The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide (3 page)

Carl’s elbow hits Lynch’s gut. The lawyer doubles over, but before he can scream, Carl’s fist slams into his windpipe. As Lynch blacks out, Carl grabs Lynch's head between his hands and breaks his neck with one quick twist, catching him when he falls.

I watch, frozen and helpless, as Carl eases Lynch into the chair which puts Lynch’s back to the door. Then Carl grabs the Bible. When he rips apart the book, a thin latex layer is revealed between its covers: it’s a mask of some sort…

Oh my God, it’s a replica of Lynch’s face.

In no time at all, Carl adheres it onto the top part of his own face, leaving only his mouth and chin free. It’s seamless enough that the guards will never notice.

Then he yanks off Lynch’s hair. 

The guy wears a piece? Go figure…

Taking the mirror out of my purse, Carl adjusts the toupee so that it’s a passable fit. Then he strips off his jacket, exchanging it for the dead man’s, along with his tie and VIP badge. 

Finally, he sets Lynch’s hands on the table, clasped together and head bowed, over the Bible.

The color has already drained out of the lawyer’s face. His eyes are open wide in fear. 

If I could, I’d throw up. 

Carl, you’re one sick fuck.

I’m next. In no time at all Carl lifts me onto my feet. With his arm around my waist, he propels me forward. Like the rest of me, my legs are numb, but at least they’re moving, which is more than I can say for my mouth, which seems to be filled with sand.

“How do you like my little zombie prick? It’s my very own concoction: some neuromuscular block to shut your trap, and just enough scopolamine to keep you docile. Makes you the perfect Stepford Wife. Ha! I should have thought of this, years ago! We might still be together.” 

In your sick dreams.

Right before we go out the door, Carl tilts my head onto his shoulder and pats it gently, as if I’m prostrate with grief. 

My face is angled in such a way that I only catch a glimpse of the guards for a second. To my dismay, they give us no more than a cursory nod. 

We are just a few steps beyond them when Carl turns back and says, “My client is depressed over the news that his wife here is divorcing him. Since the judge has allotted him a full hour’s visitation privilege, I presume you’ll honor the time he has left, so that he can pray for his soul in this hour of need.” 

His polite “Thank you” indicates they’ve nodded at his request. 

He’s been granted the time to make his getaway, with me as his hostage. 

He pushes me out of the building and over toward Gitmo’s landing strip, holding a one-way conversation as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Time for a little ride, doll. Should be fun! I’ve booked an entire island, just for the two of us. Well, for you, really: Musha Cay. Trust me, you’ll love it! Dig this: a two-mile long private sand bar, beds galore in all five sumptuous villas. In other words, paradise.” 

He pauses to wipe the drool off my chin, and to nudge my lips into a smile. In the process, he smears my lipstick, frowns, and wipes it off on the crisp kerchief in what had been the chest pocket of Lynch’s jacket.

 The initials embroidered on the kerchief, 
ML
, are now smeared with Chatty Cranberry. There goes Plan B.

 “Hey, did you happen to pack a bikini?” Carl asks. “No? That’s okay. You’ll have an awesome all-over tan when they come for you. Too bad I can’t keep you company, but someone has to take the fall for my little disappearing act. It makes sense that it’s you, what with the way you’ve been pining after me all these years.”

When they come for me.

Will I be dead, or alive?

He’s lucky I’m too weak to talk back.

Or to break his neck.

All I want to do…is…

Sleep.

I wake to the sounds of waves lapping on a distant shore, the squawk of macaws, and the dull drone of sap-thirsty hummingbirds. 

I try to raise my arms, but they feel as if they weigh a ton. I have better luck opening an eyelid, but I can’t see anything because I’m laying face down. My head is turned to one side, but apparently Carl put a large floppy sun hat over it, which keeps me from seeing what I hear next: 

The whisking blades of a helicopter, getting closer and closer.

Until it lands nearby, on Musha Cay’s sugary white sandbar;

The gentle crunch of gravel under the boots of the eight members of the SEAL Team 6 Devgro unit as they make their way up the walkway that winds its way from the beach to Musha Cay’s five opulent guest villas;

But then they freeze when they come across me, sunning myself on a cushioned chaise¬

And finally, the rush of air as eight HK-MP7a1’s are raised and aimed, within inches of me.

Inevitably I hear the team’s commander shout, “Donna Stone! Raise your arms over your head! 
Now! Now!
”

Of course I can’t.

 It takes them just a moment to figure out something is wrong. Why else would I still be lying here, motionless and naked, despite their startling commands, not to mention severe sunburn?

My hat falls off as two of the men lift me up from under my arms. I dare to squint up at them, but their profiles are obliterated in a halo of the bright tropical sun. 

As they force-march me into the closest villa, one of the SEALs lets loose with a long, appreciative whistle. “Whooeee, damn! She sure is one red hot naked mama!”

I don’t know what hurts more, my overexposed skin or my bruised ego.

Carl is going to pay for this.

Chapter 2

Finding Mr. Right

Your chances of finding Mr. Right are a lot better if you know exactly who you’re looking for. Let’s make a wish list, shall we? 

First, there should be some physical attraction between you. (This isn’t to say that he should call out “Hubba, hubba!” or act like a bonobo in heat at the sight of you.)

Next, he should be a gentleman at all times. (This is especially true when he catches you in the throes of passion with your old boyfriend. A gentleman believes a lady when she explains that she lost her contact in her ex’s bed, and he was just helping her find it. Naked, of course, because that’s how you lost it in the first place.)

