The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights (31 page)

Jack winces as I bob and weave through six lanes of I-405 in the i8.
 
“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “I have things under control.”

“Great, because I’ve spent too much time in a coma already.”

“Oh, ye of little faith!” I shout over the
basso profundo
blasts from the two eighteen-wheelers, apparently miffed at my dexterity in squeezing between them.

As exhilarating as it is to have him alive again and at my side, maybe he’s right about slowing down.

At least, until we get hitched. I don’t plan on dragging a corpse down the aisle.

Ryan frowns when I declare, “Give, Queenie.”

Dominic winces, whereas Jack, Abu, Emma, and Arnie duck their heads, as opposed to showing their smirks. Okay, yeah, I’m the only one who gets away with talking smack to Ryan.
 

That’s okay. He always has a way of making me pay for the privilege.

He coughs before going into the spiel Jack and I have been waiting for, these past six hours. “Catherine had the goods on the Quorum alright,” Ryan confirms, “thanks to her husband, Robert. He questioned the actual monetary sources coming from her biggest Super PAC, and tried to get her to refuse its funds. To prove his point, he hired an international team of investigators to track down the source of every dollar donated. But, instead of it scaring her straight, Catherine held onto it, in the hope of using it as a trump card. You’ll see why in a minute.”
 

He taps Arnie on the shoulder.
 

A photo appears on the conference room wall screen. It’s an organizational chart. Twelve companies fan out in a circle like spokes in a wheel. “Each of these international conglomerates has its tentacles in banking, agribusiness, petrochem, biotech, defense contracting, software development, cloud security, media, transportation, or a combination of three or more of these industries.”

“Graffias International is on the list,” Jack points out.

Arnie nods. “Yep, but unfortunately, because it’s a privately held company based in Switzerland, Acme’s corporate intel division drew blanks on its leadership personnel, which are masked to all outside sources.”

“Apparently, Robert’s investigators had better luck,” Ryan declares. “They hacked into the company’s secure cloud and came up with three corporate officers. The CEO is this man.”

A photo appears on the screen: It shows a handsome executive in his mid-forties: dark skin, deep-set eyes, high cheekbones. “His name is Salem Rahmin al-Sadah. His family made its billions as one of the investment advisors to the Saudi’s Prince Faisal.”

That’s got my attention. “Great work if you can get it.”

“It’s certainly paid off for him,” Ryan agrees, “and for the chairman of the board for Graffias too.”

His picture fades into another: that of Eric Weber, the German operative who was one of the Quorum’s original members. In fact, it was Eric who recruited Carl as a double agent. But when Carl decided to reinvent the Quorum after his own image, he targeted Eric for extermination.
 

Needless to say, Eric took the hint and disappeared off the face of the earth.

After Carl blackmailed Lee into appointing him as our country’s Director of Intelligence, Jack and I found Eric’s hideout: a French wine country chateau. We thought we had convinced him that he should testify about Carl’s many acts of treason. Instead, Eric disappeared again.
 

Now we know where he ended up—back where he started, as one of the leaders of the Quorum.

“Well, what do you know?” I murmur.

“Trust me,” Ryan warns, “it gets even better.”

Eric’s face is replaced by a woman’s: that of the First Lady, Babette Breck Chiffray.

Jack whistles softly. “So, what’s your guess, Ryan? Is she fronting for Lee?”

“Even so, aren’t her assets and income also put in a blind trust while he’s in office?” I counter. “Or does Lee even know about her ownership of this company? If it wasn’t part of Breck International’s holdings when his company—Global World Industries—purchased it, he may be unaware of her involvement with it.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. “Thanks to Catherine, the proof is right here in front of us, as to who runs the Quorum. And if what Xia said is true, that she took her kill order from Lee, he knows alright.”

I shake my head. “Catherine was coy about the meaning of this intel. Her exact words about Lee were, ‘I’d like to be there to see the look on his face when you confront him.’ For all we know, she was talking about breaking the news about Babette.”

“It’s possible,” Ryan concedes.

“And when I questioned Lee at the hospital, he was downright angry because I accused him of being Quorum,” I add. “He also denied contacting Xia, whom he referred to as MSS, which indicates he may not have known she’s now a Quorum operative.”

“He may be telling the truth,” Arnie declares.

Jack and I turn to stare at him. “Say that again?” we say in unison.

“I hacked Xia’s cell phone,” he explains. “Yes, she did get some texts—not calls—from the White House. One is feeling her out for the hit on Catherine. Another agrees to her terms, and a third received validation of the hit, and provided evidence of the payoff. But that doesn’t necessarily mean they were sent from POTUS. Even descrambled, the only ID from the texting source is a number: 362433.”

Interesting. “Xia also claimed that there was some…well, I guess you’d call it sexting between her and the White House.”

Arnie blushes. “It’s true, there were a couple of spicy ones. Okay, yeah, vulgar, really. The last one had the deets of a liaison in Georgetown that was supposed to take place on Xia’s next trip stateside, which would have been in a couple of weeks.”

“If it’s a private residence, let’s find out who owns it,” Ryan orders Arnie. “If it’s a hotel, get intel on who made the reservation. We’ve got to follow the crumbs.”
 

