The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide (24 page)

“Donna, there is a secure elevator hidden in the library, here.” Ryan taps a windowless room, accessed through a hallway next to the grand ballroom. “You’ll find it behind a bookcase.”

“The books look real, but they are all just one big façade—except for 
Ulysses
, smack dab in the middle of the third shelf.” Arnie explains. “Just tilt it down. I guess they figured no one would ever open that one—and voilà, you’re in.” 

“The elevator goes straight up through the villa, to the top floor,” Ryan says. He taps the screen. “It drops you in the only room up there. Once you’re inside, go to the console holding the computer.”

“You’ll insert this thumb drive,” Arnie interjects. He’s holding up a tiny clear plastic USB flash drive. “It’s been programmed to duplicate the computer’s data and email files. That should take exactly six minutes. A minute later it will drop a worm into the computer’s hard drive, which will then transmit any new data files created or viewed, whether they’re loaded onto the Quorum’s secure server, or sent to a cloud.” 

“The sooner, the better,” Ryan mutters. “Our cousins have picked up some unsettling chatter on their side of the pond. The surprise attack Carl has planned is taking place at eleven o’clock tonight Pacific Time.”

“I guess their little shindig gives every Quorum suspect an alibi, since that’s exactly when the party’s over-the-bay fireworks show begins.” 

I’m almost afraid to ask, but I have to do it. “Where will the bomb go off?”

“That’s the problem. It’s not just one city on the hit list, but fourteen,” Ryan answers. “London, New York, Paris, Tokyo, Leningrad, Moscow, Jerusalem, Berlin, Rome, Geneva, Toronto, Argentina, Beijing, and—I’m sorry to say, folks: our hometown, too.”

Los Angeles.

My children are in danger.

And I’m not home to protect them.

I want to cry.

No. I want to stop the Quorum.

My floor-length, silver sequined jersey gown is strapless, has a big bow in back, and fits me like a second skin. It looks great with my sleek, chin-grazing platinum-blond wig.

If I find myself in trouble, my ring has a Roofie prick, and my heels truly are stilettos.

Not to mention that I’ve got a two-inch-long Swiss MiniGun tucked in my bustier. It fires bullets at a speed of 399 feet per second.

Don’t worry. The safety is on.

In case the Quorum’s security also has face recognition software, my papier-mâché mask makes me a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe. The crowd is thick enough that both Jack and I have blended in easily. So that I can spot him in this throng of white tuxedos jackets, he wears a traditional Venetian death mask. It is white, almost square, and cut high above the jaw. It covers most of his face with pronounced cheeks, strong flaring nostrils, and just the barest indentation of eyebrows over the eye holes.

My mask is a classic colombina, covering just the top part of my face—nose, eyes, and forehead—before pluming out into a silver headdress.

Our orders are very clear. As Jack circles the crowd so that Arnie can download as many digital impressions as possible, I’ll plant the bug, sound the all-clear, and meet Jack at the Stingray, which Arnie has tied up in an inlet behind this pile of stone and stucco. 

Whenever a member of the plain-tux goon squad looks my way, I chat up some muckety-muck until I’m in the all-clear. I’ve recognized a few British soccer players and American basketball players, a handful of Oscar film stars, and way too many Kardashians. 

A group of three women break off to find a powder room, and I make it a point to join them. Complimenting one of them on her dress puts me in the thick of their entourage, but I break away when I’m next to the staircase that coils on the wall over the library.

Arnie is right. The wall of books looks real enough, but only one actually moves: Ulysses.

The bookcase slides apart silently. Inside the elevator, there is only one button to push.

Going up—

To take them down.

The ride is slow and silent. Finally, the door opens. A few moments pass for my eyes to adjust to the only light in the room: the glow of the stars reflected in the bay, below the balcony’s glass doors. When I do, I see the console. It holds just one thing: a desktop computer. 

