The Housewife Assassin's Husband Hunting Hints

by Josie Brown

  The silence goes on for so long that at first I think I’ve lost the feed.

  Finally, Daniel sighs. “Alright.” He chuckles. “And all this time I thought you abhorred my leaping into bed with all those beautiful women!”

  “Oh…that?” She laughs. “It’s a charade! You love playing to the cameras. But you love me even more.”

  “And I always will.” The fervency in his voice is proof that he’s willing to give up the game of spy versus spy for her.

  Can he just lead a normal life? For some spooks, it’s a fantasy. For others, it’s a nightmare.

  I tried to get out. I couldn’t.

  With all that has happened over the past few days, I wonder if Jack would do the same.

  I guess I’ll know when I see him.

  His decision will be mine as well.

  Chapter 10

  Jack’s Diary, Day 5

  Dear Donna,

  This morning the guards finally let me out of my hellhole.

  From the passage of light sifting through the grates far above my head, my guess was that it was my home for the past two days. You’d think that since I’d been subsisting on only rice and beans that I’d be weak, but no. I guess nothing energizes you more than knowing that your every move can make the difference between life and death.

  My tormentor, the one called Oscar, delivered my reprieve. “Gringo! Climb out if you can!” His next remarks, in Spanish, were muttered to the other guards in a voice too low for me to catch his every word. The ones I do catch let me know exactly where I stand with him. He calls me cabrón (motherfucker) and chingadera (piece of shit).

  It wasn’t going to be easy keeping my cool. But I had to, Donna, if I wanted to stay alive.

  When I reached the top rung, at Oscar’s command, the guards lifted me under my armpits and tossed me onto the ground, on my knees. They laughed raucously as I coughed on the clouds of dust swirling around me. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight.

  The next thing I knew, other prisoners were circling me like vultures.

  I stood up. I shifted my gaze from one to the other, all the while flexing my hands: the universal gesture for, just try to take a piece of me, asshole.

  They taunted and growled, but no one stepped forward.

  Oscar pulled something from his pocket: a gold coin. He held it up for all to see.

  The prisoners froze, as if mesmerized by it.

  Oscar flipped it into the air.

  It landed at the feet of the largest prisoner—a muscular brute who hovered at six-and a half feet, his fists the size of hams. He picked it up. His eyes grew large when he realized what he held in his large palm. “¡Diez dólares en dinero Americano!”

  He bit the ten-dollar coin, as if that could prove it was legitimate. Satisfied, his eyes shifted to Oscar. “¿Para mi?”

  “Sí—por el precio de un ojo.”

  I heard the shortest guard, Jaime, exclaim in Spanish, “Oscar, what have you done? El Maestro said punish the gringo, but do not kill him!”

  So, El Maestro wanted to keep me alive? I didn’t know why, but at this point I didn’t care, since it was certainly what I wanted to hear.

  Oscar didn’t necessarily see it that way. “Fair punishment is an eye for an eye, no?” He lifted his eye patch to show Jaime my handiwork: a hollow eye socket. I watch as his one good eye seeks me out. “I can’t help it if he gets killed by one of the other prisoners.”

  He tossed a jackknife at Big Boy’s feet. It stuck in the dirt.

  The other prisoners eased just far enough away to form a circle around us.

  Big Boy picked it up and flicked it open. When he turned to face me, it was as if he’d already won the lottery.

  At this point, I wasn’t scared. I was ready. I wasn’t going to let this asshole stand in the way of getting home to you, Donna.

  No one would. I swore to that.

  Big Boy’s arms were so long that I barely got out of the way of his first slash. The knife missed my gut by a hair’s breadth.

  I blocked his second strike—a lateral one—with my forearm.

  I kept blocking his wild slashes while my eyes adjusted to daylight for the first time in two days.

  As we fought, some of the men cheered. Others wagered their precious cigarettes on which of us would be the last man standing. Those who had experienced his prison yard bullying or weren’t impressed with his lumbering gait put their bets—in this case, cigarettes—on me.

  I had no intention of letting them down.

