The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (5 page)

The anger wells up in me. I am not jealous, I’m tired–of the secrets, and the deliberate diversions from what could be said, but isn’t.

I’ve proven my ability to be trusted. I’ve been through hell and back again for Acme.

And yet, here I am, on a “need to know” basis.

To hell with that.

I take both of Ryan’s hands in mine and smile sweetly at him. “I’m here to turn in my notice.”

His eyes widen, then contract as the reality of my declaration sets in. Only for a moment do they alight on the sandy shoal of disbelief before a churning tidal wave of doubt lifts them up and pitches them into the depths of possibility.
 

His teary blink tells me that it has finally landed with a thump, on the sea floor of acceptance.

Needless to say, I am flattered when he declares, “I wish you’d reconsider. Your leaving will be a great loss to Acme.”

“I’m humbled that you’d think so. But I’ve done what I set out to do–avenge the demise of my marriage.” Before he has a chance to argue otherwise, I add, “The fact that Carl was, in fact, the enemy doesn’t alter my decision. His death last month gave me the vengeance I needed. It allows me to get on with the rest of my life–with my family.”

Yes, they were his family, too. But you choose what you lose and pay the price, no matter how dear to you, or to those you profess to love.

And actions speak louder than words.

Ryan looks down at our entwined fingers and sighs. “You’ll always be welcome to come back.”

I sigh. “I’m flattered, and I appreciate your saying so. But seriously, Ryan, don’t hold your breath,” I chuckle.

I wish he’d laugh, too, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers his head.

He’s going to miss me.

Well, I’ll miss him too.

When finally he gets ahold of himself, he raises his head and his eyes seek out mine. Very seriously, he says, “I presume you’re giving me the requisite two weeks.”

“Oh!” I hadn’t thought about it. I guess it’s the least I owe him. “Okay, sure.”

“Good, because I’ll need your help in choosing–and for that matter, training–your replacement.”

Wait a minute…I can be replaced?

Missed, for sure. Mourned, no doubt. But replaced?
 

Seeing the shocked expression on my face, he adds, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s something that you can do between school drop-off and pick-up.” He smiles.
 

Hey, could be worse. Ryan could have had the bright idea of assigning the task to my mission teammate, Dominic Fleming. The interviews would have gone on forever, and the winner’s training would have all happened in bed.

Worse yet, what if Ryan had asked Jack to replace me?

I shrug. “Um…yes, okay. Sure. It’ll be…an honor.”
 

For my replacement, anyway.

“Good! Then it’s settled. I’ll send over some dossiers, and you can comb through them. Choose the best three of the bunch, and call them in.”

He holds out his hand to me, his indication that the meeting is over.

What he doesn’t expect is that I take him in a bear hug instead.

I’ve got his arms pinned, so he can’t wipe away the tears brimming in his eyes. “Allergies,” he declares gruffly, but I know better.

I’m at the threshold of Ryan’s office door when his phone rings. He picks it up, but doesn’t say anything at first. When he does, his shock and awe come out with a shout: “How in hell did she...The transfer team–is
dead
? Where’s Jack? He’s…”

Ryan can’t keep his eyes from seeking out mine.

What I see there sends a shiver down my spine.
 

I must get to Jack.

Alarms clamor through the building. Ryan rushes past me toward the elevator bank.

But by the time I get to it, the door has already closed.
 

Everyone else has already exited the building, through the garage elevators.

I hustle to the fire stairwell, and double-time it down the steps.

The stairwell should be lit, but it’s as dark as a tomb. It is only sixteen-feet-by-sixteen-feet wide, and there are ten steps between each of the four landings, each at a quarter turn.

I’m on the second landing when I hear faint footsteps, but I can’t see who’s coming up the stairs. Whoever it is walks quickly and quietly.

I flatten myself against the wall. I’m glad I hadn’t yet handed Ryan my Sig. Slowly, I ease it out of my back holster and into my hands, pointing it downward into the stairwell. If only I had night goggles. Instead, I’ll have to use my instincts to guess when my target is close enough, and at what angle to fire.

Seconds seem like hours. She’s taking her sweet time to get here, but if I listen carefully, I can hear her breathing, or the creak of a footfall, but I hold my fire.

Come to me, my little pretty…

The scrape of a heel tells me what I need to know:
 

She’s on a step that is less than six feet below me.
 

If I aim downward, at a one-hundred-twenty-degree angle, I’ll actually hit her heart this time.

No hesitation.
This one’s for Jack, you bitch.

The shot slams into drywall–in other words, a wall, not a body.
 

The next thing I know, someone grabs my ankle and jerks me hard. I topple down the steps, on my back. My arm with the hand holding the gun is twisted so that the pain forces me to drop the gun. It does, but at the very same time my knee goes up, hitting my assailant right between the legs–

“What…
the hell
!” The groan is unmistakably Jack’s.

Oops.

“Oh, my God! I thought–” I pull my phone from my jacket pocket and click on the flashlight app so that we can see each other.

I may be relieved, but he seems annoyed. Seeing the look on his face makes me angry. Why isn’t he happy to see me, coming to his rescue?

Granted, the fact that I fired a gun at him may have something to do with it.

Okay, yes, that and the knee to his groin.

“What the hell are you doing?” we ask in unison.
 

Suddenly, light floods the stairwell. We blink in its glare. Ryan is running up the stairs. “Did Donna shoot him?”

I feel my cheeks turning red. If I had shot Jack, I’d have never lived it down.

