The Housewife Assassin's Terrorist TV Guide

by Josie Brown

  I quash the urge to toss Chucky’s eye in the box with the fake list. Instead, I’ll give it to Ryan for the mission file. Granted, it would have made an interesting souvenir from this mission, but the Lamborghini would have been a nicer one.

  Chapter 2

  Family Ties

  “The meaning of life? That’s simple. Try to be happy, try not to hurt other people, and hope to fall in love.”

  —Mallory Keaton

  You may not always agree with your family, but you will always love them.

  Sure, sometimes one of them might make you so angry that you plot ways to make his or her life miserable; nothing too serious. Heavens, you’d never maim or disfigure—

  Okay, maybe. Depending on the slight.

  But, remember: if a family member is callous enough to offend, or insists on doubling down with more vitriol, and then is too stupid to apologize before you go all Hannibal Lecter on his ass, do yourself a favor and skip the next family reunion. Your auntie may love you dearly, but she’s not above supplementing her Bingo money with the reward that comes with your arrest.

  It’s always great to be home again.

  On this Labor Day afternoon, the residents of Hilldale are out in full force. In every third driveway, gangly arms flail amid grunts and swears during some pick-up basketball game. Because Jack and I have the windows down in the car, our noses are tickled by the smell of seared meat wafting from backyard grills. Greetings shouted between neighbors are answered with waves and chuckles. With snide asides and rolled eyes, gossip is volleyed across picket fences.

  Just as Jack and I pull into the driveway, the paperboy rides by on his bike. With a backward toss if not a backward glance, our copy of the Hilldale Signal slaps against the veranda’s steps.

  Aunt Phyllis is awakened from her nap on the porch swing. She raises her sunhat, exposing one eye: all she needs to take note of the culprit, who earns a middle-finger salute from her. By the time she sees us, the other four fingers join it in a welcoming wave.

  Considering the mound of dishes I left in the sink before leaving for Vancouver, I’m surprised we didn’t get the same greeting as the paperboy.

  Jack leaps out of the car first to pull our bags from the trunk and then to open my door—yes, he is a gentleman. I snatch the paper as I step onto the porch. I bend down to give Aunt Phyllis a hug. “Did you miss us?”

  Slyly, she winks. “I haven’t had time. Between running my craps game and refereeing Trisha’s fight club, it’s been a bit hectic around here.”

  Jack’s kiss on her cheek comes with a chuckle. “You’ve got a great sense of humor.”

  “You think I’m kidding?” Aunt Phyllis wags a finger at him. “Silly boy! Wait until you see her shiner! On the plus side, the house always wins, so dinner is on me.”

  “You’re going to get off easy,” I tell her. “We’re too tired for anything but take-out.”

  I’m about to walk off with the Hilldale Signal when Aunt Phyllis grabs my wrist. “Not so fast, young lady! I’ve been waiting for that paper all afternoon!”

  I hold it just out of reach. “Let me guess. It now carries a Santa Anita handicappers’ column?”

  “Yes…but not just that,” Aunt Phyllis insists. “The buzz all over town is that they’re shooting a movie in Hilldale, and that they’re looking for extras. Maybe they’ll need a sexy cougar to spice up the plot line.”

  “Oh, joy,” Jack mutters under his breath.

  “Oh, brother,” I counter.

  We’ve had the dubious honor of being consultants on a movie—one that turned out to be based on our lives. When my ex-husband, Carl, used his new position as the United States Director of Intelligence to frame us as domestic terrorists, we’d hoped that its around-the-world on-location film shoots would prove to be our get-out-of-jail-free cards. It was—but only because Carl had us watched, which came in handy when we led him to the few people he needed to exterminate before they blew his cover as the head of the Quorum, a covert-ops organization that finances international terrorism.

  Eventually, we killed Carl.

  Recently, we captured Eric Weber: the Quorum’s leader, and the operative who turned Carl into a triple agent. Unfortunately, the Quorum’s tentacles are long and run deep within the halls of government—not only those of enemy states, but our allies’ as well.

  And, yes, within the United States government.

