The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol

by Josie Brown

Suddenly, Salem grabs ahold of my ankle. He jerks me onto my knees and is pulling me toward him.

  What the hell? He should be out cold, considering that the Taser has enough power to immobilize a raging bull! What are those pills he’s popping?

  The thought hits me too late that he may have a few more weapons at his disposal. I reach down and zap him again with the Taser, then I scramble away.

  He howls a string of curses in something other than English: another advantage to being multi-lingual.

  It’s so dark that I’ve lost my bearings. Still I rise to my feet in order to inch my way in what I hope is the opposite direction—

  Only to be burned on my calf by a jolt of electricity from the cattle prod. Now it’s my turn to cuss up a storm.

  The yacht gives yet one more lurch as it heaves to one side, and sends us rolling. In the dark I can’t tell which way is up—

  Until my back hits the door handle. Fucking ouch!

  I hear the sound of something slicing the air. It pierces the wall to the right above my head. Very carefully I reach for it—

  And cut my finger on the blade of the cleaver.

  I can’t stifle a yelp. Damn it, I’ve given myself away because I hear him scrambling toward me.

  Although in pain, I wrench the cleaver from the wall, swinging it as hard as I can in Salem’s direction.

  I hit something because he roars, “My fingers! …Why you…you cunt!”

  With whatever fingers he has left, he pulls me toward him. Now they are around my throat. I claw at his wrists as he chokes me, but I can’t make him stop. Soon my mind wanders to all the things that I should be doing:

  Lying in the sun. Listening to the waves lap at the shore.

  Laughing with my children.

  Making love to my husband.

  Instead, I let my hands drop to my side. At the same time, my hand falls onto the pointed pliers.

  I scoop them up—

  And stab him in the neck.

  I must have hit his jugular vein because my arm is sprayed with his blood.

  I feel his hands falling away from me. He gasps, but he cannot speak.

  He blacks out.

  The yacht convulses again—even harder this time. Once again, I’m slammed against the door.

  Frantically, I tap in the security pad with the code Salem used to open it, and turn the handle swiftly.

  Thank God it opens. For a second time, I’m spared death beside a man I’ve now killed twice.

  The hallway’s emergency lights are dim, but working. The Divide and Conquer is at such a precarious angle that I tumble into the hallway, along with some of Salem’s deadly toys.

  A finger rolls past me. It wears the ring with the Quorum crest.

  I pick it up and run with it. Mission accomplished—sort of.

  I open every door that is unlocked, hoping to find Jack. Most of the rooms are empty, so at least some of the women were aware enough to make their way to a higher bridge, even in their drugged states of consciousness. I wonder how many were helped by their rapists. My guess is very few.

  By now, several feet of water fill the hallway, as we tilt to the left—the port side of the yacht.

  I come across a door that is locked. I recognize it as the one holding all the captives in cages.

  I try Salem’s code and it opens.

  I sidestep the cages as they tumble forward. The prisoners can’t reach the latches that open their cage doors, but I can, and I do. Some of the women have already disconnected the IVs that have been drugging them, and are ready to run or swim for safety. Many assist those who are still too dazed to help themselves.

  As I watch the last woman stumble out the door, I realize that Gigi isn’t among them. Did Pinky Ring get his way with her after all?

  Hopefully, Jack accomplished his goal of stopping that cruel little toad.

  The water is now waist high. I’m about to join them in swimming to safety when I notice another closed room behind a set of double doors. At this point, the hallway is tilted so precariously that the doors are now above my head. To reach the lock pad, I have to jump up and grab the handle.

  As I hang onto it with one hand, I once again punch the code on the lock pad with the other.

  When the doors slide open, I am smacked down into the water by hundreds of foot-long by foot-wide clear plastic packets filled with the tiny beige pills.

  The packets may float, but I don’t. I pop up for air, pushing the packets out of the way, but there are so many of them and there is only four feet of air in the hall. Soon, I’m completely submerged again.

  I’m drowning.

  No. I won’t die this way.

