The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide (20 page)

“
Mas tarde, mi amo
r,” I murmur. Then I lick my lips, knowing that the guard will hear my soft taunt as a come-on.

Later my love…

First things first.

My act is working. The guard is too distracted to notice all the toys, which will get my ass, and my asset, off this godforsaken island. In my clutch bag are my ID (a Mexican driver’s license that identifies me as “Lucinda Gutiérrez”), a nondescript lipstick, a seemingly innocent compact, a change purse that holds a few coins, and a rosary with a small metal cross. 

Here’s the plan: Once we’re alone in one of the prison’s flimsy straw love shacks, I’ll clue Hector in on the fact that nookie is out, but a run for the gate is in. Unfortunately, that should keep the smirk on his face. Then I’ll slap one of my tiny, but strong, neo-magnetic earrings onto the shack’s center pole before shooting the other earring—attached to the zip line hidden in my rosary—out the shack’s window with my lipstick case, which is really a miniature missile launcher. The missile’s GPS system will lead it to a three-person submarine anchored about thirty feet below high tide and about two hundred feet offshore, where Jack is waiting for us. Once the zip line’s magnet has locked onto the exterior antechamber of the sub, we’ll roll off this hot hunk of rock using my GPS-driven ribbed bracelet as a pulley. 

Since subs are the new vehicle of choice for running drugs between Mexico and the United States, El Chihuahua should feel right at home. 

Besides, prison has given him time to get used to tight quarters. 

Between the sub’s cloaking system and a submersion depth of sixty feet, we will be able to maneuver past any Mexican patrol boats. At a cruising speed of eighty nautical miles per hour, we should surface at the dock of our safe house in the posh tourist enclave Cabo San Lucas in three hours, tops. There, we’ll debrief El Chihuahua as to the whereabouts of the Quorum’s villa, and get the necessary entry data. 

After turning Hector over to his Witness Protection detail, Jack and I will break into the villa, download all files on the master computer’s hard drive onto a flash drive and then plant a worm that will allow us to stop Carl from whatever he’s got planned in order to impress his new BFFs. 

If we accomplish our mission, Acme will learn the identities of the Quorum’s new players, and break up the organization once and for all. 

My slow stroll through the prison courtyard is serenaded by the jeers and come-ons of the prisoners who, for this month anyway, are unlucky in love. “
Siéntate en mi cara, perra…
” and “
Quiero que me chupe…
” are the two most common ones shouted so often, and by so many that, to my ear, they sound like a mantra.

I ignore them, and I certainly won’t translate them now for you.

I’m too much of a lady for that.

Hector’s lawyer has arranged for his client to be assigned the last love shack on the left. I’m sure Hector is in there now, waiting for me. It’s perfectly situated for this mission because it is the closest one to the island’s north shore, where the submarine is anchored. 

I’ve almost reached the shack when a guard prods my backside with his semi-automatic rifle. “
No no no, puta! Para ahi! El Chihuahua se encuentra en la torre, all
í.”

Ah, hell. Turns out that our little tryst has been moved to another location. 

He’s pointing to the rickety stairwell that leads to the top of the tower, which, unlike the shack, is made of solid rock. It’s too narrow to hold more than one room at the very top, which has only one high, tiny window barred with wrought iron. 

As if that matters. If we’re in there, the zip line will never reach its final destination: the sub.

“Plan B?” I whisper, just loud enough for Jack to hear me. The wooden staircases are steep, and rickety. 

 “Dollface, there is no Plan B. Frankly if it was up to me, you’d take a shiv to the slime bucket and waltz out of there. But orders are orders.” I hear Jack swiping away on his iPad as he tries to figure another way out for all of us.

Including the odious Hector. 

There is just one outdoor landing before the ground floor: on the fourth flight of stairs. I try to keep my head up so that Jack’s reconnaissance is easier, but it’s difficult because my heels are getting caught on every other step. To hell with that. As I bend down to slip out of them, the guard bringing up my rear murmurs, “
Culo lindo, pero sus piernas son tan flácidas
.” 

Should I be flattered he says my ass is cute—or pissed because he thinks my thighs are flabby?

“Hey, what did I tell you? Just twenty minutes on an elliptical would do wonders,” Jack says. “No more of that tiny jiggle of cottage cheese on your upper thighs.”

In any language, the extension of my middle finger tells both of them what I think of their opinions.

We are in the tower’s turret, seven flights up.

“
Llamamos a esta suite la luna de miel,
” the guard says with a snicker.

Yeah, right. Some honeymoon suite. 

I’m the first to arrive. I scan the room so that Jack can also see what we’ve got to work with—

Which ain’t much. The room is tiny, and its window, high above my head, is too small to squeeze through, even if it weren’t railed.

There is a double bed on one side, and a dresser on another.

 “Jeez! Slim pickings,” he mutters. “Okay here’s what I figure: first, when the guard leaves, give him a sweet kiss goodnight.”

That’s code for knocking him out. One of my lip wands, Cherry Noir, should do the trick since it has a top coat of Rohypnol.

“The lock is old and easy to pick,” Jack continues. “By the time you do, I’m guessing your physical trainer there will be asleep in the chair outside the door. You can take his semiautomatic. You shouldn’t meet anyone else on the stairwell on your way down. From that fourth story landing, you’ll have just enough line and gravitational pull to make the jump.”

Jack’s tell is the small cough he gives after this lie.

Hearing it now, I realize that my chances of getting El Chihuahua out of here will be slim at best.

I finger the rosary, just in case—

Until I slice off the tip of my nail on the zip line. Ay, caramba!