  So you see, our job is far from done. All too often it feels as if we are chasing ghosts. But cast a bright enough light on the wraiths creating the anarchy, and you expose them for what they are: shadow puppets.

  Despite being in a maximum-security prison, Eric is somehow still pulling all the strings.

  Sometime soon, I’ll figure out how he does that.

  Aunt Phyllis sucks in her cheeks and bats her eyes. “What do you think? Am I ready for my close-up?”

  Jack chucks her under the chin. “In my mind, you’ll always be a star.”

  My aunt blows him a kiss. “Donna is a lucky lady. If she hadn’t married you, I’d have snapped you up myself.”

  I hand her the paper. “If they sign you up, we can say we know someone who is someone.”

  “I’ll give it a go, but you’re the beauty of the family. Albeit, these days Mary is giving you a run for your money.”

  As if on cue, the front door opens. My eldest daughter comes bounding out, her younger brother and sister on her heels. A second later, Jack and I are cocooned in a group hug. “We thought you’d never come home,” Trisha scolds us.

  Jack laughs. “We were gone, what, three days, tops!”

  “And we called to check in every night,” I remind her. We do so on every trip, via a secure cell phone with a masked global position system that spoofs our location.

  “Did you bring us anything?” Jeff asks.

  Jack gives me a mischievous wink.

  Oh, no—Chucky’s eyeball.

  As he reaches into his valise, I grab his hand in mine. He winces when I dig my nail into his palm and groans, “Nope, sorry—but I’ll bring you something really cool next time.”

  I release my death grip.

  As Jack rubs the pain from his palm, he glances at the back-page ad of the Hilldale Signal tucked under Aunt Phyllis’s arm and murmurs, “I hadn’t realized there are so many houses for sale in Hilldale. And from the look of this ad, Penelope Bing’s husband, Peter, handles the majority of the town’s listings.”

  “He’s the number one realtor in town,” I remind him. I point to the slogan in Peter’s ad:

  With Me, You’ll Get Bigger AND Better!

  “Is he talking about a house?” Jack asks. “Or is he boasting about his—”

  I punch his arm. “Why must men’s minds always end in the gutter?” I pick up the paper. “Lucky guy! He’s also got the listing for Hilldale Summit. Apparently it had its grand opening last week.”

  The newest section of our planned community boasts another thirty tricked out McMansions. To up the ante, each one a mini-Versailles on three acres of emerald-hued fescue behind its very own walls of stone and stucco. These new estates range in price from two-to-four million dollars. So, yes, the commissions are gravy on top of what Peter already makes. I’m sure Penelope is ecstatic—not just for what it adds to their bank account, but because it’s keeping him too busy for his extracurricular activities. Peter’s dalliances are an open secret in Hilldale.

  Suddenly, I notice the headline on the front page. “Aunt Phyllis, you’re wrong about some movie being filmed here. From what the newspaper says, it’s a television show.”

  Aunt Phyllis is much too proud to wear glasses. Instead, she raises the paper a few more inches away from her face to get the words in focus. “Hot Housewives of Hilldale?” she frowns. “Well, that takes me out of the running—unless I can bag one of the neighborhood bachelors between now and the date of the cattle call.”

  Mary looks over my aunt’s shoulder. “Oh, my God! Interviews start tomorrow! Listen to
this!” She grabs the paper and reads: “‘Do you feel you and your family are ready to be famous? If so, call this number to set your appointment for a chance of being one of the six lucky ladies who will star on the reality television series, Hot Housewives of Hilldale. Beyond the fame of being a TV star, you could parlay this memorable experience into many financial opportunities, including corporate sponsorships, paid appearances, and a book contract that showcases your best talents.’”

  “Mommy, do you have any talents?” Trisha asks innocently.

  “Of course she does.” Jack gives me a seductive wink. “In fact, I can think of two, off the top of my head. Then again, one of them could land her a life sentence in the big house.”

  I shut him up with a scowl. “Sorry, folks. The Craig family is better off far from the glare of television cameras.” Not to mention municipal webcams and U.S. satellite surveillance. Time to veer this conversation onto safer ground. I look around. “Where is Evan?”

