The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips

by Josie Brown

  “What…the hell!” The groan is unmistakably Jack’s.

  Oops.

  “Oh, my God! I thought–” I pull my phone from my jacket pocket and click on the flashlight app so that we can see each other.

  I may be relieved, but he seems annoyed. Seeing the look on his face makes me angry. Why isn’t he happy to see me, coming to his rescue?

  Granted, the fact that I fired a gun at him may have something to do with it.

  Okay, yes, that and the knee to his groin.

  “What the hell are you doing?” we ask in unison.

  Suddenly, light floods the stairwell. We blink in its glare. Ryan is running up the stairs. “Did Donna shoot him?”

  I feel my cheeks turning red. If I had shot Jack, I’d have never lived it down.

  More to the point, he wouldn’t either, because he’d be dead.

  Jack must be thinking the same thing because he scowls at me as he turns toward the bullet hole in the wall behind him. “If I hadn’t bent down to tie my shoe at that very second, I’d be a dead man now.”

  For the first time, I notice that the back of Jack’s shirt is bloody. “Oh, heck!” I run to the wall. No, the bullet hole is deep. It’s embedded in there, somewhere. Obviously, the bullet didn’t ricochet into his back.

  I point to Jack’s shirt. “Then, where did that come from?”

  I turn to Ryan for the answer, but he looks just as shocked as me. Suddenly, Abu Nagashahi runs up the stairwell. He’s dressed all in white, like a medic–but his chest is covered in blood.

  Arnie Locklear, our mission team’s tech-op, is right behind him–and he’s also dripping blood, like an escapee from a haunted house.

  No more guessing games. Angrily, Ryan and I say in unison, “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?”

  Abu and Arnie keep mum, but their eyes shift toward Jack. Reluctantly, he mutters, “We let Tatyana get away…on purpose.”

  Ryan slams the wall with his fist.

  Frankly, I’d be hitting Jack’s nose. I stare at him. “After what she did to me–not to mention whatever grudge you’re holding against her, why the hell would you do that?”

  “She wouldn’t break and give us what we needed–where the next terrorist act will take place, and who is carrying it off,” Jack insists. “Now that she’s on the loose, she’ll lead us to her client.”

  “Are you sure she didn’t suspect anything?” Ryan growls.

  “I doubt it,” Jack declares. “Not from the way we worked her over first.”

  Still in shock, I cross my arms at my chest. “So, she’s chained to a bench, and her cuffs miraculously fall off?”

  “We gave her the opportunity to do it,” Arnie explains. “We made it possible for her to steal Abu’s gun. She shot him with it, grabbed the cuff keys, then Jack and I came into the room. She shot us, too.” He hesitates before adding proudly, “So that she thought she was getting away with it, I loaded the gun with fake blood pellets.”

  Ryan shakes his head in disbelief. “Now that she’s on the loose, how are we going to find her?”

  “While she was out cold, we embedded a GPS chip inside of her,” Jack explains. “Dr. Fleishman got the idea when he…well, when he stitched you up.”

  “How nice to hear I was his inspiration,” I mutter.

  Ryan turns to me. “Donna, I presume I can trust you to keep all you’ve heard here on the QT?”

  He asks this because he knows that President Lee Chiffray sometimes summons me for off-the-record intel recaps. Despite my insistence to Ryan that Lee and I have gone our separate ways, the years Ryan has spent in our line of work are reason enough for him to be paranoid about what tales others tell out of school.

  Still, it pisses me off that he thinks he has to ask. I shake my head angrily. “What’s wrong, Ryan? Are you concerned that my resignation means that I’ll be screaming Acme’s failures from the rooftop?”

  “No, not at all.” He frowns. “I’m just stating protocol. It’s in the manual.”

  “Are you implying that I’ve never read the Acme manual?”

  “Read it? Possibly. Follow it?” Ryan’s eyes narrow. “That’s another story.”