More to the point, he wouldn’t either, because he’d be dead.

Jack must be thinking the same thing because he scowls at me as he turns toward the bullet hole in the wall behind him. “If I hadn’t bent down to tie my shoe at that very second, I’d be a dead man now.”

For the first time, I notice that the back of Jack’s shirt is bloody. “Oh, heck!” I run to the wall. No, the bullet hole is deep. It’s embedded in there, somewhere. Obviously, the bullet didn’t ricochet into his back.
 

I point to Jack’s shirt. “Then, where did that come from?”

I turn to Ryan for the answer, but he looks just as shocked as me. Suddenly, Abu Nagashahi runs up the stairwell. He’s dressed all in white, like a medic–but his chest is covered in blood.
 

Arnie Locklear, our mission team’s tech-op, is right behind him–and he’s also dripping blood, like an escapee from a haunted house.

No more guessing games. Angrily, Ryan and I say in unison, “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?”

Abu and Arnie keep mum, but their eyes shift toward Jack. Reluctantly, he mutters, “We let Tatyana get away…on purpose.”

Ryan slams the wall with his fist.

Frankly, I’d be hitting Jack’s nose. I stare at him. “After what she did to me–not to mention whatever grudge you’re holding against her, why the hell would you do that?”

“She wouldn’t break and give us what we needed–where the next terrorist act will take place, and who is carrying it off,” Jack insists. “Now that she’s on the loose, she’ll lead us to her client.”

“Are you sure she didn’t suspect anything?” Ryan growls.

“I doubt it,” Jack declares. “Not from the way we worked her over first.”
 

Still in shock, I cross my arms at my chest. “So, she’s chained to a bench, and her cuffs miraculously fall off?”

“We gave her the opportunity to do it,” Arnie explains. “We made it possible for her to steal Abu’s gun. She shot him with it, grabbed the cuff keys, then Jack and I came into the room. She shot us, too.” He hesitates before adding proudly, “So that she thought she was getting away with it, I loaded the gun with fake blood pellets.”
 

Ryan shakes his head in disbelief. “Now that she’s on the loose, how are we going to find her?”
 

“While she was out cold, we embedded a GPS chip inside of her,” Jack explains. “Dr. Fleishman got the idea when he…well, when he stitched you up.”

“How nice to hear I was his inspiration,” I mutter.

Ryan turns to me. “Donna, I presume I can trust you to keep all you’ve heard here on the QT?”

He asks this because he knows that President Lee Chiffray sometimes summons me for off-the-record intel recaps. Despite my insistence to Ryan that Lee and I have gone our separate ways, the years Ryan has spent in our line of work are reason enough for him to be paranoid about what tales others tell out of school.

Still, it pisses me off that he thinks he has to ask. I shake my head angrily. “What’s wrong, Ryan? Are you concerned that my resignation means that I’ll be screaming Acme’s failures from the rooftop?”

“No, not at all.” He frowns. “I’m just stating protocol. It’s in the manual.”

“Are you implying that I’ve never read the Acme manual?”

“Read it? Possibly. Follow it?” Ryan’s eyes narrow. “That’s another story.”

“I know one thing that’s in the manual, under ‘resignation protocol.’” I look down at the Sig in my hand. I
t's been at my side through more dangerous missions than I can count. Slowly, I reach my thumb up and decock it. I ease the same thumb down to the release button and clear the magazine. As I take one more deep breath, I yank the slide back to clear the last round from the chamber, and lock the slide open.

I exhale as I hold out both hands to Ryan. One holds the gun. In the other, I offer him the magazine and stray round.

For the longest moment, he stares down at them. Finally, he waves my hands away. We are eye to eye as he murmurs, “Keep it. Your instincts are unique, to say the least. If there’s another Donna Stone out there, Acme wants her on its side.”

This is his way of kissing and making up.

For Jack’s sake, I hope his is better.

Chapter 4

Make Your Silverware Gleam Again!

When was the last time you checked the condition of your silver? The first Bush was in office, right?
 

Ha, thought so!

Listen here, missy: no matter how much time and effort you’ve spent hunting down and dickering over pieces of Tiffany & Co. Feather Edge sterling flatware, should your guests blanch visibly at the thought of sticking one of your pretty little festooned teaspoons in their mouths, you can stick a fork in your reputation because, honey–it is done.

And no need to worry about breathing in toxic fumes from cleaners made of harsh chemicals. To restore your precious pieces to their former glory, consider polishing organically! All you need is a pot large enough to hold your silver, filled with water no more than two inches from the top; baking soda; aluminum foil; and a stove.

First, put the pot of water on the stove, and bring it to a boil. Next, line the bottom of the pot with a piece of tin foil. (Be careful not to scald yourself!) Now, load in your silver, piece by piece, onto the tin foil. (Again, don’t burn yourself!)
 

Shake baking soda over it all. Yes, it will bubble and foam and smell like rotten eggs. It isn’t magic, but a chemical reaction. The tin foil draws the tarnish away from your cherished flatware. Keep sprinkling the baking soda until all the silver is clean, or when it no longer bubbles.
 

Finally, remove the silver. Any leftover tarnished spots can be removed by rubbing with a soft cloth.

One last little note: So that you don’t look like a witch hovering over a caldron, don’t wear black, let alone a pointed hat, no matter what kind of bad-hair day you may be having.
 

And by the way, a little makeup wouldn’t hurt either.