The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide

The Housewife Assassin’s

Relationship Survival Guide

A Novel

Josie Brown

© 2013 Josie Brown. All rights reserved.

Published by Signal Press

San Francisco, CA 94123

[email protected]

V121914KBL

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Dumping Mr. Wrong

Chapter 2 Finding Mr. Right

Chapter 3 Six Very Broad Hints You’re Dating a Serial Killer

Chapter 4 How to Dress for Successful Dates

Chapter 5 When and How to Kiss

Chapter 6 How to Handle His Promise, “I’ll Call You…”

Chapter 7 Five Telltale Signs He Wants a Commitment

Chapter 8 Is He a Player?

Chapter 9 When It’s Time to Meet the Parents

Chapter 10 Is He Lying to You?

Chapter 11 Your Mr. Right: Is He Housebroken?

Chapter 12 How to Deal with His Old Flame

Chapter 13 Learning His Lingo

Chapter 14 How to Read His Moods

Chapter 15 Planning Your First Weekend Getaway

Chapter 16 Flirting…. with Disaster

Chapter 17 Surviving a Bad Blind Date

Chapter 18 What to Do When You Don’t Like His Friends

Chapter 19 When to Say Y-E-S to S-E-X

Chapter 20 Will He Jump Through Hoops for You?

Chapter 21 Wedding Bell Blues

Next Up!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

HOW TO REACH JOSIE

NOVELS IN THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN SERIES

OTHER BOOKS BY JOSIE BROWN

PRAISE FOR JOSIE BROWN

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Chapter 1

Dumping Mr. Wrong

Before you find Mr. Right, you must disentangle yourself from any relationship holding you back. 

This is not always easy to do. Despite his lies and cheating, he’s grown accustomed to your face.

Not to mention your place, your cooking, and that thing you do with your tongue, which proves you can tie a knot in a cherry stem, no problem.

So, what hints should you give him that it’s time to move on?

Start by tossing his stuff out the door.

If he’s clueless after that, change the locks and get a restraining order.

If by some off chance he still doesn’t get it, invite him into your bedroom. But don’t do that thing with your tongue. Instead, just bite down. 

Hard.

After he ices down, he’ll take the hint and leave. Slowly and hobbling, but certainly it’s “Adios.”

The best part? Once Mr. Wrong is out the door, the search for Mr. Right can begin!

The digital video being played on the monitor is black and white and grainy, but there is no mistaking the identity of the man being waterboarded:

He is my soon-to-be-ex husband, Carl Alex Stone.

Although it’s been two months since I last saw him, even the filthy netting over his head can’t hide the profile I know so well. Granted, his frame is thinner than it’s ever been, but there is still a weightlifter’s definition to his broad shoulders, muscular biceps and rock hard abs, which involuntarily strain each time a steady stream of water, poured from a bucket held by his torturer, drenches the towel periodically thrown over his face.

Despite all the gagging and choking, he won’t give them what they ask for: the names of the eleven men who lead the Quorum, a well-funded international terrorist organization.

Instead, he passes out. Five times, in fact.

He always was a stubborn son of a bitch.

I’m watching this video inside a glass-paneled observers’ gallery within the United States Naval Station at Guantanamo Bay, where Carl’s military commission trial for terror and treason is taking place. 

Carl sits only fifty feet from me.  While here, he is only acknowledged as Prisoner 1982. But for his trial he is allowed to forgo his usual garb—orange jumper—for a suit, which hangs loosely on him. I’m sure that, when he had it custom made, it fit his body like a glove.

Yes, he knows I’m here. When he shuffled into the room, his legs chained together, he threw me a kiss.

I have the good sense not to shoot him a bird. 

Instead, I ignore him. In all honesty, I should be rejoicing. Since the day I learned he was still alive and what he’d become, I dreamt of waterboarding him myself. 

So, why don’t I feel redeemed?

Over the protests of the prosecuting officer, Army Major Blake Reynolds, the footage of Carl’s torture was provided by his lead defense attorney, Mason Lynch. “As you can see, your honor, despite these egregious breaches of the Geneva Conventions, the prisoner’s will was never broken. That alone should prove his innocence.” 

Lynch’s declaration is tinged with just enough righteous indignation to elicit an involuntary wince from the judge, Army Colonel Lawrence Cromwell. 

“He has steadfastly declared his innocence,” Lynch continues. “Carl Stone is just an American citizen who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. One who, in the past, has served his country admirably, I might add.”

 Judge Cromwell looks down at the pad in front of him. A prisoner’s claim of torture is one thing. Having been presented with physical evidence of torture while in captivity puts this judge in a difficult position. In any other courtroom, this case would have been thrown out before coming to trial. But considering Gitmo prisoners don’t exactly get the same due diligence as the rest of us on the US mainland, this is no ordinary trial, and Carl is no ordinary prisoner. Like all of Gitmo’s detainees, he is classified as an “unlawful combatant.” In fact, at the time of his capture, he was Number 4 on the International Terrorist Watch List.

Not exactly great husband material, don’t you agree? 

Major Reynolds frowns. He’s not just being outmaneuvered, but outclassed, too. You see, unlike the typical legal eagles who defend Gitmo prisoners, Mason Lynch isn’t just some civil liberties watchdog or court-appointed JAG officer. He’s a litigator who hails from a firm with a quadruple-A Martindale-Hubbell rating.

