The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide (14 page)

When his lips meet mine, his kiss, slow and long, promises to prove his claim. 

Eventually I break away with a sigh. “You can prove it to me, tonight—after the boys leave, the girls are tucked in, and the alarm system is turned on.”

“It’s a date,” he declares. “Speaking of which, rumor has it Emma consented to going out with Arnie tonight, especially when he scored tickets to the Growlers concert.”

“Wow! Great move on his part.”

“Yeah well, here’s hoping he doesn’t blow it during the meal.”

“Why? Where is he taking her?”

“ZPizza. You know, the one with all the vegan choices. But he’s worried he’ll barf if she makes him eat the soy cheese.”

“He is such a weenie. Every now and then it’s good to get out of your comfort zone.”

“You think so?” His strokes my cheek with his finger. “I now have a mission for your seven minutes of heaven: take you where no woman has gone before.” 

“That’s quite a quest. But why put a time limit on it? Take a whole hour.”

If where he’s got his hand now is any indication, I’ll never want him to stop. “In fact, take all night.”

The phone rings. Reluctantly, Jack pulls away. The look on his face shifts from bliss to concern as he listens to whomever is on the other end. Then he says, “Yes, understood,” and hangs up.

A wave of dread washes over me. “Who was that?”

“Ryan. Our client has ordered us to stand down.”

“
What?
” I sit up straight. “What exactly does that mean?”

“The mission has been called off. Another contractor will finish the job.” Slowly he turns and walks out of the room.

So, that’s it? Acme will have nothing to do with hunting down Carl?

For the past few years, Jack has thought of nothing but my husband. Since he disappeared, Carl has been my obsession, too.

We are well aware we blew it this time. All the more reason to double our efforts in finding him, and bringing him to justice.

It’s more than personal. It’s self preservation.

The real hint that life is not a dream is when, at two in the morning, three FBI helicopters ready their spotlights on your house while some SWAT team leader yells your name through a bullhorn, followed by the words, “Donna Stone! We’ve got your house surrounded! Open the door, slowly, and come out with both hands over your head!”

Jeff and Trisha are standing at my bedroom door. When Jack jumps out of bed, they run into his arms. “Daddy, what’s happening?” Trisha cries. “Why do they want Mommy?”

“It’s all a big mistake. While she takes a second to get dressed, let’s go outside and find out what this is all about.” He hustles them out of the room with one hand, grabbing his cell phone off his bureau with the other. 

Jack is calling Ryan to see why we’ve awakened in the third circle of Hell.

The loudmouth on the bullhorn warns me that all exits are covered, and that I’ve got less than thirty seconds to appear at the front door before they storm in, guns blazing, with orders to shoot to kill. I scramble for slippers and my official Acme ID card before flying down the stairs, counting down the seconds.

But the minute I hit the front stoop, I am cuffed, and my Miranda rights are shouted to me by the SWAT team’s bootjacked flack-jacketed squad leader. 

My perp walk is met by the slack-jawed stares of Jeff, Trisha, Mary and her sleepover friends, not to mention those of my now wide awake neighbors. 

Penelope and her posse are among them. 

This is how all of Hilldale learns that the woman married to the neighborhood DILF does not beckon him to bed in some lace teddy or a sheer baby doll peignoir, let alone a satin bustier and garter, but in his flannel pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved moth-eaten tee shirt touting the 1986 Metallica tour for 
Master of the Puppets
. 

Jack is talking to the SWAT team leader, but by the look on his face, I can tell he’s not getting through to whatever lies within the stormtrooper helmet.

Just as my head is shoved down into the squad car, some brave soul yells out, “Right on! Thrash metal rocks!”

The agent driving the car looks back at me and frowns. I guess he thinks I’m some sort of political agitator.

I could explain to him I dig great guitar solos, but I don’t think he’d believe me. In his eyes, I’m not normal. I’m not even human. 

I’m a traitor to my country, just like Carl.

Chapter 11

Your Mr. Right: Is He Housebroken?

By now, he’s always hanging at your place. And he’s sleeping in your bed. He even borrows your toothbrush.

Yes, certainly you can get him his own toothbrush. Or you can allow him to park the one he already uses in your bathroom, along with his other toiletries.

You can also give him a drawer for his clothes, and point out that there are a few empty hangers in the closet for him.

If he’s okay with all of this, maybe it’s time to have the talk. You know the one: about moving in together.

This conversation has to be subtle, on so many levels. It is akin to bringing a pet into your home. In other words, you have to lay down some ground rules. Show him who’s boss. Forget “If he were a tree, what kind of tree would he be?” The more important question is “If he were a pet, what kind of animal would he be?” 

By recognizing these traits, you’ll then know the best way to housebreak your new boyfriend:

He’s a monkey if he: gives you backtalk and is stubborn.

To housebreak him, you must: practice rote commands, and reward him with little pieces of banana. Or sex. Something tells me he’ll respond best to the sex.

He’s a dog if he: pees everywhere but in the toilet bowl.

To housebreak him, you must: put him in a crate, with paper. Let
 
him out only after he promises not to hit water, as opposed to porcelain.

 Make sure he also promises to put the seat down.

He’s a pig if he: eats in bed, farts in bed, and won’t get out of bed.

To housebreak him, you must: put him in a crate and leave him there. Forever.

