The Housewife Assassin's Husband Hunting Hints

by Josie Brown

  Was it possible that he was telling the truth? Was that what they’d quarreled about?

  If his goal was to stop me in my tracks, he accomplished it.

  But he lost all credibility when he took his last shot—point blank, at my face.

  Donna, you should have seen the look on his face when he heard the sixth click and realized the last chamber was just as hollow as the other five.

  It was as obvious to him as it was to me, El Maestro had set him up.

  He threw the gun at me.

  It cracked me on my cheek. Instinctively, I reeled back.

  That gave him room to get on his feet. He grabbed the handle of the axe from the end, but I held onto it, high, on the neck. With all my might, using its blade as leverage, I tossed him onto the ground with me.

  He hit his head when he fell, and it stunned him. I smiled, imagining his pain. Then I realized the agony was my own. While holding the blade, I’d sliced open my hand.

  Despite being stunned from the fall, he was still lucid enough to mutter, “You’re as stubborn as your cunt wife.”

  That earned him a few punches to his face. By the time I was done with him, his nose was a bloody pulp. “You know nothing of her,” I growled.

  “Sure I do.” His chuckle was groggy, as if he were talking underwater instead of through broken teeth. “She’s Quorum now.”

  “You’re a liar!” I slammed the back of his head into the ground to make my point.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger, lover boy,” he gasped. “It’s her pact with the Devil—in this case, Eric Weber. She thought it would get you back. But now, with all she’s done—documented, and ready to go to the enemies of her boyfriend, the President—she can’t go back herself—and it’s all because of you, lover boy.”

  Grief led me to let down my guard.

  Varick tackled me at the knees. The axe flew out of my hand.

  He scrambled for it, but I did too. Even if he were telling the truth, he was no use to me now.

  Besides, I’d already killed too many to let him trick me to my death.

  With lightning speed, he climbed to his feet, but I held fast to his left ankle, then bit his calf.

  He howled as he once again fell to his knees. I rolled out of reach, toward the axe. This time, when I had it, I had no doubt what I had to do: put him out of his misery.

  A single quick swing severed his head from his neck.

  The mob gasped as Varick’s head rolled toward El Maestro’s balcony. It stopped face-up.

  Varick’s glassy eyes stared up at me.

  I picked up his head by its golden curls, and held it up to El Maestro.

  The crowd roared its approval.

  I wanted to throw up. Instead, I tossed Varick’s head at him.

  His initial instinct was to duck, but then he manned up and caught it. When he did, he let loose with a half-hearted chortle.

  The mob went into a frenzy. To the crowd’s collective mind, the gladiators were a live video game playing out in front of their eyes in 3D. Should the splatter of blood reach a bystander or two, they’d stare at it silently for a moment before breaking into laughter with the rest of the mob.

  The best part of the death matches was the euphoria of being the one left standing. I’d laugh too—

  Until I remembered I’d have to do this yet again, tomorrow.

  As I left the field of battle, their cheers were still ringing in my ears.

  Chapter 17

  Fantasies

  Wives, there are a few incidences when it’s okay for you to fantasize about someone who isn’t your husband. Specifically, they are:

  1: When the man in question is a previous crush, but you’ve never acted on your desire for him. Lady, you are a saint!

  2: When the man in question is a celebrity, because let’s face it: the odds that he’ll leave his celebrity wife for you are slim to none.

  3: When the length of your husband’s absence borders on the possibility that he can be declared legally dead. Time to give up the ghost.

  Gentlemen, there are no circumstances in which you may fantasize about other women. That is all.

  I am dreaming of Jack.

  It is I who massage him, not her.

  His naughty grin is for me, not her.

  He lifts the hem of my white gauzy skirt over my hips in order to enter me, not her.

  He never made love to her at all. I know that.

  I only love you, Donna.

  The sound of his voice in my mind is so clear and so true that I bolt straight up in bed. When I open my eyes, I know I’ll see him, standing before me.