  The seventeen-year-old son of Robert Martin—the man who was my very first crush—now lives with us. His mother, Catherine, was my very first enemy—almost mortal, as it turns out. I survived her attempt to stab me to death. On the other hand, the hit she put on Robert took his life.

  The extermination was carried out by my ex, Carl. Small world, isn’t it?

  “He’s lifeguarding at the Hilldale Country Club. I’m on my way there now—to meet Babs and Wendy.” Mary blushes as she speaks.

  When Jeff puckers up and makes kissing sounds, she gives him a dirty look.

  Evan and Mary’s mutual admiration society of two has been duly noted by the entire family.

  “We wouldn’t mind a dip. If you wait a few minutes, you can ride over with us,” Jack promises.

  “Sure, but you’ll move fast, right?” Jeff asks. He holds up his cell phone, encased in a clear plastic bag. “With all the homes popping up, there are a couple of new girls hanging by the pool these days. Morton has a crush on one of them. Cheever promised him a fiver if he can hold his breath for three minutes under water. I told him I’d video-record him before he suffocates.”

  Mary snorts as she laughs. “Why don’t you wait until after Evan’s shift? That way, he won’t have to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”

  “Why? Are you afraid you’ll get Morton’s cooties when you kiss Evan?” This time, when Jeff mocks her with kissing lips, she elbows his gut.

  Grunting with pain, he adds, “Hey, that hurts!”

  In Mary’s sudden move, the thin nude-hued string straps of her swimsuit are revealed. They look all too familiar. Apparently, she’s wearing something from my Acme slut gear collection: clothing (or, what Jack calls, “costumes”) that I keep in the back of my closet. In this case, it’s a tan string bikini. The front of its barely-there thong bottom could pass for a pirate’s eye patch. The life of a sparrow is not for the modest among us.

  I pluck one of the top’s straps. “You went through my closet?”

  Mary turns white, but then shrugs defensively. “I didn’t think you’d mind. Besides, all of my swimsuits are too small on me!”

  I tap the strap. “Really? Smaller than this one?”

  She winces because she knows I have her there. “I mean they’re too young for me.”

  “Well, this one is too ‘mature’ for you.”

  “But—but Wendy’s mom lets her wear a thong—”

  “No buts.” Not if it’s Mary’s. “Sorry, not happening.”

  “But—there’s no time! The pool closes early today since school starts tomorrow!” Hoping for a reprieve, she looks over at Jack.

  He thumbs in my direction. “What she said.”

  Frustrated, Mary stomps inside.

  I sigh. Some things never change—least of all Mary’s attempts to push boundaries where Evan’s attentions are concerned.

  We’re just about to go into the house when Jack and my phones buzz simultaneously. We stare at each other first and then at them. Like me, Jack know what it means: we won’t be hanging at the pool with the kids. We are needed at Acme headquarters.

  Jeff and Trisha give exasperated sighs. “Does this mean you won’t be going to the pool with us?”

  I turn to Aunt Phyllis. “Would you mind going with them?”

  “Not at all—but I don’t have a swimsuit here at Villa Craig.” Phyllis snaps her fingers. “Hey, now that Mary is out of that sexy little number, maybe you’ll lend it to me. Certainly, it should get a few bachelors looking my way.”

  I’ll say.

  I’m not the only one who thinks so. Trisha’s eyes grow big, and Jack is snorting so hard that he nearly doubles over.

  Like I said, it’s always great to be home. And, one way or another, I will always make it back to my dear, sweet family.

  Chapter 3

  Alias

  "There's something that happens when you discover the truth about someone. I know a little about this. The truth changes everything."

  —Sydney Bristol

  A good spy can be anybody.

  She is an old friend. At the same time, she is a stranger.

  Her seductive pout promises you that she'll be the best lover you ever had. But her dead-on aim assures she'll be the last person you see before you die.

  How do you know you can trust her? You don't. You can, however, prepare yourself for the worst-case scenario:

  The day she learns what you really think of her.

  You'll do this with a one-way ticket to a place she'll never find you.