  Angered, Big Boy’s next joust nicked my chest, but I tripped him as he lunged forward. Before he could recover his stride, I grabbed his wrist from behind and twisted his arm—fast, hard, and straight up behind his back. He howled as his arm broke.

  Instinctively, he opened his palm.

  I snatched the knife from his hand.

  Before he knew it, I slashed his throat from ear to ear.

  Gargling blood, he fell backward.

  He was dead before he hit the ground.

  The mob’s reaction was silence.

  Above us, on the balcony of the palace, someone was clapping.

  It was El Maestro himself. I don’t know how long he was standing there, but it couldn’t have been too long because when I turned around, his smile faded.

  Seeing this, all the blood left Oscar’s face.

  El Maestro motioned to the guard beside him. The man leaned closer in order to hear his boss’s order, then turned and left the balcony. A moment later, he was striding toward us. In Spanish, he asked, “The gringo: who allowed him to fight?”

  The prison guards shifted their gazes to Oscar.

  By now, Oscar was trembling. Finally, he raised his head—and his eye patch.

  From the balcony, El Maestro chortled mirthlessly at the guard’s belligerence. But just as quickly, his grin curdled into a snarl. “If you were looking for retribution, perhaps you should have exacted the punishment yourself. Instead, you put another one of my assets at risk. Your presumption didn’t pay off. For your stupidity, you must now pay the price.” He raised both hands into the air. “Combate a muerte.”

  A death match.

  The term flowed from the lips of the prisoners, as if they were attached by the same stream of consciousness. In no time, they were chanting it together: combate a muerte, combate a muerte, combate a muerte…

  El Maestro’s bodyguard wrenched Oscar’s rifle from his arm, then shoved him in my direction. Oscar and I stared at each other. Another fight to the death?

  We had no choice.

  He realized this the same time as me.

  I could see it in his eyes: the instinct to run away.

  Mine was to kill the son of a bitch who put me in that hole, and tried to have me killed.

  To stop him from acting on his instinct, I reached down and scooped up a handful of dust, which I then tossed in his one good eye. Blinded, he didn’t see my kick to his gut coming. It put him on his ass.

  I landed on his chest, hard with both knees. That alone knocked the wind out of him. With my hands throttling his neck, he never got it back.

  The one eye left in his head finally opened, bulging as his life left his body.

  Minutes after his death, it still gave me pleasure to wring his neck.

  When I finally stopped, I closed my eyes and lifted my head high in order to see you, my dear Donna, in my mind’s eye. Your smile reflected the hot white joy that comes with a successful mission, but that is immediately eclipsed by the darkness of our acts, all casting heavy shadows on our souls.

  Are the lives we take worth the price?

  When I open my eyes, I find that I’m staring up at my host, El Maestro.

  He nodded to the bodyguard at my side.

  The next thing I knew, the other prisoners were being herded back into their pens. On the other hand, Jaime and another man goose-stepped me in the bodyguard’s wake into the palace.

  I was put in a proper room, wi
th a bed, a dresser, and a real bathroom. One of the guards flushed the toilet and nodded, impressed. In English, Jaime murmured, “It goes down all the way, not like the crapper in the guards’ quarters.”

  Because I’d never heard him mutter a word before, I couldn’t help but stare at him now. “Your English is pretty good.”

  He shrugged. “It should be. I grew up in Fresno.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Surviving until I can get home. I brought my mother home, here to Paraíso, for her sister’s funeral. Someone stole our passports and my driver’s license.”

  “The American Embassy should be able to help you.”

  “Not if your passport was fake to begin with.” He shrugged. “My cousin, Alfredo, is El Maestro’s chief of security. He got me a job here. Beats being a heroin mule.”

  He had a point.

  I looked around the room. There were bars on the window. I’d noticed a bolt on the exterior of the door. Still, for some reason, El Maestro felt I should be rewarded.

  Taking two lives won me this privilege.

  I have a feeling that a higher price is yet to be paid.

  I will kill whoever stands in my way for the chance to stay alive and come back to you.

