The Housewife Assassin's Husband Hunting Hints

by Josie Brown

  Slowly and methodically, his hands follow the contours of my naked body, hovering mere inches from my skin. He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. Should I be worried that there is desire in his eyes? Wouldn’t it be worse for me—for Jack—if there were none?

  Since Jack, I’ve kept my honeypot days to a minimum. That’s not to say that I haven’t had my fair share of slaps and tickles, but the hanky-panky stopped before the point of no return—for me, anyway.

  As for my targets, if I didn’t turn them or apprehend them, I killed them.

  In regard to Eric, the first two alternatives aren’t going to happen. The third creates an undesirable conundrum, since I need to play him as long as possible.

  Decisions, decisions. What should I do if he licks, bites, or penetrates me? Do I just stand here and take it?

  Hell no, that’s not part of our deal.

  I could lift a knee straight up into his chin and knock him out cold. With a quick twist of my wrists, I could break his neck—

  But then I’d lose Jack forever.

  So I keep my cool and stay as still as a statue.

  I look down to see him staring at the tiny puncture on the back of my left thigh. When he moves his index finger toward it, I steel myself from flinching.

  He stops himself from touching it.

  Instead, he kisses it.

  Finally, Eric murmurs, “Exquisite, even with the mosquito bite. But despite all temptations, one must not mix business with pleasure.” He rises again in order to saunter back to the bed, and lowers himself on it, as if he owns it. When he nods, I head for the closet.

  I try not to shiver at the thought of him scrutinizing me from behind.

  Instead, I pull out a pair of sleek black leather slacks with one hand, and a sheer white silk blouse with the other.

  Eric shrugs. “That will do for the flight to your next destination, but not for the mission. For that, you’ll need something a bit more…shall we say, seductive?”

  “Perhaps if you explained the task at hand, I could pack accordingly.”

  “Nothing too complicated, my dear. You’re to attend a cocktail party at the Russian consulate in San Francisco. There, you’ll rendezvous with a dear old friend of mine, and hand him this.” He puts a thumb drive in my palm, then closes my hand over it. For a moment, his hand lingers there as he strokes my knuckles.

  "What is it exactly?"

  "Are you sure you want to know?"

  "If I'm going down for treason, I should at least know why."

  He laughs uproariously. “It’ll be a cakewalk! No need to worry your pretty little head.”

  "Who is my contact?" I ask.

  "His name is Konstantin Sumarokov. He is a deputy trade representative." He looks at his watch. "I'll tell you more on the way to the airport.”

  I didn’t like the set-up for several reasons. First, handing off anything of national importance to a Russian intelligence agent would make me a traitor. And secondly, the consulate’s video surveillance would be sure to document my deed—if not to convict me, then to blackmail me at a later date.

  But there’s nothing I can do about it except to get dressed.

  And perhaps satisfy Eric’s question as to my loyalty, at least enough that he’d let his guard down.

  He’s in for a real show. I pluck a gold lamé gown from the closet, and hold it in front of me. “Will this do?”

  Eric gives his approval with a sly smile.

  I lay it on the bed beside him. He strokes the gown’s bodice, as if imagining me in it. When I bought it, I imagined Jack doing the same, with a similar look of longing in his eyes.

  I saunter to the dresser, where I pull out a nude thong panty. I hold it up to admire before letting my gaze fall on Eric. He nods.

  He watches as I slip into it. Next, I pull out a matching push-up bra. I position it over my breasts, but when I reach around to fix the clasp, he is standing behind me. “Let me help you with that.”

  I stop.

  He takes this as my tacit approval.

  As he hooks the clasp, his fingers brush against my back.

  I resist the urge to ram my fist into his neck and crush his esophagus.

  I’ll save that thrill for when I know Jack is safe.

  Just one of the many things we do for love.

  Chapter 4

  Jack’s Diary, Day 1

  Donna…

  Ah, hell, my head is killing me.

  Keep it together, Jack. Focus.

  Just…

  Focus.