In other words, he’s the best lawyer money can buy. 

Not Carl’s money, but the Quorum’s. He is the organization’s best hard man, its most precious asset. The Quorum is wise to protect him at all costs. 

Besides, he knows where all the bodies are buried. 

More importantly, he knows the identities and locations of the eleven Quorum leaders who are still alive.

Truth be known, Carl has already buried two of them. The first was the military industrialist Jonah Breck, whose computer holds the names of others. My black-ops employer, Acme Industries, has been trying to break the encryption since it fell into our hands. 

If Carl had broken under torture, we’d have put them all in jail by now. Something tells me playing good cop wouldn’t have gotten us what we wanted, either.  At the same time, we can’t let their names go to the grave with him. That’s where I come in. 

Soon, very soon.

Carl left me six years ago, on the night I went into labor with our youngest daughter. I thought he had died in the blaze of a car crash, at the hands of the Quorum. Becoming an assassin for the good guys was my way of avenging his death by destroying the Quorum. 

Now this goal includes Carl.

It’s why I’m here today. Until our divorce is final, a wife can’t testify against her husband.

But I can watch as he is sentenced to pay his debt to society.

Besides, I want to make sure joint custody isn’t in the picture.

When it comes to the divorce, Carl has made my life miserable. When he was on the outside, he was great at dodging my subpoenas. Now that he sees the writing on the wall, he insists on joint custody and weekends with our children.

Considering that Gitmo doesn’t allow family sleepovers, it’s a non-starter. I mean, come on already. It ain’t exactly a Disney vacation.

Besides, my children don’t know him from Adam. Or more honestly, they don’t know him from Jack. More specifically, Jack Craig, who assumed Carl’s identity of workaholic-slash- road warrior-slash- loving father. Before Jack’s arrival, they presumed their father was on the longest road trip in history: over five years.

Shame on Carl for deserting them. For deserting 
me
.

So yeah, he’ll get back in their lives 
over my dead body
. 

Or his, if both the U.S. Government and I get our way.

Jack is also the new man in my life. If Carl had his way, Jack would be dead. He was, for a while. He faked his death, which allowed us to capture Carl.

Losing Jack was a wake-up call for me. If, by some strange twist of fate, Carl walks away from this, I’ll kill him myself.

Or die trying.

But first things first: take down the Quorum. For that, we still need Carl.

 “Your honor, I’d like to call a few witnesses who can outline fully the scope of Mr. Stone’s treason.” 

The judge nods. 

“Jack Craig, will you please take the stand,” Blake Reynolds says.

Jack does as he’s told. As always, his gaze is intense, but for once his face is as expressionless as a block of concrete. His voice is devoid of passion as he lists Carl’s many misdeeds: mostly hits, but thankfully some misses, including two of which I was personally involved in. The first was a plot involving a toxic nanobomb, which we stopped from detonating during the World Little League Series. Jack and I took Carl down during his latest terror attempt, in which he tried to shoot down POTUS in Air Force One with a heat-seeking missile, while it was on final approach into LAX.

You can see why I think Carl is a lousy role model for our kids.

When Jack is done with his testimony, Judge Crowley’s face is certainly easy to read: Carl is not long for this world.

Mason Lynch’s cross examination doesn’t take long. How can you poke holes in evidence that is backed up by photos and video taken at the scenes of Carl’s crimes, and with affidavits of several of LA’s finest? Not to mention a variety of physical evidence, such as the missile launcher and the now diffused nanobomb.

Ah, boys and their toys.

All eyes turn to Carl. His Mona Lisa smile does not betray the seething anger I know is roiling within him. He has always hated Jack. Before, it was because of his relationship with me. But now he’s got a different excuse. Jack has just put the noose around his neck.

When Jack’s testimony is finished, he joins me in the observers’ gallery. He squeezes my hand as he sits down beside me. I squeeze back. Like him, I’m relieved this chapter in our lives is almost over.

But no, it isn’t.

If I’d presumed Jack was the star witness, I’m wrong. “Will Valentina Petrescu please take the stand,” Reynolds calls out.

What… the hell?

Valentina is a double agent. Or triple, depending on who you believe: that is, me, or Jack.

Jack avoids my stare. I can easily guess why. Three months ago, Valentina went off the grid, whereabouts unknown. That was fine with me. Her appearance in our lives had me doubting Jack’s love.

Quite frankly, seeing her here doesn’t help our trust issues.

In our business, pulling an all-nighter is business as usual. In the past few months, Jack has had more than his fair share. I never ask him what he does, since Acme protocol is strict: operatives are only informed on a need-to-know basis.  

So, now I know his latest mission involved prepping the testimony of the same comely ex-Romanian gymnast who once broke his heart.

You see, she’s also Jack’s estranged wife. 

Oh yeah, and she ran away with my soon to be ex-husband. He taught her the skills needed to become one of the Quorum’s deadliest killers.

But this isn’t a lonely hearts club, so Jack and I have had to suck it up and move on. Revenge is a dish best served in jail.

I slip my hand out from under his. Because he doesn’t reach for it again, I know he gets it: I’m angry. And yes, I’m hurt. 

And no, it will be a long time before I forgive and forget.