And finally, he must be willing to show you a good time. In Paris. Where you will travel on his private jet, and stay at the Georges Cinq. 

What, you’re concerned this wish list is too ambitious? You’re wrong! The gal who gets her Mr. Right starts with a clear vision of who he is, and emphatically knows she deserves what she gets.

Yep, she’s one lucky lady! And that lady could be you.

Carl was right. Musha Cay’s villas are to die for.

Considering my dire situation, maybe I should rephrase that.

Granted, I’m basing this solely on the villa set up as my own personal party central. The décor is plantation shabby chic, with lazy fans, gauzy drapes, wide-plank bleached bamboo floors, and large shutters, folded back to frame a baby blue horizon. 

French doors lead to a master suite, where the virginal white cotton sheets covering the Cal king bed are strewn with the accoutrements of illicit pleasures soon to be enjoyed: a rainbow array of thong bikinis, a couple of sheer negligees, a treasure chest of sex toys—

Oh, and let’s not forget the ten six-inch bricks of Euro banknotes in €500 denominations, or the Swiss bank account statement showing a week-old deposit of thirty million dollars.

All of which are being dusted for fingerprints right now. 

Guess whose they’ll find on it?

Major Reynolds and Jack look up as Seal Team Donna tosses me into a large wingback chair. Their faces are a contrast of emotions. While Reynolds’ darkens into a knowing grimace, Jack’s softens with relief at seeing me alive before clouding over with worry at my predicament.

Guess which one grabs a terrycloth robe off the bed and drapes it over me?

“Lady, I don’t need to tell you things don’t look so good for you.” Major Reynolds leans into me. “Until Prisoner 1982, no one—I repeat, 
no one
—has ever escaped from Gitmo. As his accomplice, I can take you back there, and detain you as a terrorist, not to mention charge you for the murder of an innocent civilian. So start talking. Where is he?”

 “How the hell should I know? Lynch’s plane has GPS. Why aren’t you tracking it?” My words spill out of me at the speed of molasses on a frosty morn. “And for the record, I didn’t help Carl escape! I was drugged!”

“That’s great, Donna,” Jack says hopefully. “A simple blood and urine test proves you right, and we’re out of here.” He motions to one of the SEALs, who nods and reaches into his gunny sack for the testing apparatus.

I wince. “You won’t find anything. Whatever Carl gave me didn’t leave traceable evidence.”

Reynolds laughs raucously at what he considers to be a tall tale.

A decorative letter opener, left on an antique book bedside table by my chair, has found its way into the sleeve of my robe, go figure. 

Jack notices this miracle and shakes his head slightly. 

Yeah, okay, I’ll keep my cool. For now.

Jack turns back to Reynolds. “Lynch’s pilot—or, I guess the Quorum’s—diverted from the flight plan’s original destination, Teterboro Airport. It shows good faith on Donna’s part that she put the GPS microdot on Lynch’s jacket. We would not have found her so quickly if she hadn’t. Unfortunately for you, Donna, Carl changed his clothes here before heading off to parts unknown. We found the jacket and the rest of Lynch’s suit under this bed.” 

“Mr. Craig has fully informed me about your asset's history,” Reynolds butts in. “But it’s your relationship with the prisoner that concerns me even more.” He weighs a Euro brick in each hand before tossing them back on the bed. “Black-ops freelancers get turned all the time, especially when personal feelings are part of the mix.”

I smile. “Let me make this perfectly clear, Major Reynolds. The only emotion I feel for my ex is hate.”

“Then enlighten us, Mrs. Stone. Why don’t the facts as you present them add up? You’re seen walking out with the prisoner. There was no gun held to your head. In fact, you’re smiling, as if you don’t have a care in the world. Then you take the dead man’s private jet to an exclusive private island, off American soil. To top it off, you’re found with a bag full of money, and the proof that more funds have been deposited in your name in an offshore bank account. So, why should I believe anything you say?”

I may be fully awake now, but I feel as if I’m still in a very bad dream.  “For God’s sake, can’t you see? I’ve been set up!”

Reynolds shrugs. He’s not buying it. 

 “Unfortunately, you’ll have to prove it from a Gitmo jail cell.” The son of a bitch paces in front of me, as if practicing his spiel in front of a jury. “You’re the worst kind of traitor, Donna Stone: a bored American housewife who wants the thrill of playing the honeypot whore while the kiddies are in school. I guess when your terrorist hubby offered you a chance to join him and leave your mundane life behind, you just couldn’t say no!”

It’s my turn to laugh. “If that’s your take on women who do what they can to earn a living when left to raise their children on their own, it’s no surprise you’re not married. Newsflash, Major: This isn’t the 
Housewives of the CIA
. Admit it. You’ve been outsmarted by a prisoner more connected than you’ll ever be. Now, let us do our work, which is to find him.”

Reynolds’ face turns as purple as a Thai eggplant, which reminds me: I’ve still got the grocery shopping to tackle when I get back home.

 “I’ve had enough of your crap—” Reynolds begins, but he’s interrupted by the appearance of an armed guard, who murmurs something too low for me to hear. 

Reynolds squints in disbelief. “You’re sure?”

The guard nods. 

“Stay here,” Reynolds warns the guard. “Don’t let either of these people out of your sight.” 

Silently, Jack slides down into a chair. I shrug. Seeing this, Reynolds steps outside onto the veranda. 

We can hear him bark, “Yes sir, but—” several times until he lets loose with a deflated “Yes, sir!”