The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing (15 page)

“If it’s any consolation, she thinks Carl’s a sell-out, and a douche.”

“Interesting. All that, and she only spent a few minutes with the guy. Good to know she’s smarter than her mother.”

“You’ve already established how you feel about me, Jack.” I’m able to keep my tears from rolling down my cheeks. He blurs before my eyes, in more ways than one. What right has he to be jealous, when he admits he can’t commit to me, even if I were free of Carl? All it merits from me is a shrug. “Well, believe what you want. The truth is I did not invite Carl into the shower.”

“Let’s say I believe you. Once he was all over you, did you at least try to put up a struggle?”

“You know I did!” 

Okay, not at first. But yes, eventually. 

Like most fibbers, my first inclination is to glance away. Right now, I keep my eyes firmly on Jack. He’s got to believe me.

He blinks first. 

That’s a good sign. 

At least, I think so, until he mutters, “First Breck, now Carl. Maybe I should move out of the bedroom so you can do your job properly.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll be glad to tell you, Mrs. Stone. The confab I had with Jonah was about one thing: he asked me how I’d feel about you becoming his mistress whenever he’s in town. To be honest, the term he used wasn’t so eloquent. He asked me if you were a hot fuck, and if I’d allow him to find out for himself, he’d throw a lot of business my way.”

I’m so angry that my heart is pounding a hundred times a minute. “What did you tell him?”

“That you had a mind of your own and if you decided to have sex with him, I wouldn’t stand in your way.”

But of course. All in the line of duty. 

We stand together, silently, as Mary gives Asimov a photo op that, I’m guessing, he’ll always regret. 

“President Asimov, I don’t get it.” Mary’s tone is innocent, but I know her well enough to recognize the cat and mouse game she’s playing. “How can a two-year sentence of hard labor be considered fair for students who are only seeking a corrupt-free election, in Russia’s so-called democracy?” 

Asimov frowns at her audacity. “Mary, my dear, the people voted. That makes Russia a democracy. And there is a law in Russia against hooliganism.” He leans forward. “In fact, what you and your classmates did to me this morning might have earned you the same sentence.”

Mary folds her hands in her lap. “I enjoy free speech. You’re making me happy I don’t live in Russia.”

Anger flashes in Asimov’s eyes. Through his attempt at a smile, he murmurs, “I want to make it clear that the sentence they received was not issued from me, but from Russia’s courts.”

Mary smiles back at him. “But according to Russian law, you have the power to commute all sentences. Isn’t that so?”

 His pause is too long. Finally, he shrugs. “I have given it some thought, and I will  continue to do so.”

“That means a lot, to so many of us. Two million so far, and counting!” Mary lugs her heavy satchel onto the table, opens it and pulls out a ream of paper. “Here are our signatures. Young people all over the world, just like me, believe you’ll do the right thing! Right now, you have our trust. And trust is what makes a statesman great. Don’t you agree, President Asimov? But if your own people can’t trust you to provide a fair election process, why should those attending this summit believe you when you say you’ll quit making Weapons of Mass Destruction?”

As she reaches out to shake his hand, he is hit between the eyes with the obvious: Mary has him over a barrel.

At least one Stone has the nerve to speak her mind.

She’s an inspiration to me. I grab Jack by the hand. “Jack, I told you I’m divorcing Carl, and I meant it. In fact, a process server hit him with the summons this morning. He may not like it—for that matter, Ryan may not like it, either, because he’ll feel it will jeopardize the mission—but I can’t go on pretending.”

He starts to say something, but stops himself. I’m hurt by the sadness in his eyes.

 “Donna, if you divorce Carl, you do it for you, and you alone. What we have—it will prove itself over time.”

Time. The one commodity assassins never have enough of.

We both know this.

If this is his out, so be it.

I’m divorcing Carl no matter what. And now that Jack has made it clear I have no future with him, I’ve got nothing.

Wrong. I have my job.

And it weren’t for the men in my life, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

Someday I’ll point this out to them.

Most likely in a dark alley, where they’ll have no place to hide.

“Your daughter has put our honored guest’s visit into a tailspin,” Jonas Breck murmurs to me just as our dessert, strawberry dumplings, is being served. 

Up until now, he’d been ignoring me, despite having me seated to his right during our sumptuous dinner. Instead, he’s been trading asides with the South Korean defense minister, leaving me to swap pleasantries with some third-world dictator cursed with bad breath from an abscessed tooth. When this Idi Amin wannabe mentions he’s having oral surgery here in Los Angeles, I wonder if he’ll balk at the price tag. Then I remember he personally pockets all the aid money the United States sends his country. That should more than cover the bill.

Asimov sits to Babette’s right, and Jack to her left. Carl stands against the wall, directly behind Asimov. Three others in his security detail are covering doors that go in and out of the grand dining salon.

One servant may not yet know it, but he’s certainly on Carl’s radar. He hesitates every time he serves Asimov. Just now, when Asimov declared he’ll be tossing every activist in Russia into his country’s newest state-of-the-art prison (“It’s like your Gitmo, but with an arctic ambiance as opposed to a tropical one,” he proclaimed with a laugh), the butler, a surfer blond dude with a slacker tan and obviously not well-trained in wait staff etiquette, lost what little cool he possessed and dropped a champagne glass on the marble floor.

When it shattered, all eyes turned toward him.

Carl’s nod to one of his goons does not bode well for the boy.

When Carl is not watching the comings and goings of the servants, he glares at me. I’m sure he’s angry about the divorce papers, but too bad. I just hope Bulldog doesn’t become the very first name on Hilldale Police Department’s Missing Persons roster. 