I pull the memory stick from a tiny waterproof pocket sewn into one of my opera gloves, and input it into one of the computer’s USB ports. Immediately the stick does its thing, blinking blue to indicate it is reading files, and loading them into its memory.

I count down the seconds on the computer’s digital clock. As if that will make time go any faster.

Finally, the stick flashes green, indicating that the Trojan Horse is being downloaded into the computer’s stable of files.

I’ve just pulled the memory stick from the computer and slipped it back into the tiny waterproof pocket in my glove when a voice behind me says, “I thought I’d find you here.”

I look up to find myself staring at Jack’s death mask. 

He steps out of the shadows. Those broad shoulders are a sight for sore eyes.

“Perfect timing,” I scold him. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What’s the rush? Don’t you want to stay for the fireworks?”

Aw hell. His voice isn’t Jack’s.

But yes, I know it…

He is Carl.

“Thanks, but I’ve already got a date,” I purr, as I move closer. “However, since we’re together again, there is one thing I’d like to do.” 

Playfully I run my fingers up the lapel of his tux until I’m close enough to pat his bowtie—

Which I grab with both hands. As I choke him, I murmur, “I want to finish you off once and for all, 
you son of a bitch
.”

He wrenches my hands from his neck, then twists my arms behind my back until they ache in agony. I know he’d like to hear me scream from the pain, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. 

“How did you know I was here?” I ask.

He grins down at me. ““You’re one of the most beautiful women here tonight. Of course I’d want to meet you. And then I saw that necklace. I’d know it anywhere.”

Ah, hell. I’d forgotten to take it off when I dressed for the party.

I shrug. “What can I say? It’s my favorite.” 

He yanks off his mask. I gasp when I see his face. It’s been altered since the last time we met. His nose is straighter, his eyes are larger, and his cheekbones are more pronounced. 

Shave his head and he could pose as the skeleton on a bottle of poison. Why am I not surprised?

 Carl laughs at my shock and dismay.

“Don’t worry. I’m still the same old Carl you know and love.” His hand lingers on my cheek, which he strokes gently. “You still love me, don’t you, Donna?”

I spit at him.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand. Then he slaps me.

I don’t even flinch, although it smarts like hell.

Instead, I smile. “Frankly, I’m surprised to see you here. I thought learning you’d killed the mother of your child would have left you too bereft to make the rest of us so miserable.”

 He pulls me closer. “No such luck. As it turns out, as I suspected the Romanian whore’s child wasn’t mine after all.”

“Liar. You’re just trying to assuage your guilt.”

“Hey, don’t take my word for it. Acme did the autopsy. Ask Ryan if you can see the DNA report on the fetus.”

“Seriously, Carl, enough with these childish attempts to come between Jack and me! I’d never do that. I don’t have to, because I’ll always take his word over yours.”

“That’s easy to do, now that the competition is dead and buried.” He shakes his head. “It was a beautiful ceremony, wasn’t it? Just the two of you. Oh yeah, and the gimp came late to the party. C'est la vie! Although I do love Paris this time of year.  It would be perfect for a second honeymoon. We can leave tonight! Admit it, you’ve missed me.”

I want to spit in his face again. Instead, I smile up at him. I can only imagine how much he hates my smile. 

I test that theory by whispering, “Maybe you should refresh my memory as to why that might be the case.” 

Guess I’m wrong. His lips graze mine gently, then hungrily. 

No, I don’t resist him. I can’t.

Otherwise, my family is doomed.

It is true that hate is a desire just as strong as love. Whereas the latter is now driving an involuntary instinct to enjoy what I am feeling, the former gives me the strength to reach down, gently and slowly—

And pull a stiletto from my right heel. 

“Oh yeah,” I murmur gently in his ear, “Now I remember.” 

Then, with a flick of a nail, the knife is open and I stab him again, in his old wound. “I remember I shot you 
here
.”

