The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (6 page)

“You could have told me the game plan,” I state flatly to Jack.

True to his word, we’re sharing lunch at a sunny corner table in Duke’s Malibu, the best beachside boîte on the Pacific Coast Highway.

If we didn’t have to pick up the kids in a couple of hours, no doubt he’d be on his second scotch, and I’d be on my third wine. Despite the lack of any excuse to lose our cool, it’s obvious to both of us that we’ll leave lunch with our stomachs in knots, and our anxiety will have nothing to do with the richness of Duke’s Tahitian shrimp and poke tacos.

He shrugs. “I told you–everything about this mission is on a need-to-know basis.”

“Didn’t my bullet hole on the stairwell make it pretty obvious that I should have been clued in?”

He honors me with a grudging nod. “In hindsight, yes. But what we did was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

I snort loud enough that patrons at three other tables stare at us. I raise my glass at them with a smile, but through gritted teeth, I growl, “I guess you forgot to put Ryan on that short list.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. “He was tied up at the time–with you, if memory serves.”

“Ha! Ryan. He acts as if the minute I turn in my Sig, I’ll be opening my yap to everyone about my good old days at Acme.” I grab a roll from the basket in the middle of the table. I’m holding it so tightly that it’s crumbing in my fist. “If he thinks so little of me, why does he want me to vet my replacement?”

“Beats me.” Jack downs his scotch, and signals our waitress for another. “You know, Donna, you can always tell him you’ve changed your mind and can’t take the time to do it.”

“No! ...I mean…I’d feel awful if I left him short-handed.”

The smirk on his face indicates he’s guessed my real reason for agreeing to do so: no one wants to believe they can be replaced. But should that day come, it’s better that you have the opportunity to choose your successor.

At least, that way, you’re assured that you’re missed.
 

He chuckles. “I get it. You’re pulling a Teddy Roosevelt.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

He leans in and whispers, “It means you’ve opened your yap so many times about walking away once Carl was finally out of the picture, now that it’s finally happened, you feel you can’t take it back.”

“Who says I want to take it back?” My voice is shaking, but I can’t help it.

“Admit it. You love what we do.”

“Love is a pretty strong word, and certainly not one I’d use to describe how I feel about our gig.” Thrilling, for sure. Challenging, no doubt about it. Heart-stopping? Yes, on more than one occasion.

Which brings up the real bone I have to pick with him. “Living the rest of my life in danger was never my end game. But, apparently, it’s yours.”

His eyes darken. “You want me to retire too.”

“Of course I do!” I crumble the bread roll in front of me. “And frankly, I thought you did too.”

“Unlike you, my dear Mrs. Stone, I’ve got some unfinished business to complete under my current job title.”

It’s my turn to sneer. “I presume you mean the delectable Tatyana Zakharov.”

He frowns. “The last thing you need to be is jealous.”

“Ha! Don’t flatter yourself.” I toss the breadcrumbs back into the basket. “I guess it’s too much to presume you’re avenging her attack on me.”

He waits until the waitress puts a fresh drink in front of him before declaring, “It may surprise you to know that you’re not too far off from the truth.”

“Then why haven’t I heard about her before now?”

“Because I assumed she was dead.”

“Obviously, she’s got nine lives, like a cat.” I take his hand in mine. “Look, with all we’ve been through, don’t you think it’s time I know how she fits into all of this?”

“Under normal circumstances, yes. But now that she’s part of our–I mean
my
latest mission–”

I pull my hand away from his. “Oh. I see.” I see that this is how it will be from now on. I see that there will always be things that Jack will keep from me.

At least, as long as he stays with Acme.

I grab my purse and stand up.

He looks up, surprised. “We ordered dessert, remember?”

“I can’t afford it, either financially or physically. I’m no longer a honey pot. I won’t be running off extra calories anytime soon.”

“I thought it was exactly what all you housewives do–you know, jog, or go to the gym, or to a yoga class.”

“Shows you how little you know about ‘us housewives.’” I toss down a few twenties and head for the door.

“Wait! Lunch was on me,” he insists.

He’s got a point. I grab the bills and stuff them back into my wallet. “Sure, okay–now that you’re the sole breadwinner of the family.”

But that doesn’t mean I’m waiting around until he finishes dessert.

I’m moving on–with or without him.

To say that Jack and I have yet to kiss and make up is an understatement. In fact, in the past forty-eight hours, he’s made no reference to our argument, which only makes me angrier.

