The Housewife Assassin's Husband Hunting Hints

by Josie Brown

  Sign #1: He comes home later and later from work.

  Sign #2: He fibs about where he’s been, and whom he’s been with. (You know this because you followed him after work on several occasions.)

  Sign #3: He comes home smelling of another woman’s perfume. (And you know who she is!)

  Sign #4: He comes home with lipstick on his collar. (And you did not put it there.)

  Sign #5: There are nights in which he never comes home at all. (And you know where they are.)

  At this point, your goal should not be finding even more proof, but getting rid of the evidence—

  Of his existence that is!

  While you’re at it, get a good lawyer, because you’ll probably need one when they find the bodies.

  “My dear, I have a present for you!” Eric’s declaration is made with the joy of a father announcing that the kiddies can now enter the living room in order to ooh and ah at the family Christmas tree.

  I’m not a child, which is reason enough to denote my skepticism with silence and a raised brow.

  He dabs his lips with his linen napkin. It’s become a ritual with us, this tradition of breaking bread after a mission, usually in a unique but out-of-the-way boîte that enjoys a superb reputation amongst the right people.

  Tonight, however, we are having dinner in a private room at Scarpetta, in the Montage’s lobby. The wait list for reservations is three months long. Even then, it’s a lottery as to what night you’ll be served.

  Eric has a standing reservation for any night he wants.

  The menu is eclectic. Mushroom papillote with truffle. Sea urchin in a Ibérico-pork broth. An herbal salad served in a fried pig’s ear. Foie gras ice cream.

  Eric keeps these dinners cozy, just the two of us. Gunter is somewhat relieved, since small talk isn’t his specialty. I presume Hugo is never invited because he only eats rodents.

  Varick pouts, however. Before now, he was teacher’s pet. His kill rate earned him the honor.

  He’s still not back from wherever Eric sent him. I hope this is a good sign.

  Still, I don’t hold my breath. This meal marks the eighth day of this ordeal. My own one-hundred percent success rate has yet to win me what I want most: my husband’s return.

  Which is why I’m shocked when Eric declares, “If you finish all of your peaches in wine like a good girl, you can join me in my room for what you’ve been waiting for: seeing your husband alive and well.”

  Stunned, I sit up straight. “I’m ready to go now,” I declare, pushing my dessert aside.

  Eric shrugs, as if disappointed that the child in his care is so poorly mannered.

  Sorry, but this is no time for politeness. I want to see Jack.

  What the hell? Seriously, I can’t believe what I’m seeing!

  In the video clip playing on the monitor in Eric’s study, Jack lies on a bed while being massaged by a beautiful woman.

  Massaged? That’s putting it much too nicely. She’s writhing all over him.

  He seems to enjoy it. Why else is he smiling?

  From the tenderness between them, I can tell this isn’t the first time.

  “Why, how dare he!” Emma’s indignation comes in over my earbud loud and clear.

  “Donna, that can’t be Jack. It’s got to be some kind of video sleight of hand,” Ryan insists.

  There is a newspaper on the dresser beside the bed. It shows yesterday’s date.

  All this time, I’ve worried over nothing?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Eric smothering his sly smile. It tells me what I need to know: something is not right.

  Ryan commands, “Donna, time to get off this merry-go-round. Call his bluff.” Noting my silence, he insists, “If he thinks he’s lost you, he’ll have to bring Jack home! Trust me on this.”

  Trust?

  Trust is what I thought I had with Jack. Is what I just saw also a charade for the cameras, just one more thing he must do to stay alive?

  Yes. It must be.

  Otherwise, I’ll kill him myself.

  Time to prove Ryan right—I hope. “Thanks for this, Eric. It’s all I need to know: Jack is alive and doing well.” I walk toward the door.

  “But…Mrs. Craig…perhaps you’d like to join me for a nightcap? I have your assignment for tomorrow—”

  “I think not. It’s been too long of a day. Frankly, it’s been too long of a week. Too many assignments. I think I’ll go home now.”