He roars in pain. On reflex, he smacks me hard across the face, and I fall to the floor. By the time I get up again, he has yanked the stiletto from his shoulder. A corsage of blood seems to be growing on his crisp, white tuxedo jacket.

He pulls off my wig and jerks me back up to my feet by my hair. I’m still woozy, and I know he’s got to be, too. Still, he’s strong enough to drag me through the open balcony doors.

“The fireworks are going off any moment now. I wouldn’t want you to miss them.” 

He’s right. Already the party guests are gathered by the pool, counting down the seconds:

…47…46…45…

“You see, my darling wife, thanks to the intel provided by the dearly departed Chinese general Huang Zitong—some of the missiles we’ll shoot off tonight are going further than the bay out there. All the way to China, in fact. As well as Russia, England, France, New York. And yes, as close as Los Angeles.”

He’s holding the knife at my throat, ready to cut my jugular if I scream out. 

Despite this, I whisper, “But Mary is there! And Jeff, and Trisha—” 

“The children? Believe me, I thought about them. You know, Donna, considering your superb cooking skills, I’d think you’d be the first person to adhere to that old adage, ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.’ Time to retire, don’t you think? If not for your own sake, then for the kids. That is, if they’re still alive after tonight.” He shakes his head in mock horror. “You’ve raised them with absolutely no survival skills! What kind of mother does that make you? If they survive, I’ll certainly push even harder for joint custody.” 

The crowd’s singsong shouts are making me dizzy. 
22…21…20…

Doesn’t he have a conscience? “Millions of people will die—and for what?”

11…10…9…8…

He smiles down at me. “What do you think? 
For money
. Believe me, those in power knew the cost. And guess what? 
They refused to pay the ransom.
” That smile of his, which I’ll never forget as long as I live, is dazzling, brilliant. “Donna, you and I both know better than anyone—hell, even Valentina knew it! You always pay a price.”

“Three! Two! 
ONE!
” shouts the crowd.

Then—

Nothing.

Not a thing.

I look at him and shrug. “Oopsy. My bad.”

Trisha taught me that one. Rarely does it get her out of trouble.

I don’t think it will help me here, either.

At first, he doesn’t get it. When he does, he drags me over to the computer, but it’s too late. Arnie’s bug—in this case, a centipede—dashes around the screen before morphing into a one-finger salute.

“Why, you little bitch! You did it again!”

“Yeah. You see, we housewives have another saying: ‘Fuck off.’”

“
Touché.
 Well, at least you’ll die for a great cause. I’ll say so, at your funeral. I’m sure the kids will appreciate it.” 

This time when he pulls me in close, it’s only to rip the locket from my neck. “I’ll take this, as a keepsake. Oh yeah, and for old time’s sake—”

His tongue is down my throat.

This time I play hard to get. I chomp down hard, and he screams in pain.

He grabs me and drags me to the balcony railing. Over I go—

But my hand catches hold of it, and I’m left dangling. Carl stands over me, his foot poised to crush my hand beneath it. I groan in agony at the pressure he puts on one finger, then another.

All of a sudden, he’s groaning, too, from a punch in the kidney—

From Jack.

 Jack pulls me back onto my feet while Carl is doubled over—

But Carl doesn’t stay that way for very long. Angrily, he rises and kicks Jack in the gut.
 

Even as Jack stumbles, he takes a swing at Carl, but misses.

The next thing I know, it’s Jack who is being choked. As he hangs half over the balcony, all I can think about is that I’m about to lose the man I love.

No way. Ain’t happening.

Once was enough.

Any woman will tell you that there are very few things a mere two inches long that pack a wallop. My Swiss MiniGun is one of them. The bullets may be tiny, but the velocity from just one shot to his right bicep is enough to jerk him away from Jack.

And off balance.

His arms flail like pinwheels in a mad breeze as he tries to straighten up. He almost makes it, too.

But then I snatch my necklace out of his hand.

Oh yeah, and I tip him over the edge with a finger to his bloody wound.