The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide (23 page)

Measure #1: He doesn’t balk when you ask him to commit murder to avenge your honor. Granted, your command that he do so shouldn’t be given lightly! That said, your waste-not, want-not list should include frenemies, old boyfriends, or anyone who jumps ahead of you in line. Why? Because if he’s stupid enough to kill for you, he’s stupid enough to leave a trail to your doorstep. 

(In fact, if you ask him to make this sacrifice, it’s time for a new boyfriend to exterminate the old one. At that point, you can delete “old boyfriends” from your waste-not, want-not list.)

 “Genius! The guy was sheer genius!” Arnie’s shrieks are just as annoying as the helicopter’s thumping blades. “Did you know Hector owns a bank, too? In a country like this, I guess it’s the safest way to hide anything.”

“You mean the location and the floor plan for the Quorum’s villa is in some bank’s safety deposit box?” I yell back. 

“In fact, Hector has a whole vault reserved for his company, 
Ay Chihuahua Construction, at Banco Regional de California Sur
.” Ryan keeps a steady gaze on the villas dotting the hills surrounding Cabo San Lucas. I guess he’s too embarrassed to look me in the eye. Hell, he’s already seen too much of me. “This big hoedown Carl has planned tonight will be easier for both of you to get lost in a crowd. From what Valentina’s intel shows, it’s the Who’s Who we’ve been waiting for: not the foot soldiers, but the Quorum’s new investors. Everyone there is a suspect, so you’ll both be wearing digital camera lenses in order to take lots of pictures.”  

I shake my head in disbelief. “Isn’t hanging together for a meet-and-greet a risky proposition?”

“Don’t fool yourself. These guys are up to something. It’s all about the mission.” Finally, Ryan looks me in the eye. “But they’re not above mixing business with pleasure. Every socialite and celebrity in town for the holiday has been sent an invitation, making it harder for the Quorum’s leaders to be spotted. But first things first: that little withdrawal.” Ryan turns to me. “Donna, you’ll divert the two bank guards and then hit them with Roofie pricks, so they’ll doze off for an hour or so. As a safeguard, Arnie will set up a loop on the bank’s security cameras. Jack, when Donna gives you the high sign, you’ll break into the vault and pull the drawer with the villa’s floor plans.” 

Jack nods. “So you think this op should take a half-hour, tops.”  

“That’s the plan. Let’s hustle. We’ve got a party to crash.”

The chain-smoking security guard on his break thinks it’s his lucky night when he comes to the rescue of a 
chica bonita
 with a tight, short skirt and no matches to light her own cigarette. 

As he cups his hand around his lighter’s flame, my thank-you is a jab to his neck with a tiny needle injected with Rohypnol. 

His eyes cross as he stumbles into my arms. Cradling him, I tap loudly on the glass door to get the attention of the second guard and shout at the top of my lungs, “
Oye, tú! El señor guardia! Tu amigo necesita ayuda! Él pudo haber tenido un ataque al corazón!”

He’s out of his chair in a flash. My assessment—that his partner had a heart attack—has him in a panic. When he leans beside me to help me unbutton the fallen guard’s shirt, he also gets pricked with a Roofie injection.

“We’re in,” I murmur just loud enough to be picked up by the ops team’s audio receivers.

A moment later, Jack, dressed as a security guard, turns the corner. He grabs one of the sleeping beauties and I lug the other over to the security desk. 

Jack nods at me. “When they wake up, you’ll be just a fond memory.”

“Go down that corridor on the right,” Arnie’s voice mutters in our ear. “The vault is the third one on the left. You’re looking for Box Number 1761, by the way.”

When we get to the designated vault, we scan its lock with a digital sensor reader, and in a jiffy the entry code reveals itself. Before opening the vault, we pull on our infrared goggles. The security sensors look like a red spider’s web that stretches from one side of the room to another. 

Jack gives a long, low whistle. “Arnie, I’ll scan the room top to bottom, starting on the left. Donna will do the same, from the right. Holler if you see the box.” 

Starting at the right side of the room, I follow Jack’s lead, glancing from top to bottom of each row. Finally, Arnie says, “Jack, stop! Fourth row on the left, about three boxes from the top. Which one of you is best at Limbo? It’s going to take a contortionist to get over there, let alone to pull it out of the wall without setting off the alarm.”

Jack shrugs. “Is there any way you can turn off the sensors?”

“Ha! I wish . . . No, wait! I can raise the heat on the vault’s thermostat, to 99 degrees. That will offset any readings it takes from your body heat. But you’ll have exactly a minute before it trips an alarm to the bank’s central security division.”

Jack murmurs, “I’m ready when you are.”

There is a moment of silence before we hear Arnie again. “Okay, it’s now up around 72 degrees…78…81…85…89…92…”

Yes, we can feel it. In no time, sweat is rolling down our faces.

“It just hit 99 degrees. So make your move,” Arnie says.

In a flash, Jack is at the far wall. He pulls Box Number 1761, sets it on the large table in the middle of the room, and goes at it with a carbide pick.