  “I know one thing that’s in the manual, under ‘resignation protocol.’” I look down at the Sig in my hand. It's been at my side through more dangerous missions than I can count. Slowly, I reach my thumb up and decock it. I ease the same thumb down to the release button and clear the magazine. As I take one more deep breath, I yank the slide back to clear the last round from the chamber, and lock the slide open.

  I exhale as I hold out both hands to Ryan. One holds the gun. In the other, I offer him the magazine and stray round.

  For the longest moment, he stares down at them. Finally, he waves my hands away. We are eye to eye as he murmurs, “Keep it. Your instincts are unique, to say the least. If there’s another Donna Stone out there, Acme wants her on its side.”

  This is his way of kissing and making up.

  For Jack’s sake, I hope his is better.

  Chapter 4

  Make Your Silverware Gleam Again!

  When was the last time you checked the condition of your silver? The first Bush was in office, right?

  Ha, thought so!

  Listen here, missy: no matter how much time and effort you’ve spent hunting down and dickering over pieces of Tiffany & Co. Feather Edge sterling flatware, should your guests blanch visibly at the thought of sticking one of your pretty little festooned teaspoons in their mouths, you can stick a fork in your reputation because, honey–it is done.

  And no need to worry about breathing in toxic fumes from cleaners made of harsh chemicals. To restore your precious pieces to their former glory, consider polishing organically! All you need is a pot large enough to hold your silver, filled with water no more than two inches from the top; baking soda; aluminum foil; and a stove.

  First, put the pot of water on the stove, and bring it to a boil. Next, line the bottom of the pot with a piece of tin foil. (Be careful not to scald yourself!) Now, load in your silver, piece by piece, onto the tin foil. (Again, don’t burn yourself!)

  Shake baking soda over it all. Yes, it will bubble and foam and smell like rotten eggs. It isn’t magic, but a chemical reaction. The tin foil draws the tarnish away from your cherished flatware. Keep sprinkling the baking soda until all the silver is clean, or when it no longer bubbles.

  Finally, remove the silver. Any leftover tarnished spots can be removed by rubbing with a soft cloth.

  One last little note: So that you don’t look like a witch hovering over a caldron, don’t wear black, let alone a pointed hat, no matter what kind of bad-hair day you may be having.

  And by the way, a little makeup wouldn’t hurt either.

  “You could have told me the game plan,” I state flatly to Jack.

  True to his word, we’re sharing lunch at a sunny corner table in Duke’s Malibu, the best beachside boîte on the Pacific Coast Highway.

  If we didn’t have to pick up the kids in a couple of hours, no doubt he’d be on his second scotch, and I’d be on my third wine. Despite the lack of any excuse to lose our cool, it’s obvious to both of us that we’ll leave lunch with our stomachs in knots, and our anxiety will have nothing to do with the richness of Duke’s Tahitian shrimp and poke tacos.

  He shrugs. “I told you–everything about this mission is on a need-to-know basis.”

  “Didn’t my bullet hole on the stairwell make it pretty obvious that I should have been clued in?”

  He honors me with a grudging nod. “In hindsight, yes. But what we did was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

  I snort loud enough that patrons at three other tables stare at us. I raise my glass at them with a smile, but through gritted teeth, I growl, “I guess you forgot to put Ryan on that short list.”

  Jack’s eyes narrow. “He was tied up at the time–with you, if memory serves.”

  “Ha! Ryan. He acts as if the minute I t
urn in my Sig, I’ll be opening my yap to everyone about my good old days at Acme.” I grab a roll from the basket in the middle of the table. I’m holding it so tightly that it’s crumbing in my fist. “If he thinks so little of me, why does he want me to vet my replacement?”

  “Beats me.” Jack downs his scotch, and signals our waitress for another. “You know, Donna, you can always tell him you’ve changed your mind and can’t take the time to do it.”

  “No! ...I mean…I’d feel awful if I left him short-handed.”

  The smirk on his face indicates he’s guessed my real reason for agreeing to do so: no one wants to believe they can be replaced. But should that day come, it’s better that you have the opportunity to choose your successor.