  But no, it’s not Jack in front of me.

  Eric sits in the chair beside my bed.

  I glance at the clock. It’s three in the morning. How long has he been watching me?

  “It’s time that I told you about your next assignment.” There is no longer any playfulness in his voice.

  “I’m…ready.” I hesitate because I realize I’m not wearing my earbuds or surveillance lenses. No one at Acme is monitoring this conversation.

  “It’s big of you to forgive me for your husband’s…indiscretion.” He places a photo face down on the bed beside me. “Your final assignment is an extermination. You’re to be accompanied only by Gunter, so that he can confirm the kill. Having presumed your remorse over ‘killing the messenger’—figuratively if not literally—Varick is already in transit to oversee your husband’s safe passage home. That being said, the sooner the extermination takes place, the sooner you will be reunited with your husband.”

  He walks out the door.

  The target is Ryan.

  I drop down slowly onto the bed, stunned.

  I’ve got to let him know, so that we can work this out…

  There is a knock on the door.

  It’s Gunter. He holds an attaché case.

  Before I can stop him, he pushes his way in. “Let’s go.”

  “I’ve got to pack up—”

  “Done.”

  He’s right. I look around the room. Except for black slacks and a matching jacket, all of my things are gone, including my valise and purse.

  My surveillance lenses and earbuds are hidden in the heels of my boots.

  “But—but I have to make contact the right way with…the target.”

  “Mr. Weber has already taken care of it.” His grin is cruel. “Mr. Clancy has been told that we are holding you hostage. You are to be released in exchange for some intelligence that we know he possesses.”

  “He would never agree to it! He values the security of our country above all else, even the lives of his operatives—”

  It’s the opposite of everything Ryan stands for, but I’ll be damned if I let him know it.

  “Foolish bitch! Don’t you think we already know this? But, yes, he has agreed to do so, and is preparing false intelligence so that he can save you and his reputation at the same time. While he’s waiting for you on a park bench, you’ll be spotting him through this.”

  He opens the attaché. It holds a Remington 700 sniper rifle.

  He closes it again, and nods toward the door. “We’ve got a bit of a drive ahead of us, so you’d better get a move on. You’ve got only five minutes to dress.”

  I take four of those minutes to pray.

  I’m out the door in five and a half minutes.

  It takes us almost three hours to get to our destination: the Red Rock Canyon Trail, high in the ochre-hued hills that make up Trabuco Canyon’s Whiting Ranch Wilderness Park.

  Already, Gunter’s cigarette smoke is getting to me. By the time Ryan gets here, he will have gone through his whole pack of cigs.

  Those things will be the death of him—hopefully, sooner than later.

  Eric has thought of everything. The bench sits deep into the trail and around the bend of the trail with a distractingly straight-on view of the ocean, the ledge I will shoot from gives me coverage and the perfect straight-on kill shot, once Ryan takes a seat.<
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  When the bullet hits, he’ll be admiring a spectacular sunrise over the canyon’s deep copper-hued hills.

  I know he’ll be thinking of Natalie.

  “He’s here.” Gunter lowers his cigarette in order to point at the bear-like figure lumbering up the trail. I’d recognize it anywhere.

  Ryan wears workout pants, a pullover running jacket, sunglasses, and a baseball cap on his balding head. He stops directly in front of the bench, looks around, and then flops down onto it as he heaves a labored sigh.

  He stares out at the view for a moment, then checks his watch. When he’s done, he pulls a water bottle from his jacket pocket and guzzles from it.

  Ryan is here for only one reason: he thinks he’s saving my life.

  My children have already lost one father, maybe two. He wants to make sure that they don’t lose yet another parent.

  That night at his cabin—my God, it seems so long ago!—he told me himself that, if he had it to do all over again, he would have put Natalie and their unborn child before job and country.

  And now it’s my turn.

