsk. Is that any way to make friends and influence enemies?”

  I turn around to find Jack smiling at me from just beyond the bars. So, that was the reason for the salacious whistles and catcalls coming from the other cells. Usually, it’s for a new prisoner, or as they call them here “fresh meat.” This time it’s for six-feet-two-inches of prime beefcake in an Armani suit.

  I wave gaily at him. Okay, it’s more like a middle-finger salute. “’Bout damn time you got here. If it’s going to take you seven hours to drive a whole two miles, why do you own a Lamborghini?”

  “Because the girls love it.” Noting my raised brow and Bitsy’s shiv in my hand has him rethinking his answer. “In all seriousness, Ryan and I are having a hell of a time convincing the local authorities that you didn’t kill Edwina. It doesn’t help that your prints are the only one on the murder weapon.”

  “But I explained that to the SWAT guys! It was in my hand when Breck and I wrestled for it, and he twisted my arm so that it was pointing at her when he squeezed the trigger.”

  “Likely story,” mutters Leona, through her drunken stupor.

  I peel her favorite Chippendale off the wall and tear it in half. She whimpers, but takes the hint that she better keep mum in front of my gentleman caller.

  Jack shakes his head at my cruelty. “It doesn’t help that the security video shows you as coming out of the House of Mirrors right after Breck got shot in there.”

  Suddenly, it looks like I’ll have the time to complete a full makeover of my jail cell.

  I smack the bars between us with my fist. “Oh my God! If I end up in jail for Edwina’s murder, Carl will be given custody of the kids! I’ve got to get out of this mess!”

  “Don’t worry about Carl. The files Edwina left behind have put him back on the Watch List, and Breck, too for that matter. Unfortunately, Carl left with Asimov’s contingent before we could stop him.”

  “Well, that’s some relief.” I feel tears forming in my eyes. “What have you told the children about my absence?”

  “Just that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunately, your arrest made the news in a big way. The police leaked Breck’s version of it. Needless to say, all of Hilldale is buzzing about it. Penelope and her posse actually believe that you’re jealous of Babette. Mrs. Breck’s silence on the topic isn’t helping matters.”

  “Figures she’d be towing his party line.” I shake my head in disgust. “Breck is a member of the Quorum. For that alone, we’ve got to bring him back. Seriously, Jack, what are we going to do?”

  “We just have to wait it out, for however long it takes.” He looks down at his watch “Which should be about… now.”

  For just a few seconds, all the lights in the jail flash.

  Jack looks down the hall. Seeing that the two guards have been distracted by the shouts of the cellmates over this disruption of their routine, he slips me a small bag through the bars.

  “That was Arnie,” he mutters, just barely loud enough for me to hear. “He’s just put their security feed on a loop. The spray will turn these two into sleeping beauties for the next couple of hours. If need be, you can use the spray on the guards, too, but I think the diversion Arnie is causing in Cell Block C will keep them busy for a while. We guessed at the uniform size. The smart card gets you through every door in this joint. Abu and I will be waiting down the block in his ice cream truck.”

  I give him a thumbs up. I wish I could kiss him, but I don’t want to make my roomies jealous.

  I’m just glad he’s kept his shirt on, and he’s kept his a bowtie and cuffs at home.

  Chapter 23

  How to Have a Beach’ing Par-TAY!

  An outdoor party is always a welcomed change of pace! Forego the backyard barbecue for something a little more adventurous, like a clambake at the beach.

  Set your coals in the sand and fire them up. When they’re white-hot, they’re ready for a galvanized tub lined with seaweed. Fill with two pounds of clams, a half a dozen pounds of small red potatoes, some white wine, and a dozen ears of corn wrapped tin foil. Cover the tub with wet burlap, and keep the top wet so that the food steams up nice, and you’ll have quite a feast!

  Afterwards, any out-of-line guests can do a walk of shame—over the hot coals, of course.

  Misfit Quay is the smallest gem on the necklace of islands, which make up Turks and Caicos. It is also the one farthest south and west: so close to the our government’s Guantánamo Bay Detention Camp, on Cuba, that I’ve no doubt the prisoners there could see it, if their cells had windows.

  If Gitmo’s tortures were seen online, I wonder if the number of Internet hits would be as high as those for the Island of Misfit Sluts.

  My guess is that it would come close.

  We’re just a half mile off Misfit Quay’s south shore, in a three-man submarine. From here, we can easily see that what Breck calls his “sand castle” is really a full-blown palatial retreat.

  From Acme’s fixed-position satellite, we can monitor everyone on the property who shows up as infrared hot spots: the sixteen guards on their surveillance wall posts and all entries and exits, and another six warm bodies inside its various control rooms.

  The master bedroom is easy to find. It’s on the very top floor of the retreat with a large terrace from which to view the splendor of tropical sunsets. We detect the auras of three hotspots inside the room. One can be seen spread-eagled against a wall. Another image can be made out, curled against a bench.