  He reaches the door before me. Blocking it, he says angrily, “So you’re just going to leave him in my hands?”

  I force out a chuckle. “Don’t you mean in hers?”

  Before he can respond I’ve shoved him out of the way and opened the door.

  I’ve just stepped over the threshold when he says, “One more assignment. If you complete it successfully, he’ll be waiting for you. If not, he dies.”

  His tone stops me cold. “I’ll…think about it.”

  “Should you decide to take me up on the offer to save your husband’s life, be ready by nine o’clock, sharp. Get a good night’s sleep.”

  I nod and take my leave.

  Chapter 16

  Jack’s Diary, Day 8

  Dear Donna,

  Every day, I fight. Every day, I drive myself to win. Because if I fail, I die.

  It’s as simple as that.

  And every day since I last saw you, I’ve presumed you’ve been doing your best to find me. Today, I found out just how far you’d go to save me.

  Granted, it wasn’t presented to me that way, but I have too much faith in you to think that you haven’t considered the consequences of your actions.

  I just hope you were wise enough to get Acme to cover your ass. Otherwise, should you be caught, it might all be for naught.

  Let me start at the beginning:

  By the time I got to the end of the tunnel leading into the plaza, or what was now known as anillo de gladiadores—the gladiators’ ring—two of my opponents were already there.

  Both men had reasons to fight for their lives.

  So did I, Donna. I needed to get back to you and the kids.

  One of the men was a gringo: large, but soft, with bright red hair. The pale skin that goes with it was scorched bright red from the tropical sun. When he saw me, fear darkened his pale blue eyes. He mouthed my nickname: El Santo. A stream of piss trickled onto the dusty floor of his cage. The mob standing closest to him roared with laughter, some snickering at his shame with shouts of, “¡No mames!” and, “¡A la verga!”

  “Su nombre es Dan Crawford,” my guard, Jaime, grunted. “DEA.” Noting my grimace, he added, “Not to worry, El Santo! Before he turned on El Maestro, he lied to your government. You do them both a favor.”

  My other opponent had at least six inches on me, and twice my size in girth. The moment he realized I’d entered the plaza, he stopped pacing his cage and cursing the crowd in order to glower at me. “Pedro Medina was the driver of El Maestro’s chief rival, El Monstro,” Jaime explained. “But he must pay the price for fucking his boss’s favorite puta. If he lives, El Monstro will let him leave the country.”

  I wish I’d struck a similar deal with El Maestro. In any event, I wasn’t planning on taking a fall because the dude couldn’t keep his fly zipped.

  When El Maestro finally appeared on the balcony, the blonde stranger is still with him. Today, though, he is not smiling.

  Neither is El Maestro.

  The band stopped whatever it was playing in order to break into El Maestro’s chosen theme song, “Besame mucho,” which allowed him to serenade the crowd, as if the whole town were his own personal karaoke lounge.

  If I didn’t have to prep myself for possible death, I’d probably laugh.

  El Maestro’s gringo guest was just as amused, and snorted with laughter. Hearing it, El Maestro, furious, stopped mid-chorus. His head whipped around in the gringo’s direction.

  If anyone else had insulted one of Mexico’s bloodiest drug lords, the
y would have stopped mid-chuckle, or at least faked a cough to cover up for this fatal faux pas. Not this dude. Instead, he had the audacity to slap El Maestro on the back, as if he was in on the sad joke about his inability to carry a tune.

  El Maestro’s eyes bulged in fury. Did the gringo realize what was happening? If he did, it didn’t bother him because he just doubled up in laughter.

  When El Maestro finally calmed down, he stared down into the plaza. His eyes landed on me. He snapped his fingers at Jaime.

  Jaime released me into the plaza.

  The crowd’s frenzied roar caused Crawford to drop to his knees.

  Its effect on Medina was less promising. Like a gorilla, he climbed the bars of his cage and shook his fist at me.

  Since it was obvious Medina was going to be more of a challenge, El Maestro pointed to Crawford’s cage first.