  He is my chance to save my family. To save Jack.

  Oh, Ryan, I wish it didn’t have to be this way.

  I wait until his eyes look back at the vista before lining him up in my sight, and aiming for his chest.

  Gently, I pull the trigger.

  The suppressor muffles the sound, but the vapor trail proves that my nightmare is now reality.

  When the bullet pierces his chest, he slams into the back of the bench.

  Blood darkens the entry wound. His head slumps to one side. If anyone were to wander by, they’d think he’d fallen asleep.

  I lean back, stunned at my action. Only then do I notice Gunter has his cellphone pointed at me.

  “Smile and say cheese,” he taunts, smirking.

  Fury heats up my face. I swing the gun around directly into his face—

  But I know better than to pull the trigger.

  When Gunter finally realizes he won’t be joining Ryan as vulture food, he stumbles angrily down the hillside toward the bench. When he reaches it, he takes Ryan’s pulse, both at his wrist and his neck.

  He nods up at me, and then signals me to follow him down the trail, the way we arrived.

  Forgive me, Ryan.

  Forgive me, God.

  We drive away in silence.

  I’m still so upset about Ryan that I don’t even notice where Gunter is taking me until, a half-hour later, he pulls up to the front of my honeymoon hotel in Laguna Beach.

  I tap him on the shoulder. “Why are we here?”

  “You want to be waiting at the right place for your husband, don’t you?”

  I lean back. I still can’t believe I’ll soon hold Jack in my arms.

  I still can’t believe I killed Ryan.

  Gunter unlocks my door, but he doesn’t get out.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” I ask.

  “Wait in your room until Mr. Weber calls.”

  He roars off.

  I head to the elevator. The boy at the front desk barely looks up from his cellphone’s screen.

  Just like old times.

  I wait until midnight, but Eric never calls.

  I doze off by two.

  At six in the morning, there is a knock on the door. I rouse myself, then stumble to answer it. Jack—

  But, no. It’s the kid from the front desk. “This is for you.” He holds a large giftwrapped box in his hands.

  When I take it, he warns me, “Heavier than it looks, so don’t drop it.”

  I wait until he’s caught the elevator before I take it into my room and shut the door.

  The box is two feet square, on all sides. A large white bow is taped to its top.

  An iPhone is tied to the center of the bow.

  Warily, I open the box top—

  A head is inside.

  I close the top and sit down.

  I lift the top once more and force myself to look inside:

  It’s Varick.

  One of his eyelids is closed. He looks as if he’s winking about some secret we share.

  When I can no longer stand it, I close the box top again. All I can think of is, Thank God it isn’t Jack.

  I pick up the phone. One click puts it on default mode, to video.

  What I see stuns me: Jack, dirty, sweaty, bruised, and carrying a long-handled axe and a shield, stands in some sort of plaza encircled by a cheering crowd.

  Suddenly, he runs directly at Varick, who is firing a gun at him.

  By the time Jack is face to face with him, Varick realizes the pistol had no bullets. He throws the gun. It hits Jack’s face.

  Varick tries to wrestle the axe away, but Jack is too strong for him.

  Varick, with that sly smirk of his, says something to Jack that stuns him enough to let his guard down, if only for a moment. It’s just long enough for Varick to make his move for Jack’s axe. He trips Jack and scoops it up, but Jack grabs ahold of his leg and takes a bite. The pain causes Varick to drop it.

  Jack grabs it, and swings.

  Varick’s head rolls as it hits the ground.

  Jack picks it up and holds it high, in victory.

  The video ends in a freeze frame.

  Jack…killed Varick?

  Is this to be Jack’s fate—to fight to the death?

  Where the hell is he? Is he now dead too?

  Jack will never come back to me.

  It’s taken me only ten days to become a widow once more.

  I run to the toilet and throw up.

  When I can finally collect myself, I head toward the door with the phone. No, I’m not taking Eric’s present too. I mean, what if a cop pulls me over?