  Their torturer moves between them. When he strikes with the instrument in his hand, they flinch.

  I can only imagine their screams.

  Finally, I force my gaze from this scrim of terror in order to scrutinize it for our entry point.

  I see it, some sort of pipe, which runs under the retreat’s main building. Every fifteen minutes or so—perhaps it’s sewage, or maybe runoff from the property’s numerous freshwater ponds and pool—cascades from it, creating a waterfall against a two-story wall of natural rocks.

  I point it out to Jack.

  “Yep, that’s our way in,” he murmurs.

  We leave the submarine anchored in a thatch of mangroves around a hundred feet from this manmade falls, then grope our way up the rocky slope until we reach the water pipe.

  When the flow seems to trickle to a stop, Jack nods to me. “Ladies first.”

  That is such a fucked-up notion in so many ways. Climbing a wet rock wall is one
of them.

  There are only two guards between Breck and us, both on the floor below his bedroom penthouse suite.

  They go down without knowing what hit them: a bullet through the heart.

  What we haven’t counted on is the elevator doors opening into the center of the room. They do so with a slight whooshing sound, then close just as quickly.

  The only thing that keeps Breck from looking up is that he’s having too much fun fucking one of his captives on her hands and knees, doggie style. It is Antoinette. When she moans, he twists the harness in her mouth so that her neck snaps back, causing her to cry out even louder.

  “What took you so long?” Breck says.

  Jack and I look at each other. Apparently, Breck is expecting someone else. The more the merrier would be typical of Breck’s perverted sexual appetite.

  We better move quickly.

  Jack motions me to stand directly behind Breck. I nod and move into position, training my gun on the back of his head while Jack sidles up behind the girl strapped to the wall which curves just beyond the elevator circular bank. It is Serena. She’s sobbing, and her back is stripped to a bloody pulp. He touches her gently, on her bicep. When she looks up, he puts a finger to his lips as he unties one wrist tether, then the other, before loosening the straps around her ankles. He then gives me the high sign before stepping back behind the rounded elevator shaft, and out of sight.

  I nod back, then shout, “Get off of her, Breck.”

  Breck turns around. When he sees me, the color leaves his face. “What the hell?”

  “I said get off of her.”

  I hate the way he smiles at me, as if I’m joking. To prove I’m not, I shoot at his foot, missing it deliberately.

  Yep, he gets the point now. He raises his hands and rises slowly.

  If only I could knock that shit-eating grin off his face.

  He glances at the elevator. Then back to me again. “Finally! Now, do what you should have done back at Lion’s Lair and kill this bitch.”

  I turn toward the elevator to find Carl standing there.

  I’m sure I look as if I’ve seen a ghost.

  “Sorry, hun, but he’s got a point. You can be such a bitch.” He cocks his gun and pulls the trigger. His head tilts toward me, as if a nod of sympathy makes up for five and half years of living hell.

  It can’t. But the bullet that slams into Breck’s forehead is a step in the right direction.

  Then I remember that I needed Breck to ruin Carl. Yeah, that wipes the smile off my face, and fast.

  “What the hell are you doing here?...And what the hell did you do that for?”

  “Just cleaning house. Once I heard Edwina gave you a memory drive with all those files, I knew this would be your next stop. Breck was such a pussy he’d have turned Witness Protection after an hour of jail time.” He looks around the corner, where Jack and Serena stand—

  Stood. They’re gone now.

  Carl’s next bullet is for Antoinette. It hits her squarely between the eyes. She dies with a gasp, collapsing onto the bed. Her dead eyes stare up at me.

  “Damn you, Carl! You had to kill her, too?”

  “Collateral damage. You know how the game’s played.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I sit down on the bed beside Antoinette. Gently I close her eyes. Then I stand and turn to him. “Am I going to be collateral damage, too?”

  He tilts his head in sympathy. “Like I said, you know how the game is played.”

  “How could you? I’m the mother of your children!”

  “An inconvenient truth. You’re also standing between me and full custody of my little darlings.”

  “I’m willing to share joint custody.” I smile hopefully when I say this.

  “Sorry. I’ll pass on your offer.” He points his gun at my head—

  Even the waves crashing on the rocks below seem to go silent at the sound of Jack cocking the trigger of his gun.

  Carl turns fast, but he’s too late. Jack’s bullet bores a hole black and deep into his shoulder that turns candy apple red within seconds.

  Carl drops his gun as he staggers onto Breck’s torture bench.

  Jack picks it up and hands it to me. “Here’s your chance to get him out of your life, once and for all.”

  He’s right. I now have the chance to kill one of America’s most wanted, and number twelve on the Interpol Watch List.

  Who also just happens to be the father of my children.

  And let’s not forget he just had a gun pointed at my head.

  Oh yes, and just the other day, he threw me off a restaurant’s patio ledge, into the Pacific Ocean.