  At least, that way, you’re assured that you’re missed.

  He chuckles. “I get it. You’re pulling a Teddy Roosevelt.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  He leans in and whispers, “It means you’ve opened your yap so many times about walking away once Carl was finally out of the picture, now that it’s finally happened, you feel you can’t take it back.”

  “Who says I want to take it back?” My voice is shaking, but I can’t help it.

  “Admit it. You love what we do.”

  “Love is a pretty strong word, and certainly not one I’d use to describe how I feel about our gig.” Thrilling, for sure. Challenging, no doubt about it. Heart-stopping? Yes, on more than one occasion.

  Which brings up the real bone I have to pick with him. “Living the rest of my life in danger was never my end game. But, apparently, it’s yours.”

  His eyes darken. “You want me to retire too.”

  “Of course I do!” I crumble the bread roll in front of me. “And frankly, I thought you did too.”

  “Unlike you, my dear Mrs. Stone, I’ve got some unfinished business to complete under my current job title.”

  It’s my turn to sneer. “I presume you mean the delectable Tatyana Zakharov.”

  He frowns. “The last thing you need to be is jealous.”

  “Ha! Don’t flatter yourself.” I toss the breadcrumbs back into the basket. “I guess it’s too much to presume you’re avenging her attack on me.”

  He waits until the waitress puts a fresh drink in front of him before declaring, “It may surprise you to know that you’re not too far off from the truth.”

  “Then why haven’t I heard about her before now?”

  “Because I assumed she was dead.”

  “Obviously, she’s got nine lives, like a cat.” I take his hand in mine. “Look, with all we’ve been through, don’t you think it’s time I know how she fits into all of this?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes. But now that she’s part of our–I mean my latest mission–”

  I pull my hand away from his. “Oh. I see.” I see that this is how it will be from now on. I see that there will always be things that Jack will keep from me.

  At least, as long as he stays with Acme.

  I grab my purse and stand up.

  He looks up, surprised. “We ordered dessert, remember?”

  “I can’t afford it, either financially or physically. I’m no longer a honey pot. I won’t be running off extra calories anytime soon.”

  “I thought it was exactly what all you housewives do–you know, jog, or go to the gym, or to a yoga class.”

  “Shows you how little you know about ‘us housewives.’” I toss down a few twenties and head for the door.

  “Wait! Lunch was on me,” he insists.

  He’s got a point. I grab the bills and stuff them back into my wallet. “Sure, okay–now that you’re the sole breadwinner of the family.”

  But that doesn’t mean I’m waiting around until he finishes dessert.

  I’m moving on–with or without him.

  To say that Jack and I have yet to kiss and make up is an understatement. In fact, in the past forty-eight hours, he’s made no reference to our argument, which only makes me angrier.

  I show my hurt with a cold shoulder to every statement he makes to me, from yesterday morning’s “Hope you have a great day, honey,” (My silence speaks volumes) to last night’s “Pass the salt, please.” (I let one of the kids do it instead.)

  More to the point, my bird finger shows him exactly what I think of his happy-pappy platitudes.

  It takes him all day to take the hint and get out of my hair. As he goes out for his daily jog, he looks back at me through the window, only to see me stick out my tongue at him.

  Incredulous that I’d stoop so low, he chuckles as he trots down the street.

  Oh yeah? Well, we’ll see who has the last laugh.

  I wait until he’s gone a couple of moments before logging onto his computer–

  Um…what the heck? The password isn’t working…

  Why, that son of a bitch! He’s changed it!

  Okay, if it’s not my measurements, what else can it be?

  I try my birthdate–not my real one, but the one he thinks is correct.

  Nothing.

  Now I try my real birthdate.

  Again, nothing.

  The day we met. Our address. The day we first made love.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  Suddenly, it hits me: his world no longer revolves around me!

  Jack Craig has crossed a serious line.

  At the very least, we could have both kept up the pretense that he was sticking to protocol. I would have respected him for doing so, and especially had he pretended I’d somehow become clairvoyant and insightful when making out-of-the-blue declaratory statements about That Mission That We Dare Not Speak Of.