  A guard came out with our weapons: a long chain, and a hatchet. As always, they were placed at opposite ends of the plaza.

  And, as always, El Maestro took a handkerchief—but this time, it was not one from his wife, but snatched from the jacket of his gringo guest. He held it up for all to see before letting it fly off into a light breeze.

  The second it hit the ground, Crawford was on the run—

  Toward the axe.

  Because I was savoring the look of hatred exchanged between my host and his guest, I moved a little slower. But that was okay. I realized that, for Crawford, the chain would do just as much damage.

  By the time I had the chain wrapped around my fists, Crawford had grabbed the axe with both hands and was coming at me. Still, he waited until I stalked over to him to swing it, right to left like a batter going for the left-field bleachers.

  I ducked just in time.

  As I thought, the axe was heavy enough to pull him along for the ride, his arms still extended—

  Giving me the opening I needed.

  In order to get his footing, Crawford let go of the axe with his left hand. As the arm swung behind him, I caught his left wrist between both ends of the chain and jerked it toward me and down to the ground. He fell to his knees.

  I pulled his open arm across my thigh and pressed down—so hard that his elbow, now braced against my leg, had nowhere to go.

  As his forearm snapped, his howl echoed through the plaza.

  There was enough chain left over for me to wrap it around his neck and gag his scream.

  His bulging eyes stared up at me as he choked.

  By the time he hit the ground he was a dead man.

  Had Dan Crawford been a dirty cop? Did it matter?

  He and I fought for our lives. I was the victor.

  If it turned out Jaime was wrong, I’d have to live with the guilt.

  From what I could tell, the whole time I was fighting, Pedro Medina stood still, watching my every move.

  He frowned when he saw how easy it was for me to take down Crawford.

  He smiled when our weapons were tossed at our feet: karambit blades.

  He picked up the short-handled knife. Palming it under-handed, he then slashed the air with its small curved double-edged blade, as if practicing the moves he’d make on me.

  When they opened his cage he charged me, snarling.

  I crouched low, counting off his strides. When he was just a few feet away, I sprang upward.

  My blade caught him in the gut, slicing a deep gash.

  He shouted some obscenity, but was incensed enough to keep the knife in frenzied motion.

  I was able to block or dodge most of his thrusts, but he got off a few slashes: one caught me on the shoulder, another in the back, and, when I kicked him away, below the knee.

  The will to live is the greatest adrenaline rush. I know this first hand. But I also know the weariness that follows it, especially if the fight is long and arduous.

  I didn’t have the luxury of fatigue, Donna. I had to get back to you.

  The fear that comes with it darkens the eyes and dulls the senses. The next thing you know, you’re making stupid mistakes. In Pedro’s case, it was a blocked lunge that put his face within stabbing reach of my karambit. As you know, Donna, the beauty of this little knife is that its blade ends in a curved point, like a tiger’s tooth.

  My jab caught his eyeball dead center.

  Howling, he stumbled backward, only to trip over his own feet.

  His knife flew out of his hand. He clawed the ground in the hope of finding it before I could get to him, but it was not to be. I landed hard, on his chest, with both knees, knocking the breath out of him.

  My slash to his neck with the claw of the karambit went from his below his right ear to his left one. The blood squirting from both his jugular veins caught me square on my chest.

  I was still wiping it off when the crowd’s roar went off like a thunderclap.

  I looked up at El Maestro for the last part of this dog-and-pony show: his tacit approval of my hollow victories, shown with a grudging nod before he waved good-bye to his minions. He was too preoccupied to savor my victory. It seemed that he was in a very heated discussion with the gringo. The next thing I knew, Blondie was being manhandled by a couple of El Maestro’s thugs. They yanked him off his duff and out the door leading from the balcony.

  At the time, I would have given anything to know what he’d said to get himself in Dutch with our host.

  Little did I know that I’d soon find out.

  Now that my own role in this show of strength was over, I walked toward the mouth of the cave buried deep within the bowels of El Maestro’s palace, ignoring the cheers of a blood lusting mob that saw me as a savior, a saint, and an executioner. I knew there was no way to be all three.

