The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol

by Josie Brown

  Gigi.

  “Oh, mon Dieu!” Jean-Pierre shouts so loudly that I cover my ear.

  She is seen lying on the beach with her friends, Nicolette and Suzette. “As you see, this potential recruit has no direction in her life,” Welles says. “When taken in by us—under no duress, mind you, and that is very important—she gives us a full dossier in personal intel: family members, friends, intimates, as well as her memories at every age. From that, we are able to discern her greatest fear, and turn it into her greatest loss—a post-traumatic stress, if you will.” He pauses grandly. “With loss comes grief. With grief comes resolve. Our goal is to turn her resolve into revenge.”

  The video now shows her strapped down on a laboratory table. Electrodes protrude from her head. Next to it are three monitors, each attached to a different machine: a PET scan, an MRI scanner, and a digital infrared camera for thermographic imaging.

  “The human brain has millions of neurons, each covered in tiny filaments known as dendrites. While they never touch, they communicate via the synapses—or spaces—between them. Our emotional memories, say fear or hate, or for that matter, love—are stored in a group of neurons called the amygdala, which is located here”—he points to the spot between Gigi’s eyes—“in the temporal lobe.” He gazes around the room. In answer to some of the awestruck faces he sees, he chuckles. “Bored, perhaps, with this science lesson? Here’s where it becomes interesting. You see, we plant a false memory—in this case, the death of a dear intimate at the hands of a militant government agency. First, you’ll see the memory itself.”

  The next scene is a video of a SWAT team surrounding Jean-Pierre. Despite kneeling with his hands behind his head, despite the fact that he’s begging for his life, they riddle his body with bullets.

  The last thing he’s heard shouting is, “Gigi—Donna! Save me!”

  Why me too?

  “Once the memory is planted, we embellish it with others. The recruit is now open to ways in which she can seek revenge in order to right the wrong. To accomplish her goal, she will even consent to changes in her physicality.” The video now shows quick scene cuts of Gigi working out through the course of each day since we last saw her. By the last shot she is toned and muscular.

  The screen goes black.

  In his next sentence, Dr. Welles explains why: “For us to see the extreme lengths to which she is now willing to go, you’ll follow me. We have buses set up to take us on a little field trip.”

  The crowd drones excitedly as it eagerly moves out of the room and into the lobby.

  “That fantasy—it was not me!” Jean-Pierre insists. “I swear on…on Nicolette’s grave!”

  “We don’t doubt you,” Ryan declares. “Jean-Pierre, you must focus on the task at hand.”

  “Oui, Monsieur.” The resolve in Jean-Pierre’s voice is clear and resolute.

  As I fall into line, I hear Ryan say, “Jack, turn around and get on that bus with Donna! She may need backup.”

  “On it,” Jack whispers.

  As one of the last people on the bus, I end up near the front of it.

  Norbert Welles comes up behind me.

  I take the only seat available—

  Next to my ex-husband Carl.

  No. Oh…no.

  “What are the odds?” Emma squeals into my ear.

  You’re telling me.

  “Excuse me, Madame, but you’re sitting in my seat.” Welles is clearly annoyed that he can’t sit near his fearless leader.

  Carl looks me over appraisingly. “Where are your manners, doctor? A gentleman always gives a lady the last seat.”

  As we pull away from the curb, I see Jack, running for the bus.

  He is too late.

  I don’t look at Carl. Instead, I look out the window at the car in the next lane.

  Oh, my God, it’s Jean-Pierre.

  To keep from drawing attention to him, I look front and center instead. I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses. Otherwise, Carl might see the dread so obviously in my eyes.

  Suddenly, he lays his hand over mine.

  Yes, it is quite real. So real, in fact, that when I try to slip out from under it, he holds tightly to it, willing me to look his way.

  When I acquiesce, he declares, “Trust me; you’ll enjoy our little field trip.”

  I pray my lips aren’t quivering as I reward him with a shy smile.

  “That’s better,” he murmurs.

  Ryan implores, “Jean-Pierre, move in front of the bus—now!”

