3 The Housewife Assassin's Killer Christmas Tips

by Josie Brown

  “Hey, there’s your sister now.” The clerk points to a woman coming out of the restroom, who is coming our way—

  Until she sees me.

  Valentina.

  She has a twin of the make-up case on her arm. My guess is that it’s the one I was sent for, which would make this one a decoy.

  I’ve always been proud of the fact that no one runs faster in heels than me. Valentina is giving me a chance to prove this theory, as I take off after her.

  Los Angeles Airport’s Tom Bradley International Terminal is truly a sight to behold, accommodating over forty airlines whizzing off to dozens of far-flung ports of call.

  Valentina’s flight, a Boeing A-320 jet flying non-stop to San Salvador on TACA International Airlines, is in Terminal Two and has almost completed boarding. She jumps line by walking up to the already-boarded first class passenger line. With ticket already in hand, she smiles graciously while she hands it over to the gatekeeper.

  But before making her way down the gate’s breezeway, she turns back, spots me in line, and gives a tentative wave.

  I wave back with a one-finger salute.

  Times a wasting, and the line is much too long. A teary couple near the front of the coach line are clenched in a lip lock. They are too busy to notice the line has inched forward. The woman’s ticket hangs halfway out of her coat pocket, along with her scarf. I snatch both as I saunter in front of them. And no, I don’t feel guilty. If she really wanted to leave him, she wouldn’t let her hand linger on his crotch.

  Ah, love.

  “Buenos dias, Senorita Gonzalez,” says the gate agent who perforates my ticket, leaving me with my stub. I walk past him and down through the gateway, as if I don’t have a care in the world. I wrap the scarf around my head and shoulders, and flip my jacket inside out. It’s not much of a disguise but it will have to do.

  Valentina has already taken her seat. She has her head buried in TACA’s in-flight magazine. Every now and then she glances up, but she can’t see me because I’m standing directly behind a guy who could be a linebacker with the New York Jets.

  As I pass her, I notice she doesn’t have the bag in her lap, or even under the seat in front of her, which indicates it’s in the baggage compartment above or behind her.

  I stop and pop open the two bins nearest her seat. In the bin just behind her I see it: bright red and just begging me to take it. I snatch it and do an about-face, nudging my way past the passengers still inching their way onboard.

  “Perdone, señorita, el avión está a punto de despegar! Por favor, tome asiento,” a flight attendant declares sternly, pointing down back down the aisle.

  I point to the two red bags on my arm. “Dejé el tercero por ahí! Yo ya vuelvo,” I plead, indicating that I’ve left another of my bags in the gate area.

  “Pronto, por favor,” she says, as she shoos me away.

  Like many of the passengers, Valentina glances up to see what all the ruckus is about.

  Now it’s my turn to wave good-bye with a smile.

  Adios, bitch.

  Chapter 18

  Lawn Mangers

  This year, forgo the secular yard tableau of blow-up snowmen and plastic Santa-and-reindeer with blinking red noses. Instead, go with the rarely used lawn manger.

  Why? Because this holiday isn’t about shopping, or overeating, or getting upset with your inlaws.

  And it’s certainly not about snaring the teenagers who think it’s funny to steal the plastic baby in your manger…

  Okay, maybe it is.

  That said, three rotating stop-motion security lights, a trip wire tied to an alarm bell, and a Doberman will do the trick just fine.

  Here’s hoping they’re released from Juvie on Christmas eve!

  “Well, this is quite a conundrum.” Ryan stares down at the Kate Spade bags. “Two identical cases, holding identical items: bricks wrapped in Saran Wrap, each with a note attached. The paper is from the same ream, and the notes were generated from the same printer. Unfortunately, neither have traceable prints.”

  “The only thing different is the coded messages on the notes,” Arnie informs Ryan, Abu, and me. “One of them lists the landing coordinates, flight number and flight manifest of a Boeing 787, which is flying in tomorrow to Orange County’s John Wayne Airport. It’s a junket to thank Arabian Airlines’ CEO, Sheikh Abdul Saeed Bakar, for switching its purchases from Boeing’s competitor’s aircraft, the Airbus 330, to the new Dreamliner 787. Bakar also happens to be a vice president of the United Arab Emirates. Other prominent members of the UAE are also onboard. Many are shareholders in the company’s largest investor group, which is based in Qatar.”

