The Housewife Assassin's Killer App (8 page)

I enter through the kitchen door. The first thing I notice is that all but a quarter of the cake is already eaten.

It’s no wonder the kids have gone to bed early—with bellyaches, I imagine.
 

The guest room door is cracked open. The television is on, but Aunt Phyllis is on the bed, snoring.
 

It’s for the best. If Jack and I are to have a civil conversation about why I’m on this mission—and why I’ve been chosen as its leader—better that no one else is in the line of fire.

But he’s not in our bedroom. So, where is he?
 

I glance out the window. The inky darkness is cut only by the pale glow of a half moon. Once my eyes get used to it, I see Jack: on the back terrace, sitting on a chaise lounge.

I practically run downstairs to the kitchen.

I grab a tray. On it, I put my peace offering: what’s left of Jack’s double chocolate cake, along with a knife to cut it, two plates, two forks, some napkins, and a couple of tall glasses filled with milk.

In this case, I don’t kid myself that chocolate cures all ills, but it’s a start.

If Jack hears me coming, he doesn’t show it.
 

Perhaps the half-empty Scotch bottle beside him has something to do with that.

I ignore it. Instead, I make it a point to walk in front of him before placing the tray on the picnic table. I cut him a generous slice of the cake, and take it to him with a glass of milk. “Peace offering.”

He takes the cake, but waves away the milk, pointing to the tumbler of Scotch beside him. “My thirst is quenched, thank you very much.”

I drop down onto the wrought-iron settee beside him. “So I see.”

He scowls as he stares back at me.
 

Aw, heck. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?

He jabs the cake with his fork. After taking a bite, he mutters, “Not bad. Why don’t you join me?”

“I’m…not hungry.” By the time we were done with our meeting, I’d devoured three hefty wedges of pizza—not that Jack needs to know that.
 

“Oh, yes, I forget. Must keep your girlish figure if you’re to entice the real Mr. Stone into divulging his deepest, darkest secrets.”

Silently, I count to three. “Jack, I know you’re hurt that I didn’t tell you about Lee’s plan before Ryan divulged it to the team as a whole—”

He stabs his fork at me. “Ha! I knew it!”

Firmly, I nudge his fork away from my face. “Knew what, may I ask?”

“That it was Lee’s idea.”

“What of it?”

“Don’t you see, Donna? You’re Lee’s pawn! He moves you around the board, knowing full well that Carl will chase after you. Carl corners you, and he corners Carl.” As Jack spits out his concern, he spews a couple of crumbs in my direction.

Because I know how much he cares for me, I resist the urge to take the milk and throw it in his face. Instead, in a soft but determined tone, I counter, “Isn’t that what we want as well—to corner Carl?”

“Not at the cost of your safety, or your children’s wellbeing.” He takes a swig of his Scotch. “Have you forgotten that this mission puts you in close proximity to Carl—something which, up until this afternoon, I thought you were opposed to, considering you’ve been dodging his subpoenas for the past few months?”

I pull the subpoena out of my back pocket. “Too late. Happened this morning.”

“I see.” The cynical glint in Jack’s eyes softens just a bit. “Maybe it’s time to call that deadbeat lawyer of yours and put him to work for real.”

“I did better than that. I paid him a visit. A lot of good it did me. He says I’ll be in contempt of court if I don’t acquiesce to the judge’s ruling for joint custody—that is, if I can’t convince Carl otherwise.”
 

Jack shrugs. “So that’s what this is really about.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t be coy, Donna. All Carl has to do is be within sniffing distance of you and he goes wild with the desire to do one of two things: kill you”—he stabs another bite of cake with his fork, but just stares down at it—“or fuck you. Granted, the first desire makes sense. If he gets away with it, you’re out of his way once and for all, and legally, nothing can stand in his way of getting full custody of Mary, Jeff and Trisha—not even me.” He frowns. “But something tells me he loves keeping you around just so that he can taunt you—or better yet, bend you to his will. And thanks to Lee, now more than ever, he’s in a position to do so. Which brings us to the sixty-trillion-dollar question: just how far will you go to make sure he stays out of the children’s lives?”

Jack is just about to dig into the cake again when I snatch his plate away. “Are you insinuating that I’d…I’d…” I’m so angry that I can’t even say it.

He grabs it back. “In a word, yes.”

I rise to my feet. “Thanks for your vote of confidence. I’ll keep it in mind. By the way, I don’t appreciate the fact that you’ve walked off this mission. You told me you’d always have my back.”

“You don’t need me. Lee has your back, remember? If you’re right—and in my book, that’s a big if—I presume he admires the view.” As he cranes his head, his gaze goes downward, to my ass. “I don’t think he’ll mind sharing it with Carl, since it gives him the leverage he needs. For once, I look forward to telling you ‘I told you so.’” He crams another forkful of cake into his mouth.
 