  Jean-Pierre slides over, causing our bus to stop short.

  Instinctively, Carl’s hand reaches for the safety rail on the seat in front of us.

  I reach for his jacket pocket instead, dropping one of the tiny slim GPS disks into it.

  We don’t go far, just a half-mile north to Wilshire Boulevard, and then west.

  The bus stops two blocks from Santa Monica’s open-air mall, the Third Street Promenade.

  I don’t like the feel of this.

  One of the Quorum’s convention monitors comes our way. She’s frowning. I hold my breath to see if she stops to say something to Carl—or worse, to me.

  But no, she stops at the seat in front of us, where Mr. KKK sits next to a dude whose whole head is covered with a tattoo of a coiled rattlesnake. Mr. KKK is told in no uncertain terms that he is to take off his robe and stash it under his seat.

  He does so, meekly. Without it, he could pass for a mild-mannered accountant: khakis and a golf shirt, and a baseball cap over snowy white hair.

  Everyone rises to get off the bus. I move in behind Dr. Welles, and Carl moves in behind me. As I slip another of my GPS disks into Welles’s coat pocket, I feel my bum being patted by Carl’s very real hand.

  How dare he!

  As we leave the bus, the convention moderator warns us, “Stay in groups of two or four. In no more than ten minutes, gather on the top floor of the Barnes & Noble, on the east side of the promenade. You’ll have a great view of our little event from there. Look south, on the west side of the promenade, toward the store called Haute Hipster. Take note of where the bus is located, because after the event you’ll want to reserve a few memory modification slots for your new recruits. The slots are offered on a first come-first serve basis. Remember, we offer very reasonable payment terms…”

  Oh. Shit.

  I walk quickly so that I’m in the thickest part of the crowd, which is already entering the bookstore.

  I pray Carl isn’t following.

  As if reading my mind, Emma murmurs, “Don’t worry, he’s talking to the bitchy convention monitor…Oh, my God, can you believe it? He’s putting the moves on her too—”

  “Yeah, I believe it,” I mutter. Once a man-whore, always a man-whore.

  While the hate-mongers eagerly make their way up the escalator to the top floor of the bookstore, I duck out and head toward the restroom, in the back of the store.

  On my way in, I slip my badge into the pocket of a store employee. At the same time, I snatch a pair of reading glasses from a rack.

  I enter into the restroom, where I take off my jacket, stuffing it into the trash can. I yank my hair out of its chignon so that it falls to my shoulders, and put on the reading glasses.

  When I walk out of the bathroom, I pile a stack of books in my arms, as if I’m an employee.

  The Quorum monitor is herding the last of the conventioneers toward the escalator. She doesn’t notice me as I pass her because I’ve ducked behind my stack.

  Carl isn’t on the escalator. Where did he go? Hopefully, far away from me. Maybe he’s already on the top floor.

  With that in mind, I drop my books at the front desk and rush out of the store.

  As quickly as I can, I move toward the Haute Hipster, staying flush to the storefronts on the east side of promenade so that I can’t be spotted from the Barnes & Noble’s window.

  I am almost there when I see her.

  Only she is no longer Gigi.

  She is me.
>
  She moves slowly toward the Haute Hipster. She is still four storefronts away. Although it’s a clear and cloudless mid-summer day, she is wearing a bulky raincoat. Despite the warmth of the hot lazy afternoon, she is shivering.

  Passersby ignore the woman whose eyes are filled with tears. She puts her hands over her ears, as if she’s trying to shut out the voices in her head.

  I can imagine what they tell her, “Do it! Go ahead, do it!”

  “It” is the unimaginable.

  “It” is supposed to even the score.

  In truth, “it” never does.

  But Gigi no longer knows right from wrong. She has lost the ability to reason. To remember. To care.

  Maybe I can bring these feelings back to her.

  As I run toward her through the thick throng of shoppers, I notice someone else is coming up to her as well:

  Heinried Müller.

  To get her attention, he waves at her. Once he has it, he mouths Jean—Pierre.

  It does the trick: she finds her resolve.