  “If they are murdered on US soil, diplomatic relations with the Arab world’s power elite will be at an all-time low,” I say. “And for it to happen on Christmas Eve day, too, would mean all hell breaks loose.”

  “Which is why we have to stop it,” Ryan continues. “The message puts the shooter on the back patio of a sandwich shop adjacent to the runway. We’ll have eyes all over the shop’s customers and staff.”

  I’m almost afraid to ask, but someone has to. “And the other note?”

  Arnie pulls out his encryption. “It’s got the flight information for POTUS’s trip into LAX tomorrow: landing time, coordinates, everything. Before spending time with his wife’s family in Cheviot Hills, he’ll be glad-handing the UAE contingency.”

  “Not if their brand new Dreamliner goes up in smoke,” I murmur.

  “That’s just it.” Ryan glances at me. “Since we can’t tell the bags apart, we don’t know if the Quorum plans to shoot down the Dreamliner, or Air Force One. They’ve only got one launcher and one rocket, so it’s a fifty-fifty chance either way.”

  “Can’t they divert Air Force One to another airport, to play it safe?” I ask.

  “I’ll make that call, but only if we haven’t resolved this by the time POTUS is nearing LAX,” Ryan mutters.

  I know what Ryan is thinking. When the president of the United States is on the move, the security manpower set in motion is monumental. One false alert and Ryan can kiss his career goodbye, not to mention Acme’s operation on behalf of its one and only client.

  “I thought Valentina went dark,” I say. “What was she doing there, anyway?”

  All eyes go to Ryan.

  He shrugs. “I was contacted with the time and place to pick up the intel we needed on the Quorum’s target. She’s on the run from the Quorum.”

  “She contacted you directly?” I can’t believe my ears. “Even if she did, why would you believe anything she says? I’m guessing the Quorum has sent her off on another mission. And let’s not forget she’s the reason Jack is dead! If she hadn’t told me about the storage unit, he’d be with us right now.”

  Ryan starts to say something, but holds back.

  Smart move, since I’m mad as hell. “Come on already, Ryan! Am I the only one here who isn’t convinced Valentina’s little last-minute switcheroo with the bags wasn’t already a set-up?”

  “Donna, even if it was, we’ll never know which one of the bags was switched.”

  I feel the tears welling up in my eyes. “I guess that’s my fault, for mixing them up.”

  Emma sticks her head in the door. “I have bad news, boss. Turns out the Quorum was able to smuggle another MANPAD stateside.”

  Ryan closes his eyes in disgust.

  When he opens them again, he turns slowly, looking each of us in the eye. “That means there’s now a fifty-fifty chance that the dud we planted in the MANPAD at the storage unit will be the one used by the shooter. We’ll just have to double up on our resources. Abu, you and I will cover John Wayne with a tactical team. If there are no fireworks when the 787 lands, or we stop it before it happens, we’ll know Air Force One is in the clear. If not, Donna and Arnie will be monitoring Aviation Boulevard by LAX until Abu and I bring the tactical team your way. The airports are fifty minutes from each other, but we’ll have plenty of time to get ther
e, since the flights are two hours apart.”

  “That’s one long boulevard,” I point out. “Any more specifics you can give me?”

  “All we know is that it will happen where Aviation Boulevard meets the highway,” Arnie explains. “Something called Shaka Pops is ground zero.”

  Emma nods. “‘Shaka Pops?’ I’ll get right on it.”

  “Good,” Ryan says. “One way or another, this isn’t going down. We owe Jack that much.”

  I slip into Saint Dominic’s at midnight, because I don’t want anyone to see me light a candle in front of the statue of Jude, the patron saint of lost causes.

  No, I don’t think the morning’s mission will fail. I look forward to seeing Carl cuffed and taken away for life in prison. It’s what he deserves.

  Actually, he deserves a bullet between the eyes.

  And I may have to be the one to take that shot.

  This time I won’t hesitate.