I show my hurt with a cold shoulder to every statement he makes to me, from yesterday morning’s “Hope you have a great day, honey,” (My silence speaks volumes) to last night’s “Pass the salt, please.” (I let one of the kids do it instead.)

More to the point, my bird finger shows him exactly what I think of his happy-pappy platitudes.

It takes him all day to take the hint and get out of my hair. As he goes out for his daily jog, he looks back at me through the window, only to see me stick out my tongue at him.

Incredulous that I’d stoop so low, he chuckles as he trots down the street.

Oh yeah? Well, we’ll see who has the last laugh.

I wait until he’s gone a couple of moments before logging onto his computer–

Um…what the heck? The password isn’t working…

Why, that son of a bitch! He’s changed it!

Okay, if it’s not my measurements, what else can it be?

I try my birthdate–not my real one, but the one he thinks is correct.

Nothing.

Now I try my real birthdate.

Again, nothing.

The day we met. Our address. The day we first made love.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Suddenly, it hits me: his world no longer revolves around me!
 

Jack Craig has crossed a serious line.

At the very least, we could have both kept up the pretense that he was sticking to protocol. I would have respected him for doing so, and especially had he pretended I’d somehow become clairvoyant and insightful when making out-of-the-blue declaratory statements about That Mission That We Dare Not Speak Of.

There’s nothing left for me to do but sulk.
 

Should that mean his computer somehow leaps off the table and onto the floor, so be it. When he asks how it happened, I’ll act innocent. Can I help it that the screen somehow got smeared with peanut butter, and our dogs, Lassie and Rin Tin Tin, knocked it over as they licked it clean?

An hour later when he returns, I’m upstairs, busily cleaning out a closet. Even from that corner of the house I can hear his curses when he sees his cracked laptop screen.

Poor Lassie and Rin Tin Tin scurry out the dog door.

It hurts that Jack so completely ignores my sullenness!

He even shrugs off the crack in his computer screen. “Time for a new MacBook anyway,” he declares blithely. “I’ll ask Ryan to acquisition one.”

At the same time, he treats me as if I’m some petulant child who will forgive and forget because he’s brought home bonbons (my favorite, dark chocolate-covered almonds) or some trinket that commemorates our last mission together (in this case, a tiny diamond-encased casket for my charm bracelet).

Talk about rubbing salt in the wound.

Under normal circumstances, we’d have shared a laugh, a kiss, a night of lovemaking. And afterward, he’d beckon me into a leisurely shower that would have left us soaped up, sexed up, puckered-up and rosy, and eventually squeaky-clean.

But now, as I pass Jack in the shower and he teasingly suggests that I join him, my answer is a long, lingering kiss–

Right before I reach in and turn the shower’s handle to freezing cold.

His curses aren’t exactly terms of endearment, but at least he no longer can pretend he doesn’t know where we stand.

Or where we sleep, for that matter.

He slams the door to the guest room.

I already miss him, but before we kiss and make up, he’s got to show me a little respect, some real contrition, and give up at least a pound of flesh.

As for Ryan, he’s wasted no time in linking me to Acme’s secure cloud that holds the dossiers of my possible replacements.

I may think I’m irreplaceable, but considering that there are seventy-two of them, it’s obvious he’s got a very different opinion.

As I flip through the dossiers, I delete the ones that for any reason don’t meet all four very specific criteria.

My first mandate is that she must be a crack shot, and already highly skilled in tactical maneuvers and weaponry. I don’t have time to teach her how to point a gun and squeeze a trigger, let alone break a man’s neck. And next, whereas I’ll give strong consideration to someone with military experience, I won’t discount those applicants with academic or tech backgrounds, acting experience, or street cred.

(Yes, doing time won’t be a deterrent, either–depending on the circumstances that put her in the clink, and why the parole board deems her reformed enough to be released back into society.)

This alone knocks twelve of the candidates out of the box, six of which have never held a gun in their lives. Considering that a large part of my job is exterminations, I can’t understand why Ryan included them in the mix. Was it because they wrote a great personal essay? My God, this isn’t a college application!

A first kill is never easy. Very few of us can turn off that compassionate side of ourselves. Whether you’ve sliced a jugular vein, put a bullet in someone’s heart or given them just enough poison to watch them gasp at the realization of their last breath, it’s not easy watching another human being die.

Which brings me to my second mandate. It’s much better that a sparrow has no emotional attachments. Quickly, I delete another twenty-four files–those with husbands, fiancés, and long-term lovers. I mean, let’s face it. Even if the man in her life is aware of what she does for a living, a man is lying if he declares it doesn’t bother him that she’s sleeping with the enemy.