Between Carl's steady gaze and my proximity to Breck, any appetite I may have had for anything, let alone strawberry dumplings, is long gone. 

Still, if Breck supposes his statement will get a rise out of me, he’s wrong. Instead, I give him a pleased smile. “Mary is not afraid to stand up for herself, or for others. I’m very proud of her.”

“Your daughter is naïve about the world. In countries like Asimov’s, if a girl doesn’t fall into line and do as she’s told, she’ll be put into prison, where they’ll break her spirit.” He examines his hand as he flexes it. “Albeit, the pretty ones like her are sold to someone who can do so without harming the charms of their flesh. It’s an interesting process. I’ve seen it done firsthand.”

“Sex slavery is ‘interesting?’ I can think of better descriptions: Vile. Sick. Reprehensible. And that’s just off the top of my head.” 

Breck laughs. “I hope you show more discretion than Mary in broaching that particular topic with Asimov. It’s one of his country’s greatest exports.” He shrugs. “There’s big bucks to be had in flesh peddling. Granted, it’s time consuming, but one can imagine the sense of accomplishment one has when successfully forcing someone to bend to your will, not only without a struggle, but obediently. Even eagerly.” 

“You talk about it as if it’s an equestrian sport.”

 “A perfect analogy, my dear Donna. With the right whip, and bit in her mouth…” He gazes at me, intently. “Has anyone ever told you what a pretty little mouth you have? It looks so… pliable.”

That wipes the smile off my face.

“Mary reminds me of you: so proud, so sure of herself.” He leans in close. “Her mouth is pretty, too.”

If I were to kill him right now, the Brecks’s sterling silver cutlery would give me several weapons to choose from. Besides the dinner fork and the steak knife, we were also given chopsticks in honor of our Asian guests. But by the time the fog of rage has cleared my eyes, I have quit toying with the most ideal one of all: the lobster pick.

Breck doesn’t know how close he came to being carved up at his own dinner table. 

He smirks as he adds, “I can only hope Janie proves to be just as outspoken as your Mary. But she doesn’t have much of a role model. Babette isn’t as—I guess the term is ‘feisty’—as you.”

I lean back, as if assessing his slight toward his wife. “You have a beautiful wife who loves you. What more can a man want?”

“What men want most is what they can’t have.” I feel his hand in my lap. “And they’ll go after it until they get it.”

It’s my turn to for a little under-the-table shenanigans. I take my stiletto heel and grind into his ankle, right above his $1,600 bespoke patent leather John Lobb derbies. “No pain, no gain, right?”

I’ve got to give him credit. He doesn’t scream. In fact, he’s actually smiling, albeit gritting his teeth. “So glad to see you’re into a little rough stuff. We’ll make quite a pair.” He points down to the other end of the table, where Jack is sitting to Babette’s left. Tonight Asimov has the guest of honor seat, on her left. “I wonder if Jack will think the same of Babette.”

Hearing Jack’s name coming out of Breck’s mouth makes me blush. Involuntarily I shift my leg, releasing him from my heel. “Jack thinks well of her.”

“I’m not asking if he ‘thinks well of her.’” His laugh is deep and hearty, as if I’d divulged the most clever bit of gossip. “I’m curious of what he’ll think when he fucks her. I know firsthand—and others have confirmed it—she takes a while to warm up. But once she does, it’s anything goes.”

When Jonah’s implication sinks in, my stomach tangles into a knot. Jack… with Babette? He didn’t mention the second half of his conversation with Beck. 

How convenient for him.

My eyes shift toward the two of them. Babette is leaning in toward Jack. He’s speaking intensely. She gazes up at him, enthralled.

Suddenly, it dawns on me. I was the chum in the tide for her shark of a husband. While Jonah is occupied, she can stifle her boredom with Jack.

He’d go along with it, too, because it protects our mission. Something easier to do when you don’t feel the guilt of a relationship.

I think I’m going to puke.

I’ve got to get out of here. I need fresh air.

As if reading my mind, Breck murmurs, “I can’t join you now, but I’ll be in my office at midnight, after my meeting with Asimov and his keeper.” He looks up at Carl. “See that one, there? Asimov will rue the day he swam with that shark.”

Just then, Carl looks over at us. I bat my lashes at him, before turning back to Breck. “Oh? How so, pray tell?”

Breck purses his lips, but says nothing. Obviously, he knows more about Carl than he’s telling.

“Nighty night,” I purr, as I rise to leave. “Oh, and by the way, don’t wait up for me.”

When the servants come to clear the table, will they notice the third-world dictator’s lobster pick is missing? If so, and it ends up in Breck’s corpse, he’ll have a lot of explaining to do.  

I’ve made my way over to Janie’s room, to check on the girls. Abu is with them, showing them simple commands which, miraculously, has Eddie the Dog dancing, rolling over, and chasing his tail on cue, with lots of tail-wagging in between.

“Way to go!” I high-five Abu.

He bows his head modestly. “I owe you, Donna. That Nova documentary you suggested put me on the right track. I have to admit, the mutt and I have bonded. I’m going to miss him when this mission is over.” His smile fades. “Speaking of which, the big cheese says kudos for your, er, diplomacy with Breck. With both of them, really, considering how the Missus is responding to you.”

 “You mean, how she’s responding to Jack, don’t you?” I keep my eyes on Eddie, as if watching him do flips will keep Abu from knowing my heart is breaking. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m the bait she put in front of her husband so that she can play footsie with Jack.”