  I’ll do it for Jack.

  Jack is surely my lost cause.

  As I bend in front of the altar, I ask for forgiveness for putting him in danger. Yes, I blame myself for his death. I told Jack I believed Valentina’s intel. Where she’s concerned, I should’ve never let my guard down. And if someone were to enter the storage locker, it should’ve been me, not Jack.

  In the long run, my children will be my solace. I realize this.

  But I also know that my life is nothing without Jack.

  Because I’m alone, I can speak these things out loud. I can sob, because no one is around to hear me with the possible exception of St. Jude.

  And I speak out loud, as if Jack is right here beside me.

  I tell him, that I love him with all my heart, and I always will.

  I tell him how badly I miss his smile, his smell, his touch, that I will always remember the arch of his nose, his laugh, and the adoration I see in his deep sad eyes whenever he looked at me.

  I tell him I will miss him until my dying day.

  I beg him to forgive me for my ambivalence toward Carl and for my jealousy over his pain of losing Valentina—

  And for the insecurities that kept me doubting his love.

  Then I cry some more.

  Just as I open my eyes, the candle I lit in Jack’s memory flares high and flickers brightly, as if caught in the undercurrent of my grief.

  No, the breeze is real, and it’s coming from the swinging doors behind me.

  I turn in time to see the shadow of a tall man slipping away.

  I’ve been followed.

  That’s never a good thing.

  I run out after him, slamming through the double doors, down the broad stone steps and out onto the sidewalk. The car is pulling away, and yes, he’s driving it.

  Santa.

  Seriously, Carl needs a new cover.

  While he’s at it, Carl needs a new life, too, because the one he thinks he has with me ain’t happening, no matter what baloney he fed Valentina.

  Chapter 19

  Mulled Wine!

  To offset the bracing chill of the holiday season, serve your guests a nice mulled wine. All it takes is a couple of bottles of inexpensive wine, which you’ll put in a pot on your stove, in a low heat. But remember: Do not boil!

  Add a couple of cups of sugar, and stir. Then put in a handful of halved cinnamon sticks, sliced oranges, a couple of cups of blueberries, and few tablespoons of allspices. Again, do not boil!

  Finally, add a couple cups of orange juice, and a cup of sweet sherry or brandy. Stir this mixture, off and on, for thirty minutes. Again, do not boil!

  Serve generously, and often. If a guest becomes drunk and obnoxious, feel free to sober him up by sticking him in a shower. This time, do boil!

  The Boeing 787 is late.

  From the looks of things, it will be arriving just thirty minutes prior to POTUS’s landing.

  Suddenly, the thirty-eight miles between the two airports seems like a million. In typical LA traffic, that most certainly may seem the case, especially if time is of the essence in order to move a SWAT team between the two destinations, even with a helicopter at your disposal.

  Arnie and I have been circling in separate vehicles, for, like, over an hour, looking for a Shaka Pops stand, or even a store selling Shaka Pops, whatever the hell that is. The only thing Emma was able to pull up is a website for an all-natural iced fruit pop, which she says “Looks yummy! It’s out of Hawaii, but maybe they’ll be stateside soon.”

  Until then, we’ve got a lot more on our plates than a frozen dessert.

  I’ve no doubt our target is Carl. Taking down a plane on US soil secures him the slot he so desperately wants within the leadership of the Quorum.

  Not if I can help it. He’ll pay for Jack’s life with his own.

  As with most of Air Force One’s landings, the airspace has already been secured within several miles around the airport. Takeoffs and departures will be delayed, and traffic is detoured away from streets running parallel to the runway.

  Aviation Boulevard runs perpendicular, and the highway patrol is making motorists turn around.

  My white nondescript rental car gets a pass to go through because what the CHiPs officer sees is a very blond Delta Airlines flight attendant with glasses in a trim, stylish red white and navy blue uniform, who is worried about missing her flight.

  Arnie, who is trolling around in a white van, is disguised as a cable repairman. We have earpieces tuned to hear each other. We can pick up Ryan and Abu’s audio feeds as well. Thank goodness for that, since POTUS is supposed to land soon, and there’s still no word from Ryan.