  And I certainly can’t call Acme and ask that they send a cleaner—

  Not after what I’ve just done to Ryan.

  I stop, though, to move the DO NOT DISTURB sign to the outside of the doorknob. This hotel has already lost one maid. The way this place is run, I can’t imagine they can afford to lose any more.

  By nine, I am home.

  I swing onto Hilldale Avenue, which goes right down the center of town. The street is bustling with shoppers who carry bags of all sizes with logos from its many posh shops. I should recognize the faces, but my mind only sees one wherever I look:

  Ryan’s.

  On an early summer morning, everyone is puttering around their well-kept yards. Wives are trimming rose bushes and husbands are mowing lawns. The sidewalks and yards are filled with children who giggle as they play.

  This is what normal looks like.

  Mothers with prams head for Hilldale Memorial Park. I must drive by it before reaching my home. There is a game in play on the baseball diamond. What time is it? Only nine o’clock? Jeff’s game is at four o’clock. I’ll be able to make it—

  But not Jack.

  I’m back to square one: I have to find my husband.

  How do I tell my children that he may never come home to us?

  “Mom!” Mary yells from her bedroom window as I pull into the driveway. Evan’s head pops out of it too. Noting my frown, he waves at me weakly, but then ducks inside again.

  A moment later, though, both are hurtling down the stairs and out the door. Jeff and Trisha are on their heels. Aunt Phyllis is not far behind.

  It’s a group hug. Everyone is talking at once—

  Everyone but me.

  It takes a while for them to notice this. When they do, they ask in unison: “Where’s Dad?”

  Smile. Keep smiling. Just…smile.

  The lie comes out all too easily: “He’s needed in the office, so I dropped him off there first.”

  Trisha collapses in my arms with a scowl, whereas Mary and the boys express their disappointment with groans. “Will he still make my game?” Jeff asks anxiously.

  “Yes, of course.” This is a very, very bad dream.

  Assured, they nod and make their way back into the house. Evan is gentlemanly enough to
take my valise in with him.

  I take my time meandering through the yard. One might think I’m admiring the riot of color that greets me in my rose garden, but in truth, I have a purpose. I need to get somewhere that gives me privacy, and quick:

  The playhouse.

  The old wrought iron daybed squeaks as I lay on it. The faces of Mary and Trisha’s old dolls stare out at me from every nook and corner. Their blank eyes are filled with accusation and disgust.

  I had to do it—for Jack.

  I duck under the bed’s careworn quilt, as if I can hide from the truth of my actions over the past ten days:

  I killed Ryan.

  Jack is dead.

  Eric lied all along.

  Chapter 18

  Jack’s Diary, Day 9

  “El Maestro wishes that you join him for this evening, in celebration of your victories.” Lola’s murmur roused me from my dream of us.

  That is to say, you and me, my darling Donna. In it, we were wrapped in each other’s arms on some warm beach. The tide swept in and around us, cooling our skin, if not the passion we share for each other.

  From now on, I’ll associate vanilla and almond essences with you, sweet wife.

  I open one eye. Lola is blushing, as if she’d read my thoughts. Her mysticism showed itself in numerous ways.

  I’m glad I’m lying on my stomach. Otherwise, Lola might misconstrue the reason for my erection. Granted, it doesn’t help that, for the past hour she has been massaging my tired muscles with her magic potions. Killing three men yesterday—Blondie and the two before him—has taken its toll on me. El Maestro has finally acknowledged that I’m only human and has given me the day off. Even thoroughbred horses are given a rest between races.

  “What do you suspect El Maestro wants?” I asked.

  “He wishes to celebrate your wins with you. There will be un paseo público—a public procession—in your honor, with music, costumes, and fireworks. You will watch it with him from his private balcony.”

  “Costumes?” I can’t help but smirk. “Like, ‘Day of the Dead?’”