  Okay, here goes:

  Donna, my love, I don’t know how long I’ve been out of it, but I presume by now you’ve figured out I’m gone.

  I know you well enough to realize you’ll do everything in your power to find out how it happened, and, eventually, where they’ve taken me.

  In the meantime, I’ll do my best to escape, or at least to stay alive until we’re together again.

  Because, yes, I swear to you: I won’t die this way.

  In the meantime, for my own sanity, I’m making a mental diary of everything that happens to me. As we both know all too well, every little detail comes in handy.

  I’ll also leave a trail of breadcrumbs. So far, it isn’t ideal: my blood on a button from a head wound—but, thankfully, not from a bullet.

  By now, my guess is that Arnie has pulled the hotel’s security video, and Acme knows my abductors were a woman playing housekeeper, as well as some guy acting as her muscle. You’ll also see that they towed me away in a laundry bin.

  Sadly, I drifted off before I could hear or see anything that might give you an idea as to which direction we’re headed.

  Shit, I wonder how long I’ve been out?

  I have no sensory perception, either, because my mouth is gagged, I’m blindfolded, and I’m hogtied in some kind of padded box.

  Mariachi music plays on the radio, which means we’re still in California, or perhaps Arizona.

  Or else we’ve crossed the border into Mexico—

  Oh…

  Fuck.

  My head slams against the top of my coffin. I must have fallen asleep again, but the road is so bumpy now that my bones seem to rattle in my skin.

  It must be daylight because this box is a hellish inferno.

  “Ay, Dios mio!” Someone yells. Translation: Oh, my God.

  It sounds as if he’s right beside me.

  Another voice answers him: “Shut up, Pedro! This culero will kill you for sneezing, let alone for talking.”

  Belligerently, Pedro retorts, “¡Me vale madres!”

  “Si, hombre,” the other man hisses, “You certainly will ‘give a fuck’ when he comes in here and blasts us to Kingdom Come!” He sighs. “Why did I listen to you? Robbing from El Maestro—what was I thinking?”

  “You were thinking of your mother’s operation, and your little brother’s future should he stay in the poppy fields, and of your pregnant girlfriend! If we hadn’t gotten caught, we could have gotten them out of Paraíso, and eventually over the border—”

  “But we did get caught! My God, Pedro! Do you know what El Maestro will do to us? My mother and my brother and my girlfriend will see my head hanging from a post in the plaza!” He kicks the side of my box. “See these boxes? Do you know what they keep in here? They are not the dead, amigo! They are los condenados—the condemned! They are going to El Maestro’s hellhole—and so are we.” Pedro’s friend sobs uncontrollably.

  The driver must have heard him too, because the van rolls to a complete stop.

  Both men stop talking. It’s almost as if they’ve stopped breathing.

  We can all hear it: the engine stops. The driver lets loose with a long sigh. Finally, the door on the driver’s side opens.

  Pedro’s friend whimpers through the Lord’s Prayer in Spanish.

  Heavy footsteps make their way to the back of the van. The click of metal—like a key finding its niche in a lock.

  “¡Cállate!” Pedro hisses. His fr
iend does what he says: he shuts up.

  The creak of hinges on a metal door as it opens. The van drops an inch as someone steps in.

  Silence.

  “Who’s the loudmouth?” the driver growls.

  Neither man says anything.

  “Speak up, or I’ll shoot you both.”

  Again, silence. Then Pedro’s friend whimpers, “No, no no…!”

  A shot goes off.

  Footsteps move toward the door. There’s a thump as they hit the pavement. The door slams shut. The lock clicks into place.

  I smell shit. Pedro must have shit his pants, or the body of his dead friend has evacuated itself.

  Or else it was one of the other condemned who are locked in a box like me.

  This El Maestro guy must be a drug lord who does business with the Quorum.

  If so, you may never find me, Donna.

  I’ll have to find my way back to you.

  I will, I promise, darling, no matter what.

  Chapter 5

  Kiss and Make Up

  Dear wives, the first rule of marriage is, simply this: never go to bed angry.