  "El Santo—no!" Jaime's hiss stopped me in my tracks.

  I looked to where he pointed. El Maestro’s thugs were goose-stepping Blondie into the plaza. When they reached the center, they tossed him to the ground.

  He fell to his hands and knees.

  A third guard strolled into the plaza. He carried three items. One, a pistol, was put on the north side of the plaza. The other things—a shield and long-handled axe, both of which looked to be from the medieval era—were left on the plaza's south side.

  The crowd grew silent when they realized a third death match was about to take place.

  As for me, well fuck it. I was tired of it all.

  Granted, Blondie looked like a dandy, but we both know that looks can be deceiving.

  I waited until he got up onto his feet. He took time to dust himself off, as if he were in no hurry. In hindsight, his casual stance was his way to assess the situation. Which weapon would best take me down? That was easy: the gun. But could he reach it in time? Maybe not. It depended on who had the greater will to live. Still, he realized it was worth the hustle in his bespoke John Lobbs.

  El Maestro's explanation to the crowd was in Spanish. This was the gist of it: "Ladies and gentlemen, you're in for a treat!" He pointed toward Blondie. "My special guest, Varick Velesco, is an assassin in his own right, as world renowned as our own El Santo. Señor Velesco came as a friend to El Maestro. But as you all know, El Maestro's trust must be earned. In his case, it will not be easy." His wink at the crowd drew a ripple of uncertain laughter. "It was Señor Velesco’s wish to take El Santo from us. I am giving him the chance to do so. But something tells me that our El Santo will provide deliverance instead."

  Is that what caused the rift between El Maestro and Velesco—his boast that he could take me down? I found it hard to believe.

  El Maestro pointed at the gun. "The gladiators have been provided weapons from my own private collection: a six-shooter, and"—he shifted his arm to the other side of the plaza—“a shield, and an executioner's axe. The choice seems simple, yes? But no! You see, the gun holds only one bullet, whereas the axe's blade can deliver an infinite number of blows." El Maestro's smile morphed into a cruel grimace. "The choice is yours, Señor Velesco."

  The crowd murmured its dismay at this change in policy.


  Believe me, Donna, no one was more disappointed than me.

  Varick Velesco took his time to weigh his choices. One bullet, and who knew in which chamber? In the meantime I could hack him to death.

  Then again, considering his profession, if he released the shots in quick order, if he aimed right, I wouldn't live long enough to reach him.

  I was not surprised when he nodded toward the gun.

  From the broad smirk on El Maestro's face, neither was he.

  It would have been interesting to know if El Maestro had promised Velesco his life in exchange for mine. My guess was yes. I was also willing to bet that he wouldn't honor it. In El Maestro's world, he was the only winner. If I went down, his sideshow went on with the hombre who took down El Santo.

  To El Maestro's credit, he didn't drop the kerchief until Velesco and I had our weapons in hand.

  The second the kerchief fell, Velesco took his first shot.

  I ran straight at him with my shield raised so that it covered my head and torso. He could have moved, but he made the same choice I know I would have made: to stand his ground and pray that the bullet would be in the next cylinder of his barrel, and if so, that the shot would hit somewhere vital—my knee perhaps, or maybe my shin.

  All the more reason I ran faster than I ever had in my life.

  At the second click, I was only thirty feet away. I reached him after the fifth click, slamming him so hard that I lifted him off his feet—

  And landed on top of him as he fell onto the plaza dirt floor.

  He’d hit the back of his head. By the time I’d smacked him in the face a few times with the shield, his nose was broken and gushing blood, and he’d swallowed a tooth. Still, he had the wherewithal to mutter, “You stupid fool! I was sent by Eric to get you out of here! But that Incan wannabe barbarian won’t let you go. Not only are you his one-man goon squad, he’s making suitcases full of money on your fights. And now he’s coerced you to shoot the messenger—or in this case, chop off my head.” He pointed to the axe—“You’ve got to keep me alive. Don’t you get it? I’m your only ticket out of here!”