  Chapter 11

  The Couple Who Plays Together Stays Together

  The best way to keep him at your side is to learn to love the things he does! For example:

  Tip #1: Watching Sports. He’s got his favorite spot on your couch, and your poor sofa has the sunken cushion to prove it. If the most prevalent sound in your home is that of a cheering crowd or a sports announcer who just won’t shut up, don’t let it drive you crazy. Instead, learn the names of his favorite teams, their players, and the players’ pertinent stats. Doing so allows you to learn the lingo of sports. You now have the perfect entrée into his world!

  However, if it turns out to be just as boring as you thought, don’t point your gun at your head—or even his! Shoot the one thing standing between you and your man: the TV. By the time his new jumbo-screen HDTV gets there, the two of you will have had the opportunity to have a real conversation—even if it started with your apology for being such a great shot.

  Tip #2: Playing Sports. With the TV splattered to smithereens, he now has no reason to sit on that couch. There is no better time than now to take him into the great outdoors!

  You’d think his love of sports would translate into some excellent athletic skills, wouldn’t you? Wives, please don’t be disappointed if his throwing arm turns out to be as weak as an aging widow’s. Put things in perspective: the only thing he uses it for is to reach for the remote.

  Instead of pointing this out, do what you’d do with a child: encourage him to try, try again. And when he does, do your best not to snicker at the results. (Remember: your turn is next…)

  Tip #3: Being a Good Sport. Couples coziness can best be accomplished with some contact sports. No one says you have to go outside the bedroom to watch him run all the bases, or to make that incredible touchdown and win your heart. And if he needs a little coaching, well hey, that’s your best role—as you’ve already proven in all other areas of his life.

  “My dear Mrs. Craig, it seems that an assignment has fallen into our laps that is ideal for your mélange of talents.” Eric takes his place beside me on the settee facing the fireplace in his private study inside of a five-bedroom residence suite at the Montage Hotel in Beverly Hills.

  Just hearing the term “mélange of talents” gives me a headache. I’d like to use one of them now: say, wringing his neck with my bare hands. Instead, I rub my temples. “Oh? Do tell.”

  “We have quite a lucrative retainer in the retrieval of China’s fugitives who find themselves stateside.” He looks skyward, as if perhaps he might find these missing persons somewhere in the firmament above us. “One is currently a scientist working in Lockheed Martin on its RQ-170 unmanned aerial vehicles.”

  “Ah yes, drones.”

  “Precisely. Well, it seems that he’s decided that Arizona’s sunny skies are an improvement over Beijing’s smoggy haze.”

  “Go figure.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” Eric coughs, as if making his point. “You are tasked with convincing the target, Wang Chen, to remember his duty to his native country.”

  “By that, I presume you mean bring home the bacon—ergo, the diagrams for the RQ-170, so that they might have a start on reverse-engineering its radar system, in the hope of taking down one or two of our aircraft, like the F-35?”

  “My, my, you are a smart lass!” Eric pinches my cheek. “Sadly, the Chinese are several decades behind your industrious country in developing a similar radar system. China’s premier, Li Keqiang, has this fantasy that it will happen during his administration. All the more reason that he desperately covets any and all things committed to Chen’s photographic memory.”

  The last thing we need is for the drone’s radar system to end up in the hands of the Chinese.

  Obviously, Ryan is of like mind. “Dominic will be shadowing you. By the time you intercept Chen, we’ll have his long-distance travel plans covered.”

  “Super,” I say out loud. “Well then, we’d better hurry. Coups are de rigueur in that neck o’ the woods, are they not?” I stretch in order to move out of pinching range. “So, why me as opposed to, say Gunter, or Varick, for that matter?”

  He lets his eyes drop below my neck. “You see, Wang enjoys strip clubs—one in particular: The Coyote Cabaret, in Goodyear, Arizona.” His brows do a happy dance. “And all too conveniently, several of the strippers have come down with colds, so they’re hiring.”

  “Better than herpes, I imagine.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. In any event, they have an opening, and you’re elected.”