He’s a cat if he: doesn’t come home at night.

To housebreak him, you must: Neuter him. That’s right, cut off his balls. 

It’s morning, in America.

At least, I think it’s yet another morning. 

And I pray I’m still on American soil. But any and all requests to see a lawyer are met with a blank stare or a guffaw, so I guess not.

It’s hard to tell where I am, since there are no windows in my jail cell, and the glaring florescent lights over my head have been on since I got here, what, two, three days ago?

My interrogators come at me in around-the-clock shifts. I’m asked the same damn questions over and over again:

“How long have you been a Quorum double agent?”

“I have not, and never have been, affiliated with the Quorum,” I declare firmly.

“Did you in any way know about, or participate, in the murder of the suspects and agents in the Quorum sting?”

“No, of course not.”

“Where is Carl Stone?” 

“I don’t know,” I insist.

“When did he last contact you?”

That one always makes me laugh. “What, you think he calls, or texts or something? He just shows up!” The fifteenth time I was asked this, I added, “Didn’t they cover that in Terrorism 101, or did you skip class that day?”

My backtalk earned me four hours of head-banging rock and roll, played at ear-piercing decibles. 

Had it been Metallica, I probably wouldn’t be so grumpy now. I’m sorry, but Manowar just isn’t in the same league.

Oh great, Reynolds is here. Carl may be the bane of my existence, but this jerk is certainly a close second. 

He flops down in the chair on the opposite side of the table. After running through the playbook of his cohorts and hearing my stock answers to them, he hits the table with his fist. “Do you protect him because you still love him?”

At first, I’m too shocked to answer him. “He left me and our children. He allowed me to think he’d died. And whenever he reappears, my life goes to hell. If that’s your idea of marriage, I’m not surprised that you’re still single, Major Reynolds.”

Reynolds is towering over me now. Anger narrows his eyes into mean, gleaming slits. “Don’t you get it, Donna Stone? Game over! We’ve got what we need to put you away forever!”

“Oh yeah? What’s your evidence, exactly?”

 “Maybe these will refresh your memory.” He tosses some photos onto the table. They fan out so that I don’t have to move them with my hands. Not that I could, since they’re cuffed to the arms of my chair.

The first picture shows me yanking the assassin’s knife out of the FBI agent posted on the second floor. Another shows me stabbing Huang Zitong, the Chinese general whom Carl shoved onto me. The photo is cropped in such a way that you don’t see Carl doing it, let alone that the man is already dead.

“This isn’t what you think! How did these conveniently come into your possession, anyway?”

“They’re digital stills taken from the hotel’s security webcam system.”

“Then you should also have video footage of me manning the front desk between seven-thirty and nine-fifty that evening.”

 “Unfortunately, the feed was inconsistent. I guess the hotel hadn’t tested it prior to Acme’s rental, or they felt the price you paid for your party also bought you total discretion.” He shrugs. “By the way, your prints are the only ones on the knife.”

“That picture was taken as I was pulling the knife out, not sticking it in.” Disgusted, I shake my head. “Don’t you get it? Carl did this!”

“We have no proof that Carl was even there, let alone that he’s stateside. We do have proof, however, that the banker who fled in the helicopter, Dominic Gerstner, put fifty million dollars in a Swiss bank account in your name. We also have proof that he secured a safety deposit box in your name, which holds fake IDs for you and your children, along with a letter from a private Swiss school, accepting your children for admission under their new identities.”

“That’s ridiculous! I’m one of the good guys. I would never run.”

“I beg to differ, Mrs. Stone. Granted, I’m impressed with how cool you’ve played it.  Every answer you’ve given each of our agents has been well-practiced.” He shrugs. “But they’ve also been lies. When asked if you’ve ever been a Quorum double agent, you have emphatically denied any affiliation.” He leans in. “Your role in the Gitmo break out will be your downfall, madam. From the beginning, the facts never added up. Despite your claim that you were drugged, none were found in your system. Two innocent men were murdered, including the plane’s pilot. Not to mention Carl got away. Again, you were found with walk-away money and fake passports.”

“Whether you believe me or not, I was set up.”

 “I don’t believe you, Donna. And I can’t believe you, because your actions speak louder than your words. Case in point: when Carl Stone first resurfaced in your life, you neglected to mention this to your superiors at Acme.” 

“Well…yes. I mean, technically. But at that point, no one had told me that Carl was a terrorist suspect.”

His pause is accompanied with a smirk. “Is that why you passed him a detonator which could have set off the nanobomb at the World Little League game, costing tens of thousands of parents and children their lives?”

“Let’s not forget I also got the detonator back from him, and shot him before he got away.” My hands are shaking, I’m so angry. “I guess now you’re going to blame his escape from the ambulance on me, too.”

“I’m sure if I looked hard enough, I’d find a connection.” He leans back. “If I remember correctly, you were arrested for killing Jonah Breck.”

I nod. “Who turned out to be the titular head of the Quorum, remember?”

Reynolds shrugs. “At this point, I wouldn’t doubt he was set up by you and your husband.”

That has me snorting. “Again, for the record, 
Carl and I are separated.
 And speaking of Carl, thanks to Russian President Asimov’s diplomatic strings, yes, the known terrorist in question was allowed back onto US soil, and within a hair's breadth of the president. Maybe that’s something you should take up with your BFFs at the State Department.”