  There’s nothing left for me to do but sulk.

  Should that mean his computer somehow leaps off the table and onto the floor, so be it. When he asks how it happened, I’ll act innocent. Can I help it that the screen somehow got smeared with peanut butter, and our dogs, Lassie and Rin Tin Tin, knocked it over as they licked it clean?

  An hour later when he returns, I’m upstairs, busily cleaning out a closet. Even from that corner of the house I can hear his curses when he sees his cracked laptop screen.

  Poor Lassie and Rin Tin Tin scurry out the dog door.

  It hurts that Jack so completely ignores my sullenness!

  He even shrugs off the crack in his computer screen. “Time for a new MacBook anyway,” he declares blithely. “I’ll ask Ryan to acquisition one.”

  At the same time, he treats me as if I’m some petulant child who will forgive and forget because he’s brought home bonbons (my favorite, dark chocolate-covered almonds) or some trinket that commemorates our last mission together (in this case, a tiny diamond-encased casket for my charm bracelet).

  Talk about rubbing salt in the wound.

  Under normal circumstances, we’d have shared a laugh, a kiss, a night of lovemaking. And afterward, he’d beckon me into a leisurely shower that would have left us soaped up, sexed up, puckered-up and rosy, and eventually squeaky-clean.

  But now, as I pass Jack in the shower and he teasingly suggests that I join him, my answer is a long, lingering kiss–

  Right before I reach in and turn the shower’s handle to freezing cold.

  His curses aren’t exactly terms of endearment, but at least he no longer can pretend he doesn’t know where we stand.

  Or where we sleep, for that matter.

  He slams the door to the guest room.

  I already miss him, but before we kiss and make up, he’s got to show me a little respect, some real contrition, and give up at least a pound of flesh.

  As for Ryan, he’s wasted no time in linking me to Acme’s secure cloud that holds the dossiers of my possible replacements.

  I may think I’m irreplaceable, but considering that there are seventy-two of them, it’s obvious he’s got a very different opinion.

  As I flip through the dossiers, I delete the ones that for any reason don’t meet all four very specific criteria.

>   My first mandate is that she must be a crack shot, and already highly skilled in tactical maneuvers and weaponry. I don’t have time to teach her how to point a gun and squeeze a trigger, let alone break a man’s neck. And next, whereas I’ll give strong consideration to someone with military experience, I won’t discount those applicants with academic or tech backgrounds, acting experience, or street cred.

  (Yes, doing time won’t be a deterrent, either–depending on the circumstances that put her in the clink, and why the parole board deems her reformed enough to be released back into society.)

  This alone knocks twelve of the candidates out of the box, six of which have never held a gun in their lives. Considering that a large part of my job is exterminations, I can’t understand why Ryan included them in the mix. Was it because they wrote a great personal essay? My God, this isn’t a college application!

  A first kill is never easy. Very few of us can turn off that compassionate side of ourselves. Whether you’ve sliced a jugular vein, put a bullet in someone’s heart or given them just enough poison to watch them gasp at the realization of their last breath, it’s not easy watching another human being die.

  Which brings me to my second mandate. It’s much better that a sparrow has no emotional attachments. Quickly, I delete another twenty-four files–those with husbands, fiancés, and long-term lovers. I mean, let’s face it. Even if the man in her life is aware of what she does for a living, a man is lying if he declares it doesn’t bother him that she’s sleeping with the enemy.

  And for the clueless significant other, it’s inevitable that someday he’ll find out that part of her job description is whore and killer–both of which can be deal breakers in any relationship, especially if his mom gets wind of it.

  Having a license to kill puts your odds of survival at an all-time low. The fact that you don’t have a man in your life doesn’t mean you don’t have other very important attachments. The next to be eliminated are those candidates with children and living parents–those who you love dearly who will grieve your all but inevitable tragic demise. Another eleven dossiers hit the trash. Someday, these women will thank me.