  Granted, there will be times in which you feel as if Hubby is being pig-headed and unreasonable, and that nothing you say will change his mind.

  You’re probably right.

  Still, ’tis no reason to pout the night away. Instead, remember this axiom:

  Actions speak louder than words.

  And speaking of axioms and actions, no better time to also remember that nicely sharpened axe in the woodshed. One swing and (preferably) a miss, and he’ll be ready to talk turkey! In fact, he’ll probably be jabbering his head off, begging you to “remember how much we love each other,” and how he didn’t mean what he said, that he was just teasing, and to remind you how bad it looks to the cops when you go off half-cocked—

  Which will jog your memory as to the gun you hide in your unmentionables drawer.

  Pointed at a certain appendage, at that point you can ask, “Oh, yeah? Now what’s half-cocked?”

  No doubt it’ll be an answer you both agree on, and therefore no need to go to bed angry.

  Eric is accompanying us in the limo to John Wayne International Airport, but he insists he will not be joining us on this mission. “Varick will be at your side. Gunter will shadow you as well,” he assures me with a pat on my hand.

  Gunter’s acknowledgement of this is a grunt, whereas Varick honors me with a seductive smirk.

  Eric hands me a United Airlines ticket booked for SFO.

  “Not a private jet?” I can’t help but laugh. “And I’m to fly coach at that! I was under the impression that the Quorum spared no expense for its operatives.”

  Eric shrugs. “I’ll need the jet later today. When you're done with your mission, you and the others will once again rendezvous with me.” He opens the valise that was handed to him by Hugo when he entered the limo. Inside are glasses, a blond wig, and a wallet. “Wear these as you go through TSA. Familiarize yourself with your new identity.”

  I open the wallet to find a driver’s license. It tells me that I’m Mona Henshaw from San Jose, California.

  “Mona is attending the reception at the Russian Consulate. When you get there, you can skip the glasses.” Eric shrugs. “We want all the boys to make passes, now don’t we?”

  I frown. “You tell me.”

  “Just one in particular.” He pulls a photo from his inside breast pocket. It is of a man: broad-shouldered and quite handsome, in his mid-thirties. However, his face has an ugly scar on one cheek. “There will be a string quartet playing Russian classics. A man by the name of Konstanin Sumarokov will ask you to dance a waltz. Of course you’ll say yes. Somehow, you’ll end up in an alcove with him, all the better to take in an incomparable view of the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “Sounds scrumptious.”

  “Remember, Mrs. Craig, these things can turn deadly if you don’t take them seriously.”

  “I told you, I’ll do anything to get Jack back, alive and well.”

  “Then you’ll hand off the thumb drive to Konstantin. Once he ascertains that the data is real, you’ll be allowed to leave with your escorts.” Eric nods toward Varick and Gunter.

  I pull the memory stick from the outside pocket of my valise and hold it up to him. “How will your pal know it’s legitimate?”

  “He may not, but being a scientist, he knows the encryption code that opens the file, my pet.” He shakes out the wig and tosses it into my lap.

  “If it isn’t the right code, will I be allowed to leave anyway?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately, no.” He shakes his head in mock mournfulness. “It’s a chance you’ll have to take.”

  “Why me? Why not one of your goons here?” I lean back against the seat. “For that matter, why not you?”

  “In the world of espionage, I am God. And like God, I may not be seen, but my presence is felt everywhere.” He waves a hand in Varick’s direction. “As for your entourage, neither of them can carry off gold lamé, although I’d bet Varick would be willing to try.”

  Varick shakes his head vigorously. “Not really. Gold is the only shade that does nothing for my skin tone.”

  “You’d have better luck if you stayed out of the tanning booth,” I mutter. Still, my grimace is for Eric. “For that matter, how do I know you aren’t just setting me up as a traitor, so that I end up in jail, and Jack gets killed anyway?”

  “A set-up? What would be the fun in that? Donna, let me make something perfectly clear. I want you to succeed.” Eric winks broadly. “And something tells me you’ll enjoy these little tests as much as I do.”