  She reaches under her coat and pulls out a placard. It reads:

  TERRORISTS ARE ALL AROUND YOU

  She holds it up in the air for all to see.

  Passing shoppers take notice. Half of them shake their heads at what they think is yet another crazy homeless woman in paradise. The other half pull out their cell phones to take her picture.

  Just another day in America.

  She walks the final few steps that put her in front of the store. Just as she turns to go in, she places her hand in the pocket of her coat and pulls out a cell phone.

  She looks around once more—

  And sees him, running toward her:

  Jean-Pierre.

  His scream—“Gigi! No, no, no”—comes too late.

  Yes, she hears him shout her name. Yes, she turns around to see him. And yes, the memory of him puts a look of sheer joy in her eyes, and a smile on her lips—

  Until she is no more.

  Just as she reaches for the vest bomb beneath her raincoat, I duck into a tavern and hold on tight to its metal door’s handle.

  Through the door’s porthole window, I watch as glass and steel and body parts fly in all directions. Even hanging on for dear life, my body is pulled sideways. Everything and everyone else in the tavern is blown toward the back door.

  It seems like forever, but it’s only a few seconds until gravity drops my feet toward the floor again. The silence immediately after the blast seems to go on forever, until I realize my eardrums have been blown out. Then suddenly, the moans of fear and screams from pain fill the void left by our shock and disbelief.

  I run out to find Jean-Pierre. Like everyone else, he was thrown off his feet. Luckily, he was tossed against a vendor’s tent that was filled with tables of folded shawls and scarves. He has already crawled out, dazed. I make my way over to him, but my staggering steps can’t compete with the adrenaline rush he feels when he sees Heinried, dazed, walking away from the debris field.

  Jean-Pierre runs after the older man.

  Sensing him, Heinried turns around. At the sight of Jean-Pierre, Heinried sprints right, down Arizona Avenue.

  I run after them.

  I’ve just about caught up to Jean-Pierre when I see it all: the light, changing to red. The pedestrian crossing sign is flashing a big red hand, the universal language to stop, and a Santa Monica Big Blue Bus is charging north on Ocean Avenue.

  Heinried doesn’t notice it because he’s looking back in order to see if Jean-Pierre is still following him.

  Noting the look of fear in Heinried’s eyes, Jean-Pierre, still a block away, sprints even faster—

  But stops short when Heinried finally looks forward—

  As opposed to his left. Otherwise, he would have seen the bus that is moving too fast to stop.

  When he’s hit, he goes flying onto a car. As he hits its windshield, the car swerves in a circle. He’s flung off onto the road. Every ambulance or police car that whizzes around the bus on its way to the scene of the explosion pummels Heinried’s corpse.

  By the time the last one rolls over him, I’ve caught up to Jean-Pierre at the street corner.

  Jean-Pierre laughs hysterically. It is the only way he can keep from crying over Gigi.

  When Jack finds us, I am still holding our dear friend in my arms.

  Chapter 15

  Four Pardons and a Funeral

  At a memorial service, one must be on one’s best behavior. Here are some definite don’ts, especially if the departed was less friend than enemy:

  1: Just because the deceased is lying in an open casket and has your undivided attention, curb your natural tendency to eulogize her with smack. No doubt others will agree with you, but there is a time and a place for everything.

  2: It is truly very bad form to steal her funeral flowers. Despite your fondness for ranunculus, walking off with a horseshoe wreath touting the deceased’s name is a petty act, unworthy of you. And, besides, where would you hang it?

  3: Don’t be the only person wearing bright pink. It may suit your skin tone much better than black, but there are less obvious ways of demonstrating that you didn’t really give a damn about her. For example, you can show up with her now ex-boyfriend, explaining that you had hoped to comfort him during his time of grief. You’ll know just what to do to have him smiling in no time.