  A glimpse of hope is the metal railing along the wall that now serves as the roof above me. If I reach it, I can follow it up the stairs.

  With all my might, I push down until I hit the wall that now serves as the floor, only to kick myself to the top. I extend my hands over my head in order to grasp for the railing—

  I miss.

  I gasp for air again. Considering that the hall now has only six inches of air to spare, there won’t be a next time.

  Before my hand disappears underwater, I feel something grabbing it—

  Another hand.

  A second later, an arm goes around my waist.

  I turn my head to I see my savior: Jack.

  My angel.

  We suddenly sail through the water toward the steps. We’re moving at lightning speed.

  I look down to see that Jack has a nylon rope around his waist.

  Jean-Pierre is pulling us toward the steps. I knew those broad shoulders were more than just man candy.

  Jean-Pierre’s brow, furled in fear, relaxes when he sees me with Jack. His arms work even more furiously to pull us all the way up the stairs to the next deck.

  By the time we reach him, I’m choking on all the salt water I’ve swallowed. Still, it doesn’t stop me from slobbering them both with kisses.

  “Run now, kiss later,” Jack commands me. “Let me give you a hand.”

  Instead, I hand him a finger—Salem’s.

  When he realizes what he’s holding, he laughs. “I think Ryan was expecting a full extraction.”

  “My bad. This will have to do.”

  He knows better than to argue. Holding my hand, he leads the way.

  Most of the second deck is still above the water line. “The hotel’s tender is starboard,” Jean-Pierre explains. “Unfortunately, Madame, you’ll have to jump back into the water and swim to it.”

  “And the sooner the better,” Jack warns. “The way this luxury coffin is taking on water, it’s going to capsize in no time—if it doesn’t blow first.”

  I nod. “Lead the way.”

  Jean-Pierre jumps first. He treads water while Jack and I follow suit.

  Our boat is a good twenty yards away, but I swim it joyfully, knowing full well the disaster we just escaped.

  After we clamber onboard, Jean-Pierre takes the wheel while Jack wraps me in one of the hotel’s robes.

  I kiss his cheek. “Thank goodness you found me when you did.”

  “Frankly, you should thank Jean-Pierre and Emma for that. With Emma’s instructions, Jean-Pierre was able to hack the ship’s security cameras. Even after Acme lost audio on you—and you with them—Emma could track you from the elevator to Salem’s torture chamber. Emma turned off the lights in the hope that you could dodge Salem long enough that I’d have time to get there.” He moves a damp tendril of my hair behind my ear. “As always, you were able to take care of yourself.”

  “That may be the case, but I hope you never stop trying. Next time, I may not be so lucky.”

  “Until I take my dying breath.” Jack’s voice cracks as he makes this vow.

  “Why did the yacht take on water?”

  “When Arnie hacked the yacht’s navigational system software, he thought he’d make it easier for Interpol to board it by bringing it to shore. Unfortunately, he’s not that great a SI
M pilot—especially when he’s input a speed that is twice as fast as it should be in a crowded bay. He turned to avoid sideswiping another super yacht and instead got rammed head-on by a joyriding speedboat.”

  “I presume that you couldn’t find Pinky Ring in the melee.”

  Jack scowls. “Sadly, no. The evacuation was a madhouse. The other yachts were gracious in making room for Salem’s waterlogged guests. I didn’t see which one of the rescue boats took him.”

  “Well, I had a run-in with him.” I shudder at the memory. “He wanted me for a little fun and games of his own, but Salem insisted he take Gigi instead.”

  “So, she’s alive!”

  “Yes—but barely. Jack, the hull also held a room full of captives—both women and men—in cages.”

  “Sex slaves?”

  “Yes, some of them were going to be sold to the highest bidders tonight. But Salem indicated that some were facing a worse fate—some sort of experiment on a very large scale. The Quorum is seeking financial partners for it.” I shake my head in wonder. “And another thing: he didn’t recognize me! Even without the mask and the wig, he didn’t realize who I was.”