  Suddenly, we hear a crackling noise in our earpieces. Abu says, “Big Bird in view.”

  Finally, the sleek new 787 has appeared in a cloudless baby blue California sky.

  The next thing I hear is Ryan shouting, “We have a visual on the suspect, fully loaded. Do not shoot to kill! Repeat. Do not shoot to kill. Take the suspect alive.”

  “Roger, A Team, we’re on him,” says a voice of the Acme S.WAT leader.

  Next, I hear the thumping feet of the SWAT team as it clambers after its prey. This is followed by the shout of the SWAT leader, commanding the shooter to drop his weapon. Obviously, he doesn’t because the next thing we know there is a gunshot and shouting.

  I can clearly make out, “Target is down! Target is down!”

  I’m about to throw up, so I pull over to the side of the road. Knowing that they have surrounded Carl leaves me numb.

  Not sad, not happy, just empty.

  I’ve been waiting to say good-bye to the memories of what we were together for a very long time.

  Good-bye, Carl.

  I hear Ryan’s heavy breathing as he runs toward the target. “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” he shouts. Then: “Is he still breathing? Yes? Emma, call an ambulance!”

  The SWAT leader says something about the shooter speaking Arabic.

  Arabic . . . what?

  Apparently the shooter isn’t even Carl.

  “Abu, go with him in the ambulance,” Ryan says. “See what you can get out of him.”

  Between moans, we hear the target telling his story to Abu. He is a Libyan national, who emigrated stateside last year, as a student at UCLA. He saw an ad in LA Weekly for a movie, casting for “Arab-looking actors.” His girl suggested he audition, and lucky him, he got “the role” of a Libyan terrorist. He didn’t mind, since he hates Gaddafi, whose troops had tortured some of his relatives still over there.

  He was told the movie was a thriller. Today was supposed to be a dress rehearsal. On the director’s command, given through his earpiece, he was to pull out his shoulder launcher and point it at the large plane coming in for its landing. He would be surrounded by other actors dressed as a SWAT team.

  “The director, he told me they weren’t going to be using real bullets,” he screams in his heavily accented English. “These rubber bullets really hurt!… What do you mean, you must take me to hospital? I still have two more sce
nes! Will I still get my SAG card?”

  In the meantime, Ryan checks the missile in shoulder launcher.

  It’s the dud, which means the live missile is here somewhere, and so is Carl.

  “Donna, the SWAT team and I are deploying by helicopter now. We’ll be there as soon as well we can.”

  Arnie, who is monitoring LAX’s air traffic control, breaks in: “A Team, it may be too late. The curtain is up at our theatre.”

  All morning I’ve dreaded hearing that phrase.

  I look up at the distant glittering spec in the sky, which I suspect is Air Force One.

  Southern-based Delta Airlines claims its flight attendants don’t sweat. Like all steel magnolias, they glow.

  If that’s the case, I should look like a firefly right about now.

  Santa’s on the roof, and he can’t get down.

  Let’s be fair. It doesn’t look as if he wants to get down from the building. Truth is, he’s drunk.

  And this time he’s certainly not Carl.

  I hear him laughing, hooting and hollering at me as I walk down the sidewalk, trying to find anything that might have any connection to something called Shaka Pops.

  “Ho, ho, ho, gorgeous, up here! Tell me you’re naughty, not nice, because I want some of that Delta sugar…”

  I have to duck when he tosses his beer bottles onto the sidewalk. I’m determined to ignore him because life is too short and getting shorter by the second.

  Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I look up at him to shoot him a bird—or maybe to just shoot him—and that’s when I grasp what Santa really wants me to see:

  Smack dab in the middle of the forest of billboards lining Aviation Boulevard is one that says:

  Lick it. Suck it. Bite it. Maui nui style.

  Shaka Pops, Hawaii’s Sweet Treat Coming Soon to a Store Near You

  There’s a man on the billboard’s safety ledge, looking through binoculars at the approaching blue and white Boeing 747.

  Yes, it’s Carl. Despite the Fu Manchu mustache and Beatles wig under his billboard company-issued cap, I’d know him anywhere.