“Hurry, dude! I’ve got to start lowering the thermostat…like…now.” Whenever he’s anxious, Arnie’s voice goes up an octave. Let’s just say he could join any touring company of 
Jersey Boys
 right about now.

Near the ceiling, faint trails of the infrared sensors are beginning to reappear. 

“Yes!” Jack holds up a memory stick for a second, before pocketing it. “Let’s go!” 

The rays are now crisscrossing the top half of the vault. Jack crouches low as he bounds out of the room, but then he freezes when a red line pierces the floor in front of him.

Another cuts horizontally, waist high.

A third zips right past his head, missing his left ear by a mere inch.

The only thing he can do now is drop onto his belly, and crawl toward the door.

“Move a little to your right,” I direct him. “Good! Okay slowly… slowly… Now roll left, about four feet… Stop! Okay you’re a straight shot to the door.”

He’s got just another five feet to go when three rays angle themselves into a star, directly in his path.

“Jack, freeze! Let me think this through.” I crouch down for a better view. “Can you tuck and roll into a power jump? That would get you through it.”

“What? Are you nuts? Need I remind you that not all of us were cheerleaders in high school?”

“Don’t knock it! It’s the most athletic pursuit, female or male, that schools can offer students. Not to mention it encourages school spirit—Agh! Don’t get me started.” I take a deep breath. “Okay, here’s how we’re going to do it: you’re going to get into a crouch with your arms straight out. I’ll grab your forearms and pull you through, but very slowly, and only about halfway. Once your torso is through the doorway, you’ll have to leap straight out at me or you’ll trip that last ray. Got it?”

He nods with a frown.

I’m sure he’ll look at cheerleaders differently, from now on.

If I let him look at them at all.

As he positions himself, I squat down too, directly across from him. “Remember, stay low!”

“Donna, just do it. Before I pull a hamstring or something else,” he mutters.

I take his forearms. Slowly I pull him through: arms, head, and torso—

He perches like a heron, balancing himself on one leg as he waits for my final signal—

That I’ve got his back, or in this case his arms above his elbows. 

That he’s in the clear.

That I won’t let go.

Not on your life.

Certainly not on his.

“Now!” I shout.

He springs toward me.

At the same time, I yank him so hard that he falls on top of me. No bells or whistles, just the sound of our heavy breathing.

His heart is beating as fast as mine. No doubt the jubilant look on his face mirrors my own.

We could high-five, but we kiss instead.

“Yee-
hah!
” Arnie shouts in our ears. “Guys, you did it! ... Guys? ... Anyone there? Either your eyes are closed, or you’ve gone dark on me... But I can hear you breathing, so... Hey! 
The Quorum!
 Remember?”

Jack sighs as he rolls off me. 

It’s party time.

Chapter 21

Wedding Bell Blues

Let’s face it, not every man is marriage material. If you’ve still got doubts about your Mr. Maybe, here are five surefire clues that he has no intention of walking down that aisle with you:  

Clue #1: Every time he catches you writing his surname with the prefix “Mrs.” in front of it, he retches all over your new carpet.

Clue #2: You cry at weddings, especially when you find him in the coat closet, feeling up one of the bridesmaids. 

Clue #3: When you leap to catch the bride’s wedding bouquet, he tackles you to the ground.

Clue #4: You remind him that your biological clock is ticking. He reminds you that he’s waiting for Megan Fox to drop Brian Austin Green.

Clue #5: When you show him the wedding dress you’ve already bought for the big day, he runs out the door, like a mad man. Even the GPS tracker you embedded in him is of no use, since he gnawed off his arm in order to lose it, and you.

Look on the bright side: they don’t make one-armed grooms for wedding cake toppers, so he wasn’t the right guy for you anyway.

The new Quorum hides in plain sight.

From the cabin of our Stingray 225-SX speedboat, we have a clear shot of its ten-acre hilltop estate, which crowns Sunset Point, high over the sandy beaches cradling Bahia San Lucas.

The forty-two room, three-story villa has a dead-on view of Land’s End, where the gentle azure waves flowing south from the Sea of Cortez are slammed into a high flying spray by the roiling jade Pacific. There, you’ll find 
El Arco
, or “the Arch,” a natural stone keyhole carved out of the seaside cliff by wind and surf and God’s good graces for the rest of us to gasp in awe at nature’s beauty.  

The Quorum’s event is a black-and-white ball. The invitation in my hand, secured earlier by Ryan, belongs to a dowager heiress too ill to attend, thanks to a few eye drops of Binaca slipped into her chocolate mousse during lunch with her golf partners at the Dunes Course at Diamante. Jack’s golden ticket was stolen from the hotel inbox of a producer. (Broadway, not film, so no one should miss him, anyway.)

Not that anyone could be recognized at this shindig in the first place, since everyone will be wearing masks.

“Ah, hell,” roars Ryan, when he reads that in the invitation. “There goes the whole purpose of taking pictures.”

“Not necessarily,” Arnie pipes up. “Depends on the mask. If any parts of their ugly mugs are exposed, our facial recognition software may still pick up enough distinctive features to ID some of the fat cats.”

All heads turn to the computer monitor in front of us, where the Quorum’s floor plan is displayed.