When I reach for the plate again, he jerks his hand away—

And the cake goes flying.

Devil’s food icing on a white silk blouse is not a good fashion statement.

I grab the plate in order to fling it at him, like a Frisbee.

He ducks and it soars right over his head. When this precious piece of my Lenox Vintage Jewel collection hits the branch holding Mary’s old tree house—now Trisha’s domain—it shatters into a dozen jagged pieces.

I storm back into the house before I’m tempted to shave his jugular with one of them.

I fall asleep while doing my homework: reading a digital copy of
Alice in Wonderland
.

Chapter 5

Backside Bus

A “bus” is a collection of wires that distribute data within your computer. The size of the bus dictates how much data can be transmitted (for example, 16- or 32-bits).

Your computer has two buses. The “frontside bus” carries data between the CPU (central processing unit; in other words, the computer’s “brain”) and its main memory.
 

The “backside bus” runs data between the CPU and a Level 2 cache. Typically, it runs at a faster clock speed than the frontside bus.

This being said, no need to punch out someone who compliments you on the speed of your backside bus, since in no way are they implying that your ass-kissing is second to none.

Carl Stone, the Director of National Intelligence, keeps me cooling my heels outside his office for over two hours.

Still, I keep a sweet smile on my face. In fact, I brought along a dozen homemade double butterscotch brownies, which I’ve placed in a white box with a large blue ribbon. When Carl was the love of my life, it was his favorite dessert.
 

Perhaps all things taste bitter to him now. I wouldn’t doubt it in the least.

Time to test that old adage,
the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
 

No, I’m not kissing ass. It’s a peace offering. As the Acme team leader, I have to meet with him as a courtesy anyway, to go over the specifics of the audit. While I’m here, we might as well have a civil conversation about the children too.

Besides, if Jack is right and Carl is still smitten with me, who knows? As my mother used to say, “You’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

And edible panties.

Not that I’m wearing any.
 

I don’t need them. Today, I’m not playing the whore, but a madonna—specifically the mother of Carl’s children. As such, I look demure as well as fabulous in my navy pencil-skirted suit, which I’m wearing over a sheer white blouse.

Not the one Jack ruined for me.

Now that Jack has gone AWOL, Dominic is taking over as the interview team’s leader. To that end, he’s combed through the IC employee photo database in order to ID his own interview candidates. Whereas Jack would have chosen the most obvious suspects, Dominic’s are all female and under thirty—no surprise there.

For the duration of the audit, the Acme team has booked two floors of the Tyson’s Corners’ Hilton, diagonally across the Three-O-Nine from the ODNI headquarters, known as Liberty Crossing. I would have been bunking with Jack, but since he’s opted to take an unpaid leave—something that has Ryan furious—I’ll have a room by myself.

Maybe absence does make the heart grow fonder.
 

But I won’t bet another white blouse on it.

Except for the layers of security surrounding it, the ODNI campus looks like any of the other nondescript multi-story buildings located in the many faceless office parks that ring DC’s Central Beltway’s northeast side.
 

And inside the facility, the offices and cubicles are just as vanilla.
 

This way of life is the antithesis of everything I know about Carl. He hates offices, and loves the danger of being out in the field, totally naked.

Yes, literally and figuratively.

Finally, Carl’s comely administrative assistant (what did he do, raid her from a
Playboy
photo shoot?) simpers, “Carl—I mean, the director will see you now.”

Just as I rise, the door opens and two men in military uniforms exit. From their abundance of chest candy, I gather that they’re generals, but I don’t recognize them as any of the heads of the agencies within the Intelligence Community.

Carl comes out after them, smiling broadly. I haven’t seen him since the U.S. Senate subcommittee hearing in which his appointment was cleared. I can only imagine the dirt he had on the committee’s members. “Donna, my dear wife! Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

His pleasant demeanor leaves me speechless, not to mention this false term of endearment. In shock, I hold out my hand, but he does more than shake it. Instead he uses it as leverage to pull me into his arms.
 

Before I know it, his lips lock onto mine. What…the
hell?

He steps into the kiss until we’re chest to breast. I’d push him away, but that would mean dropping the brownies.

No need. By the time I recover from his kiss, he’s whisking me into his office.

Are the generals snickering because they notice the way in which he pats my bum before closing the door?

From the angry pout on his assistant’s face, I know she certainly saw it.

This is not going according to plan.

Mine, anyway.

Once the door closes, I stomp down hard on his shoe with my stiletto-heeled pump.

He grunts as he raises his bruised foot. Now that he’s off-guard, I could elbow him in the stomach, which would buy me enough time to snatch the letter opener off his desk and pierce him through his heart.
 

Nah, too messy. Don’t need a gusher of blood to ruin this blouse too.