“Sure, let’s stake it out,” Jack suggests. “If it isn’t Lee, her liaison will turn up. But if it’s him…”

Of course, he thinks the contact will be a no-show because he presumes that it’s Lee.

“And if no one shows, we have to follow up with the leads we have,” Ryan says, “any way we can.”

He means reconnaissance on the Chiffrays—both of them.

Oh, boy,
that
should be fun.

Jack laughs. “I guess that means Lee and Babette are on the guest list for the wedding.”

“What?”
Everyone turns to stare at him—then at me.

“Yep, it’s official,” I declare. “I proposed, and Jack accepted.”

“How perfectly splendid, old chap!” Dominic slaps him on the back. “I insist on throwing your bachelor party.”

“Spiffy!” I respond oh so sweetly. But to Jack I mutter, “Don’t hold your breath, dear. Acts of nature, you know. By the way, should there be a fire at Chateau Fleming prior to the event, do you think he’ll call it off?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Jack warns me. “Donna…Donna? Answer me.”

Before I have a chance to either confirm or deny, Ryan says, “Since you brought up the guest list, as far as the Chiffrays are concerned—”

“Yeah, yeah whatever. We’ll take it under advisement!” I exclaim, as I grab Jack’s hand, and jerk him out the door with me.

There will be no more discussion about the wedding until we talk to my children about something even more important: my marriage to Jack, and what it means for them.

“Can we see the hole?” It’s the first question Jeff asks Jack after locking him in a five-minute hug.
 

Trisha shakes her head adamantly. “Ewwww, yuck!
NO
!”
 

By the way Mary and Evan exchange nods, I guess I know how they’d vote on the topic.

“Don’t be such a scaredy-cat,” Aunt Phyllis admonishes my youngest. On the other hand, Jack gets a nudge. “Go ahead, Braveheart, show us the big bad booboo that had us gnawing our fingers to the bone.”

Jack laughs. “Okay, but remember, you asked for it.”

He lifts the bandage slowly.
 

Everyone leans forward, fascinated.
 

“Omigod!” Mary whispers softly. Her smile fades as morbid curiosity turns to cold dread. She drapes her arm around Jack’s neck. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

Jack shrugs. “That’s what happens when you don’t duck.”

“I hate guns,” Trisha declares.
 

“Frankly, I do too—when they’re used by bad people,” Jack admits.

“How long will it take for you to heal?” Evan asks.

“The doc says I should stay off my feet as much as possible, at least for the next six weeks, and to forego any strenuous exertion. So everyone else has to pick up the slack and help your mom.”

The kids nod.
 

“In fact, our mom and I will need your help with something else.” Jack smiles up at me.

I take his hand in mine. “Jack and I are getting married.”

“About damn time,” Jeff mutters.

He gets cuffed in the ears for that—by Jack on one side, and me on the other.

“And the way we see it, it’s a family affair,” I continue. I turn to Aunt Phyllis. “I’m hoping you’ll give me away.”
 

She snorts. “I’ve been trying to do that for years!”

Jack is laughing so hard that he’s choking.

I smack his arm, then turn to my son. “Jeff, will you walk me down the aisle?” I ask.

“Sure, Mom.” He honors me with a thumbs-up.

“Mary, will you be my maid of honor?”

She answers me with a kiss.

Jack holds out his hand for Evan to shake. “Are you up for being a groomsman?”

Evan takes it. “Only if I can also plan the bachelor party.”

Mary and I both give him the evil eye.
 

“Dominic offered too,” I say slyly. “Perhaps the two of you can coordinate.”

Evan snorts. “What, are you kidding? I’m not talking finger sandwiches and tea cozies here!”

At this point, the last thing he needs to know is Dominic’s perennial Number One ranking for “Undercover Lover,” the poll run by the female spooks and covert operatives all over the world.

All in good time, dearie. All in good time.

“Can I get a new flower girl dress?” Trisha begs. She adds solemnly, “I’m sure Arnie and Emma told me I could never wear the one I wore for them to anyone else’s wedding—
ever
.”

Trisha’s fib sets everyone laughing again.
 

I chuck her under the chin. “I don’t think you’re right about that. But, yes, all of the Stone women are getting new dresses.”
 

Mary’s smile fades. “I guess we won’t be the Family Stone anymore.”

Jack shakes his head. “You know, I’d be honored if each and every one of you took my name. But it’s a decision that is yours alone to make. As far as I’m concerned, what you call yourself doesn’t matter—only that, together, we call ourselves ‘family’.”

Emotions shift through my children like a rising sun on a stained glass window. For a moment, their faces are darkened by their fears of what this change might truly mean in their lives.
 

What part of their identities will they be giving up?
 

But then, very slowly, their eyes light up with the realization that Jack is, and has always been, what they’ve always wanted:
 

The loving father who makes their mother happy.

Mary thinks for a moment. “Hmmm,
‘Mary Craig.’
I like the ring of that.”

Mrs. Donna Craig...
 

Yep, it works.

It’s going to be one hell of a wedding.

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