  “Until you arrive home, I’ve created a media black-out here at your house,” Arnie informs us. “Other than Emma and my connections with Acme’s SatCom, no WiFi, cellular, or land line, or other communication devices of any kind can penetrate the blackout field. That way, your children can’t be informed about your, er, ‘imminent demise’ until they see you’re alive and well, no matter what else they hear or see to the contrary.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you for that, Arnie—because what they’ll hear won’t be pretty by any means.”

  That their mother is a known terrorist who has maimed or killed innocent people who just want to live their lives in peace…

  That, once again, they will be the neighborhood pariahs…

  That doing my job means making hard choices—none of which allow us to be “normal.”

  I sigh mightily. I’m still stunned, and exhausted.

  I’m not the only one. Jack is driving us home while Jean-Pierre sits in the back seat, staring out the window. Gigi was his mission: his quest. Getting so near to her only to lose her again seems to have broken his spirit. He too will never know “normal.”

  He must regret he ever met us. This is one of those situations in life when not knowing an outcome is better, if only to allow one to hold onto some glimmer of hope.

  “Great news! Abu and Dominic rescued the missing agents,” Emma announces in our ears.

  “So…so they were the hot spots in the big conference room after all?” I’m still so dazed myself that I’m only partially focused on what Jack is saying.

  “Yes! And Dominic and Abu were in luck. Since all of the conventioneers were at the mind modification demonstration, only a skeleton crew was left to guard the kidnapped agents. Before they eliminated the guards, I put the hotel’s security cams on a loop so that anyone monitoring the hotel via long distance wouldn’t be alerted to it. Then I unlocked the doors.” She sighs. “The agents were tethered to hospital beds, and hooked up to machines that were monitoring their brains. They were dazed, but they were able to go out a fire exit. They are now safely in the custody of the FBI.”

  Jack laughs. “I would have loved to have seen the look on Carl’s face when he came back to that empty room.”

  “How about the fact that Heinried Müller, a.k.a., Pinky Ring—gets killed by a bus—twice!” Emma marvels. “Talk about bad karma.”

  “Hey, and guess what?” Arnie exclaims. “Dominic and Abu are sitting in on the kidnapped agents’ debriefings. We did the FBI another solid, too: Emma pulled archival webcam footage of the convention’s registration, then cross-referenced it wit
h our facial recognition software. Bingo! Almost sixty domestic terrorist leaders! You’d think that would soften up the Feds toward us.”

  “Yeah, you think?” I lean my head back on the headrest of my seat and close my eyes.

  Jack pats my hand. “Donna, are you okay?”

  “Am I…okay? No, Jack! I’m dead. Remember? And I’m a terrorist! I blew up innocent people—”

  He shakes his head. “You did nothing of the sort! A brainwashed young woman whose features were altered to look like you did it. And she fought the urge to do it up until the very last second of her life. Her DNA will prove it.”

  “It doesn’t stop the world from thinking otherwise,” I reason. “The act was captured on the mall’s security cameras, and quite a few cell phones too. I’m sure it’s all over social media. If they aren’t already, any moment now the FBI will be storming the house again, but this time they’ll be looking for you—who now looks like Number Fourteen on their Most Wanted list. We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” My eyes open wide at my next thought: “Oh, my God! How do you think our children will react when their friends show them replays of me, blowing myself up?”

  “Some friends,” Emma grumbles.

  “This may cheer you up,” Arnie declares. “I had a chance to look at Gordon’s webcam footage. Müller is the one who slit his throat.”

  “So you hacked the feed? Great!” Jack exclaims. “I’m in the clear.”

  “Well, that makes one of us,” I mutter.

  Emma hushes me with a warning: “Ryan has briefed POTUS on the mission by phone! He wants me to patch you in, too.”

  “’Bout damn time,” I grumble. “A pardon can’t come soon enough.”

  We hear a couple of clicks on the line, then: “Donna, and Jack? It’s Ryan, with President Chiffray.”

  “Hello, Mr. President,” Jack and I say in unison. Guess which one of us is rolling his eyes? Oops, did I just give it away? So sorry.

  “I want to thank you for alerting the FBI in the surveillance of these known terrorists, and the discovery of the missing covert operatives,” Lee says. “It was truly an awesome assist.”