  “Keep in mind: his last run-in with you almost killed him. Maybe it was traumatic enough to give him amnesia.” He smiles. “I have the opposite experience. When I’m with you, I forget that other women exist.”

  His sweet lie earns him a kiss.

  We linger together blissfully lip-locked until Jean-Pierre shouts, “Madame! Monsieur! Pinky Ring—he is standing on the dock!”

  The little cretin is not alone. The mystery woman is hustling Gigi into a waiting limousine.

  When Jean-Pierre sees Gigi, he puts the boat in top gear.

  Instinctively, Pinky Ring looks up. He frowns when he sees Jack. Does he recognize him? Suddenly he draws a gun and fires—

  Jack and I duck.

  The bullet hits Jean-Pierre.

  Our boat shoots beyond the dock.

  I crouch down beside Jean-Pierre. The wound is on his shoulder. Quickly, I grab a towel to staunch the blood streaming from it.

  In the meantime, Jack grabs the wheel and flips us back on course.

  By the time we reach the dock, the limo is gone. Jack and I carry Jean-Pierre’s unconscious body onto the dock.

  Duclos and his partner are the first officers to answer our emergency call. Recognizing Jean-Pierre, Duclos exclaims, “Ah! You see? As I said, he killed the girl. But because he cannot live with his guilt, he shoots himself too.”

  I slap his face before Jack can stop me.

  The only thing that keeps me from jail is the arrival of Interpol on Salem’s helicopter pad.

  We insist that the pilot first take Jean-Pierre to the nearest emergency hospital.

  As we fly off, I look down at the Divide and Conquer. The bow is now the only thing above the water line.

  It is a fitting crypt for Salem.

  Chapter 4

  Family Plot

  The family that plays together stays together.

  But they shouldn’t die together. Someone should be left to bury the bodies, right?

  Yet another reason to have secured a family plot before any unfortunate moments arise. When doing so, here’s what to look for:

  First, remember: those who die first get the choicest plot in the family lot. But there are times when it doesn’t pay to be first. (Yes, this is one of them.)

  Next, make sure it’s on high ground. Why? Simple! You don’t want a heavy rainstorm to send your dearly departed loved ones floating downstream—unless you’re worried that a court order to exhume one of their bodies will provide evidence needed to put you away for life.

  Also, no matter how rotten one or more of your relatives had been in life, it’s very poor form to request that they be placed in one mass grave.

  And, finally, don’t be stingy about the casket. Remember: the stronger it is, the less likely it’ll leak any unwelcome secrets.

  Cherry pie is a normal treat for the typical American family. Ergo, I, the mother of the Craig family, am making a cherry pie.

  It doesn’t matter that it is three in the morning, or that the rest of the household is sound asleep.

  In fact, I prefer it. This way, I can focus with precision on the task at hand instead of the countless other events that vie for a mother’s attention, often beckoning her to acknowledge, reward, and reciprocate as her pie goes up in flames.

  This early in the morning, I won’t be tempted to stop rolling out pie dough in order to match Trisha’s constant petting with a flurry of kisses.

  In the still of the night, I won’t be so fascinated by Jeff’s nonstop verbal replay of his latest baseball pitching victory that I forget to add almond extract to the mixture of sweet and sour pitted cherries already tossed with sugar, vanilla, lemon juice, and a little cornstarch.

  At the break of dawn, I’ll find it easier to crisscross strips of dough over my pie’s filling if I don’t have to resist the urge to laugh at Mary and Evan’s flirtatious banter.

  And I’d certainly miss the oven timer if I let Jack have his way with me in bed—

  Admittedly, it’s not easy choosing between great sex and great pie.

  This time, the latter comes first. The former is my just desserts.

  As it turns out, I’ve missed the former anyway, having fallen dead asleep just after putting the pie in the oven.

  Sunlight streaming through the kitchen window wakes me up. Or is it the sound of Jeff’s voice as he explains his new fastball technique to Evan?