Jack is not done making my day. “By the way, the mirror over the dresser is also a webcam, so give me about two minutes of steady bump and grind. I’ll put it on a loop, then hack into the feed with it. The boys won’t even realize that the show is a repeat.”

Just great. I don’t look forward to feeling El Chihuahua’s paws all over me, but I’ll get over it.

What this girl won’t do for her country.

Chapter 17

Surviving a Bad Blind Date

Blind dates can be fun…with the right one!

Sadly, your odds are only 14.7 percent that a blind date will be worth any more than ten minutes of your time. For the other 85.3 percent, you’re frantically tugging your earlobe, which is the agreed-upon signal to your gal pal (who sits at an adjacent table, but pretends not to know you) to call your cell phone with some made-up emergency that gets you out of blind date purgatory.

After your great escape, she’ll commiserate with you about your dire state of spinsterhood as well as the origin of the term “blind date,” over several very dry martinis. Perhaps you need to be blind to survive these meet and greets? Perhaps you were blindsided to accept one? 

At this low point, some guy on the other side of the bar hones in on the conversation and buys your next round. He’s sort of cute, and conversation with him is scintillating. 

It’s not until he asks your gal pal if she needs a lift home–and she says yes–that you realize he was the date you just ditched.

It wasn’t his looks or his personality that blinded you to him, but your ego. 

Then again maybe not, when you consider that old saying, “the difference between a pig and a stallion is three martinis.”

El Chihuahua is thin, short, bald, and has bulging eyes.

Now his nickname makes sense.  

Above his orange jumpsuit, there isn’t an inch of his body that isn’t covered with tattoos. Odd words and long lines of numbers run in and around his neck, and over and around his scalp.

Freaky.

Scary.

The way he licks his lips as he looks me up and down, you’d think I was a pork chop.

I try not to shudder as I tantalize him with a long lingering kiss.

While he and the guard exchange smirks, I apply more lip gloss. This time, it’s the 
Cherry Noir
. Then I slip my hand into the guard’s, and walk him to the door. “Adios, amigo,” I whisper, before fluttering my lashes and laying on a kiss he won’t forget.

When he wakes up, that is.

He stumbles out, too woozy to lock the door behind him.

Great. That gives me one less thing to worry about.

Okay, show time. Smile pretty for the cameras.

My leading man thinks that the simper on my face and the sweet nothings I whisper in his ear are meant for him. In fact, I’m playing to the camera.

In no time at all El Chihuahua has grown by leaps and bounds.

One part of him, anyway.

It takes Hector only a few seconds before he’s out of his orange jumpsuit. It’s not just his head and his neck that’s inked, but every part of his body, like some sort of Sudoku manifesto.

Weird.

The buttons on my blouse are too delicate for his stubby fingers, so he just rips them off.  After a few moments of letting him paw at my breasts, I pull him with me onto the floor, below the webcam’s lens—

And in a nanosecond I’ve got the zip line to his neck. I only have to yank it once to get his attention. When he feels my heel on his rotator cuff, his groans are loud and steady. 

The boys on the monitor can’t see anything, but what they hear sounds like a man in ecstasy. 
Perfect.

After three minutes of this, I hear Jack mutter, “Cut…” Then a moment later. “And print.”

The loop is engaged. Show’s over. 
About damn time
…

I twist Hector’s arm behind his back and yank him onto his feet. But before he can scream out in pain, I hiss, “I’m your ride out of here, asshole, so behave yourself, or I’ll leave you to 
Los Corazónes Rojos
’ hit squad. They can’t wait to cut out your heart and keep it as a souvenir.”

He grins up at me. “Don’t like to mix business with pleasure, eh, bitch? What a shame.” He eyes me longingly. 

He has only the faintest trace of an accent. Heck, the guy graduated cum laude from Wharton School of Business, so that’s to be expected. I shake my head in wonder. “Why am I not surprised that you’ve got a lot of friends in high places? Funny, though, none of them cared enough about you to get you out of this joint.” 

He shrugs. “Until now. What do you want so badly, that you’re willing to do me the favor?”

“You built the Quorum’s safe house. You’re going to tell me where it is, and give me the floor plan. In return, you’ll be freed on U.S. soil and put into Witness Protection.”

His smirk is back. He thinks a moment, then taps the side of his head. “No problem. It’s all here.” 

Satisfied, I release my grip.

Big mistake. He grabs my breasts for a quick feel, then crams his tongue down my throat—

And promptly passes out.

My lipstick is El Chihuahua’s kiss of sleep.

“Aw, heck,” Jack mutters in my ear. “Well now, this ought to be fun. I guess you’re going to have to carry him out.”

“In heels? And on that staircase? You’re kidding, right?”

“I wish I were, babe. It’s either that, or hard time for you in Santa Martha Acatitla. We’ll get a few conjugal visits, but…well, let’s just say it ain’t the One & Only Palmilla Resort, if you catch my drift—which, by the way, is where I made your post-mission birthday reservation. Just imagine: our very own villa, with an ocean view 
and
 an infinity pool. Oh, and get this! The soaking tub in the bathroom has a roof that opens to the stars. Cool, huh? Love those fluffy bathrobes. Hey, what say we get his and hers massages while we’re there? Better yet, we’ll role-play. I’ll be Hans the Austrian masseuse, pleasuring the bored British duchess. Then you can be Inga, the Swedish bombshell… Damn, girl, I’m getting horny just thinking about it. Look, the quicker we blow this joint, the sooner I get to admire you in your new thong bikini.”