  When you figure out where that is, don't bother to write.

  "Catch." I toss Chucky's eye, bagged and tagged, to Ryan.

  His reflexes are good enough that he catches it with one hand. "Job well done," he concedes. "In fact, it's already bearing fruit."

  Like the well-heeled lady I am, I ease myself into one the conference room chairs next to Ryan while Jack flops down into another across from our COMINT liaison, Emma Honeycutt.

  Emma welcomes me with a wink, all the while swiping away furiously on the screen of her iPad. Two chairs away, her husband, Arnie Locklear, pounds away on his MacBook, still oblivious to our arrival. On the other hand, Abu Nagashahi, our mission team's cutout and cleaner, is picking out the blue M&Ms from the bag in front of him. He offers them to me. "I'm a traditionalist," he explains.

  I smile. Still, I shake my head. "I'm on a diet."

  Disbelief weighs his head heavier to the right. "You're slim enough. Heck, I've seen you crawl out of spaces no more than two feet wide!"

  I point to the M&Ms. "That skill set comes with a price."

  Ryan glances at his watch and then sighs. "Where the hell is Dominic?" he growls.

  Emma rolls her eyes. "He texted he'd be a few minutes late. He's getting fitted for a tux."

  Jack snorts. "With all the tuxes he gets fitted for, you'd think he moonlights as a maître d’.”

  "If you saw his tailor, you'd know why he owns so many of them," Arnie murmured. His hands made an hourglass shape.

  This is not lost on Emma. As he ducks behind his screen again, he adds, "He claims he likes how she blushes every time she measures his inseam."

  I turn to Jack. "You've been in a locker room with him. Is he really so awfully small?"

  Jack is laughing so hard that he almost falls out of his chair.

  "Speak of the devil," I murmur.

  Beyond the conference room's glass walls, every female Acme handler is peeking above her cubicle to get a better look at who has just walked in: Dominic Fleming.

  In fact, he is wearing a new tuxedo.

  He saunters through the room as if it's New York Fashion Week before taking the chair closest to mine.

  I crook my finger toward him.

  Preening, he leans in close to hear what I have to say.

  I snuggle up to his ear and whisper, "Your fly is open."

  Mortified, Dominic turns white. He stands up quickly and turns around, glancing downward—

  For a moment. When he t
urns around, it's to glare at me.

  I giggle. “Gotcha!"

  "I say, that's hitting below the belt, old girl," he grumbles.

  "At least this time he has a reason for a new penguin suit," Ryan replies. "He needs it for our latest assignment, thanks to your good work, Mrs. and Mr. Craig. The CIA's exchange of Huang Fu Chan's bank assets netted our client some interesting U.S. domestic terrorism intel involving ISIS, which was somehow intercepted by the MSS."

  "Since when do the Chinese care if a few of our citizens get blown off the face of the Earth?" I ask.

  Ryan shrugs. “They don't. But besides demonstrating a little quid pro quo, the Chinese have invested more than one hundred and fifteen billion dollars in the Middle East. Not to mention loaning another fifty-five million to countries in the region."

  Emma's lips purse into a frown. "Which is why the Chinese have finally joined the rest of the U.N. Security Council's international coalition in fighting Middle Eastern terrorists. It took them long enough, right? Especially after that baloney about not wanting to quote-unquote interfere with the region's internal conflict. Ha!"

  Arnie rolls his eyes. "Yeah, until the Chinese run into the same issue on their soil."

  "And they have," Ryan informs us. "ISIS has been rallying Chinese Muslims in China's Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region to take up arms against their oppressors and create an independent Islamic state in Xinjiang. It's yet one more reason that the MSS is more than happy to let us take it down, on our soil to boot."

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend," Jack replies.

  Ryan nods. "Exactly."

  "Terrorism makes for strange bedfellows." I shake my head in awe. "Still, how do we know MSS's intel isn't bogus?"

  "The tip has been verified by a CIA SocMINT team tracking online chatter. ISIS is intent on exposing the United States' vulnerability to domestic terrorism by ensuring an attack on American soil—sometime this month, in fact.”