  He may be right—not that I’d let him know it. “Eric, we have a deal: four trials, then I get Jack: safe, sound, and in one piece.”

  His ghoulish grin fades. “Mrs. Craig, if I’m nothing else, I’m a man of my word."

  We shall see.

  I put the thumb drive back in the valise pocket. At the same time, I pull out a mirror. I look at my reflection as I position the wig on my head.

  Varick obviously thinks that "Mona Henshaw" is quite a looker because he gives me a wink and a grin.

  I honor him with a middle-finger salute. Just keepin' it real.

  The TSA security line snakes through a queue that eventually breaks into six smaller lines, each with its own scanning machine. Gunter is in front of me, Varick is behind me. Both were smart enough to allow other passengers to get in between us.

  I don't notice until I'm asked for my driver's license by the guard at the first station that I recognize his voice:

  Abu.

  He frowns as he scrutinizes Mona's license, then in a low voice murmurs, "Does the rug match the drapes?"

  I have to purse my lips to keep from guffawing.

  Loudly, he proclaims, "Take the line on the far left."

  I put away my license and head over in the direction he pointed.

  Arnie is working the scanner.

  I look ahead. Gunter was sent to the far right. Dominic is standing beside the line's body scanner. He has darkened his hair, and wears glasses, along with a Fu Manchu mustache. I pray he doesn't attempt an American accent. Even a Teutonic cretin like Gunter might spot it as a fake.

  As Gunter enters the machine, it beeps loudly. Gunter looks up, startled. He scowls as Dominic runs the security baton over him and it beeps again.

  By the time I reach Arnie, Dominic has ushered Gunter into a small room, and shut the door behind them.

  A strip search? That ought to be fun.

  By now, Abu has put Varick in the scanner line with the longest queue of all. One of the guards working it is Emma. Varick seems to be panicking. I guess he thinks I'll bolt.

  Hardly. I'm having too much fun watching my team at play.

  I put the thumb drive in the security tray along with my cellphone.

  Arnie yawns, then picks it up. How can I get word to him that it's intel vital to national security?

  Almost as if r
eading my mind, Arnie winks at me. He also motions me through the scanner. I walk through slowly, to give him the time he needs to do whatever voodoo that he does so well.

  Even as I leave the body scanner, my valise is rolling off the X-ray machine, along with the security tray with my cellphone.

  The thumb drive is gone.

  The second I pick up my phone, it buzzes with a text.

  I glance around before answering. Gunter is stuck in TSA purgatory, while Varick is waiting behind another four people before he gets his chance at the body scanner. Angrily, he tosses his pair of very expensive John Lobb brogues in a security bin.

  Just sitting down on one of the benches beyond the security area gives me the coverage I need to read the text:

  Bugged E's limo, and his goon's room and yours, so know your destination as well as contents of the drive. Need time to break encryption, scan, and hand off a dupe. Will do it on plane. Later baby! PS: This message self-destructs in 3…2…

  What a nut.

  I look up just as Varick is coming out of the body scanner. I wave him over as if we're old pals.

  He is not amused.

  What, can't take a joke? Too bad.

  In case someone is watching, he walks just beyond me, but he's still close enough to hear my taunt, "What took you so long?"

  He's about to snap at me when we both notice Gunter rushing from the security safe room. He looks as if he's going to bust a gut, he's so angry. He's sputtering what I presume to be German cuss words.

  Varick walks just past him, and cuts him short with a steely stare. "Let's get to our gate, shall we?" he hisses.

  He takes off first. I examine my lips in my compact, as if I have all the time in the world. I wait until he's some thirty feet in front of me before following.

  Gunter is grabbing his suitcase, which has been waiting for him at the end of the TSA station’s conveyor belt.

  By now, I'm sure a tracker has been sewn into it.

  If I had my way, it would be a bomb that went off when I pushed the detonator once I’m far away from the cretin. I'll see what Arnie can do about that.