  “I got more votes than Gunter? Go figure.”

  “Not to worry. He’ll still be there to shadow you, and to do the heavy lifting.” Eric puts a finger to his lips. “Should you run into Varick before you leave, do me a favor and keep your assignment on the QT. He’ll be disappointed that he missed out.” He shrugs. “He adores pasties and G-strings.”

  “Really?” I feign shock. “I never figured him as the type who loved seeing a naked woman wiggle against a pole!”

  “No, no, no, my dear! He loves to wear the items, not admire them from afar.”

  “Duly noted. My lips are sealed.”

  “Truly a waste,” Eric murmurs wistfully. “Jack is a very lucky man.”

  “Speaking of which, this is my fourth trial. You made me a promise—”

  He holds up a finger to silence me. “Have you forgotten that you reprimanded me in front of my underlings? Do you realize how deeply you hurt me?” He pats his heart—well, the place in the chest where it would be, if he had one. Noting my frown, he shrugs. “My dear Mrs. Craig, after this mission, I’ll decide if your cruelness merits my forgiveness and your husband’s return.”

  He turns me around and pats my rump adieu.

  My assignment’s shadow, Gunter, smirks when he sees this.

  I guess he’ll see a lot more of me when we reach the Coyote Cabaret.

  How I’d love to slip him a mickey! But I have to keep my eyes on the prize: bringing Jack home.

  I’ll use the mickey on Chen instead.

  Wang Chen is smitten—unfortunately, not with me.

  That’s not to say I don’t have my own set of admirers. Despite the number of dollar bills stuck in my G-string by truck drivers taking time off their cross-country treks, Arizona State students coming off exams, or golfers who just want to forget their mulligans, I only have eyes for the Chinese scientist at the end of the Coyote Cabaret’s bar, who is nursing his whiskey sour as he waits for the girl of his dreams to take the stage: a long-legged redhead called Misty Lake.

  As it pertains to originality, my own nom de plum, Honey Graham, leaves a lot to be desired. But at this very moment, that’s not my biggest worry. I’ve got to figure out how
to steal Chen’s affections.

  “Don’t worry,” Dominic murmurs in my earbud. “I’ve got it covered. Just be there to commiserate with him when the time is right.”

  An upbeat tempo announces Misty’s arrival on center stage. Admittedly, her gyrations are mesmerizing. I take note of a few moves that might win me major brownie points, should my honeymoon ever get back on track.

  Hell yeah it will!

  Dominic’s college professor attire, which includes a tweed jacket with elbow patches and Harry Potteresque-rimmed glasses, easily attracts his fair share of lap dancers—or maybe it’s the number of ten spots he’s stuffing inside Misty’s tasseled bra.

  Ten minutes later, Chen, who can’t seem to keep up with the auction for her attentions, gives up in frustration.

  That’s when I make my move. Sidling over, I nod toward one of the private rooms. “I know just how to make you feel better.” I wink and add, “And it’s on the house.” His eyes open wide at the thought.

  I pick up his drink and beckon him to follow me into the empty room. Even before he crosses the threshold, I’ve dropped a liquid roofie into his glass.

  As I start my bump-and-grind routine, I encourage him to take a sip. Instead, he cops a feel.

  When I slap his hand away, the drink spills onto the already sticky floor.

  Not good.

  There’s a knock on the back door. Oh hell, Gunter is already here with the van.

  He doesn’t wait for me to open it, but comes barging in. When Chen sees the gun in his hand, he looks over at me, “You already called a bouncer?”

  “Come with me,” Gunter growls.

  Chen decides to throw a chair at his head instead.

  Dodging it, Gunter slams into the wall. The gun is knocked out of his hand. Chen sails past him and into the parking lot.

  “Donna, go after him,” Ryan shouts in my ear. “Convince him to play along. Otherwise, we lose Jack.”

  I scoop up the gun as I run out the door.

  Chen is bobbing and weaving across the parking lot. When I can take a clean shot, I aim for his leg but hit a car tire instead. Luckily, my next shot gets him in the thigh.