  Maybe it’s because Trisha is gently stroking my cheek and whispering in my ear: “Dad says it’s okay for us to have pie for breakfast, but only if you say so too. Can we, please? Pretty please?”

  I nod, but then immediately wince to find Aunt Phyllis brewing—make that burning—the coffee, while Mary cuts the pie into generous wedges.

  Oh, my goodness! I guess I burned it—

  No, it’s a perfect golden brown.

  But, where is Jack?

  Before I can turn around to find him, I feel his arm around my shoulder, and then his lips on my cheek.

  Instinctively, my mouth turns to his. Our kiss is gentle but lingering. When we draw away, we find our children scrutinizing us. There are shy smiles on their faces and joy in their eyes.

  My hand beckons them to us for a group hug.

  In no time, I am enveloped in their loving arms.

  They’ve missed me—and not just because of my pie. But my having baked one makes this homecoming so much sweeter.

  “Mommy, while you were gone I had a very bad dream,” Trisha’s dire declaration is mumbled through a mouthful of pie.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask, as I try not to gag while gulping down the last of Phyllis’s bitter brew. Instead, I lean into my aunt, who sits beside me—my way of reassuring her that I appreciate all she does for Jack and me while we’re away.

  Phyllis pats my arm appreciatively. “Our baby screamed the last three nights in a row! I offered to climb into bed with her, but she wanted to be a big girl and tough it out.”

  Trisha nods, but when Aunt Phyllis gets up and goes to the counter for yet another cup of coffee, she cups her hand to my ear and whispers, “Really, it’s because Aunt Phyllis snores. Mommy, can you come sleep with me instead?”

  “If you want, yes, of course,” I promise. “Honey, would you like to talk about it?”

  “I asked her that too, but Trisha wanted to wait until you came home,” Mary squeezes her little sister’s hand.

  “Well, your dad and I are here now,” I say, hoping my smile encourages her.

  Trisha blushes. “Daddy may be mad when he hears about it.”

  Jack shakes his head. “I could never be mad at you, sweet pea. Ever.” He crosses his heart to make his point.

  Trisha nods slowly, but her lip quivers. “Okay…” She sighs. “It’s the same dream all the time, only it doesn’t seem like a dream because it’s so real! In it, my o
ther daddy—the bad one—is in the room with me.”

  Everyone’s fork freezes in mid-air.

  Mary frowns. As the oldest of my children, her memories of her biological father took longer to fade during his five-year absence from their young lives. When Carl resurfaced, she had the hardest time reconciling his desertion with her adoration of Jack. Carl’s terrorist acts may have given her yet another excuse to hate him, but he was still her father.

  Trisha’s nightmares are yet one more reminder of how Carl tore our family apart.

  On the other hand, Jeff leans in, fascinated. His way of dealing with his own close call with terrorism is to approach it dispassionately, and to research it methodically.

  Would it be better if his sisters took the same approach? It’s hard to say. Each of us has processed the same trauma in our own way.

  My solution was to become an assassin. Literally, I killed the cause of our distress. But I would not want my children to have taken that path.

  Apparently, Trisha’s is to dream about the father she never knew. Will talking about it make what few memories she has about him fade? Perhaps, which is why I ask: “What happens in your dream?”

  “He stands at the foot of my bed, and tells me how much he loves us all and misses us, and how he wishes he’d never left us, especially since he missed me being born.” She wipes away a tear. “The first night he came, I told him that we aren’t mad at him anymore, now that he’s gone. But then, last night he told me that if we wanted him to, he’d come back. All we have to do is say so.” Tears glaze her eyes. “Mommy, I don’t want him here, but I don’t want to tell him that because it might hurt his feelings.” She pauses. Out of the corner of her eye, she looks at Jack. “Besides, we already have a daddy, and we love him very much.”

  Jack pulls her close for a hug. “He isn’t coming back, Trisha. And your mother and I will always be here to love and protect you.”

  She nods emphatically. “I know. I just don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “You can’t because he’s not real,” Jeff assures her.

  “But…I saw him!” Trisha insists. “I swear!”