  Not to mention the bullet he put into me just a few months ago.

  No doubt about it, one shot to the heart would certainly be quicker than a divorce.

  “I wish I could say I’m sorry, Carl, but here’s the thing: I’m just not that into you anymore.” I take aim. My finger leans on the trigger ever so gently.

  “Donna, I know this won’t change anything between you and me, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention it—”

  “Carl, our kids have a heavy carpool schedule. From what I can see, the three parents they still have are all in this room, which leaves them in the care of an aunt with cataracts, a bad heart, and a driving record that would earn her the inside track in a demolition derby, so get to the point.”

  “Okay, sure: I’ll make it snappy. Even if we do divorce, you know this guy won’t marry you, right?”

  Here it comes, the jealousy. My sigh is loud and tired. “It’s between him and me, Carl. But if you want to waste your last breath casting aspersions on Jack, then by all means, go for it. Why won’t he marry me?”

  Carl smiles over at Jack. “Because he’s already got a wife.”

  Suddenly I feel faint.

  Carl is just messing with me. He wants me to drop the gun. But no, instead I lower it from his heart to his cock.

  “Is he bullshitting me?” I don’t need to see Jack’s face to gauge the truth in his voice, to listen to his words of reassurance.

  But, hell yeah, I need him to reassure me. Like, now.

  So, why isn’t he saying anything?

  “He’s… he’s right.” Jack’s voice comes out in a dead mutter. “I’m married.”

  Ah. Well.

  Now he tells me?

  I should’ve known better. I should’ve read between the lines. All that malarkey about the need to wait for him to “sort things out” wasn’t ambivalence. It was his way of saying I’m not available.

  And yes, I know better: I’m not supposed to take my eyes off my target, let alone allow my hands to shake.

  Or drop my arm to my side.

  This is all Carl needs to make his move. He kicks Jack in the gut, then follows up with an elbow to the nose. As Jack doubles over, Carl smirks. “You’ll never take my place.”

  Then he leaps into the elevator and pushes the button.

  For a last fleeting moment, we share a stare. Carl’s triumphant smile is undercut by the pity in his eyes. No doubt my own face resembles a Picasso puzzle, distended and distorted by the jagged emotions of hurt and anger and shame.

  I fall to the floor and bury my head in my hands.

  When, finally, the wind fills Jacks lungs again, he rasps out, “Donna, you have to believe me! I was just waiting for the right time to tell you.”

  I struggle up onto my feet and head for the elevator. When I pass him, I drop his gun on the floor beside him, but keep walking. “When you get home, pack your things. You’re moving out.”

  Serena, who has been hiding behind the elevator shaft, slips in after me.

  She shakes off her terror and pats my shoulder gently, all the way down to the ground floor.

  Chapter 24

  Funeral Attire
/>   Everyone knows black is the appropriate color to wear to a funeral. That said, it is not the occasion to wear your favorite little black dress. However, demure couture will make a statement, as opposed to a plunging neckline, going backless, or with a skirt too tight or too short.

  A chapeau is a nice touch. Stay away from chef’s hats or baseball caps, even if the cap you choose bears the logo of the deceased’s favorite sports team. It’s just not good form.

  By the way, if it’s an open coffin, resist the urge to play “Spot the Bullet Holes” with the corpse. If the family used a good mortician, he will have done a pretty decent plug and patch job, so don’t ruin the illusion for the rest of the bereaved.

  Breck’s funeral is well attended by his political cronies and every titan of industry.

  But what has the crowd abuzz isn’t all these famous faces. It’s the sight of me standing beside Babette, who has her arm entwined in mine.

  The official cause of death is a heart attack. Minus the mortician’s handiwork, that would have seemed rather suspect.

  Thanks to Babette, the criminal charges against me have been dropped. It’s her way of paying me back for keeping mum about the fact that her husband was the biggest traitor this country has ever known. The truth would ruin her reputation and Janie’s young life.

  Jack and Abu are here, too. So are Emma and Arnie, but they are watching from a distance, providing surveillance of the crowd. The video will be analyzed later today. Now that we have proof Breck was one of the Quorum, we presume other members are in the crowd.

  Not Carl. That would be downright crass.

  Serena isn’t there, either. She took advantage of Misfit Quay’s close proximity to her homeland of Venezuela and requested that our helicopter drop her there. I can’t blame her. Her country may have a Loony Tune dictator, but she’d rather take her chances there with him, than over here, in the company of a bunch of sick corporate fucks and desperate housewives.

  It looks like our mission has been rated a surprising B+. True, the summit’s failure gave POTUS a very public black eye. On the other hand, Edwina’s digital files have been invaluable in tracking down despots with errant WMDs. It also gives POTUS leverage over Asimov. The last thing the new Russian president needs is a revolt on his hands for selling his country’s women as sex slaves.