4 The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide Page 14

  I’ve almost reached the shack when a guard prods my backside with his semi-automatic rifle. “No no no, puta! Para ahi! El Chihuahua se encuentra en la torre, allí.”

  Ah, hell. Turns out that our little tryst has been moved to another location.

  He’s pointing to the rickety stairwell that leads to the top of the tower, which, unlike the shack, is made of solid rock. It’s too narrow to hold more than one room at the very top, which has only one high, tiny window barred with wrought iron.

  As if that matters. If we’re in there, the zip line will never reach its final destination: the sub.

  “Plan B?” I whisper, just loud enough for Jack to hear me. The wooden staircases are steep, and rickety.

  “Dollface, there is no Plan B. Frankly if it was up to me, you’d take a shiv to the slime bucket and waltz out of there. But orders are orders.” I hear Jack swiping away on his iPad as he tries to figure another way out for all of us.

  Including the odious Hector.

  There is just one outdoor landing before the ground floor: on the fourth flight of stairs. I try to keep my head up so that Jack’s reconnaissance is easier, but it’s difficult because my heels are getting caught on every other step. To hell with that. As I bend down to slip out of them, the guard bringing up my rear murmurs, “Culo lindo, pero sus piernas son tan flácidas.”

  Should I be flattered he says my ass is cute—or pissed because he thinks my thighs are flabby?

  “Hey, what did I tell you? Just twenty minutes on an elliptical would do wonders,” Jack says. “No more of that tiny jiggle of cottage cheese on your upper thighs.”

  In any language, the extension of my middle finger tells both of them what I think of their opinions.

  We are in the tower’s turret, seven flights up.

  “Llamamos a esta suite la luna de miel,” the guard says with a snicker.

  Yeah, right. Some honeymoon suite.

  I’m the first to arrive. I scan the room so that Jack can also see what we’ve got to work with—

  Which ain’t much. The room is tiny, and its window, high above my head, is too small to squeeze through, even if it weren’t railed.

  There is a double bed on one side, and a dresser on another.

  “Jeez! Slim pickings,” he mutters. “Okay here’s what I figure: first, when the guard leaves, give him a sweet kiss goodnight.”

  That’s code for knocking him out. One of my lip wands, Cherry Noir, should do the trick since it has a top coat of Rohypnol.

  “The lock is old and easy to pick,” Jack continues. “By the time you do, I’m guessing your physical trainer there will be asleep in the chair outside the door. You can take his semiautomatic. You shouldn’t meet anyone else on the stairwell on your way down. From that fourth story landing, you’ll have just enough line and gravitational pull to make the jump.”

  Jack’s tell is the small cough he gives after this lie.

  Hearing it now, I realize that my chances of getting El Chihuahua out of here will be slim at best.

  I finger the rosary, just in case—

  Until I slice off the tip of my nail on the zip line. Ay, caramba!

  Jack is not done making my day. “By the way, the mirror over the dresser is also a webcam, so give me about two minutes of steady bump and grind. I’ll put it on a loop, then hack into the feed with it. The boys won’t even realize that the show is a repeat.”

  Just great. I don’t look forward to feeling El Chihuahua’s paws all over me, but I’ll get over it.

  What this girl won’t do for her country.

  Chapter 17

  Surviving a Bad Blind Date

  Blind dates can be fun…with the right one!

  Sadly, your odds are only 14.7 percent that a blind date will be worth any more than ten minutes of your time. For the other 85.3 percent, you’re frantically tugging your earlobe, which is the agreed-upon signal to your gal pal (who sits at an adjacent table, but pretends not to know you) to call your cell phone with some made-up emergency that gets you out of blind date purgatory.

  After your great escape, she’ll commiserate with you about your dire state of spinsterhood as well as the origin of the term “blind date,” over several very dry martinis. Perhaps you need to be blind to survive these meet and greets? Perhaps you were blindsided to accept one?

  At this low point, some guy on the other side of the bar hones in on the conversation and buys your next round. He’s sort of cute, and conversation with him is scintillating.

  It’s not until he asks your gal pal if she needs a lift home–and she says yes–that you realize he was the date you just ditched.

  It wasn’t his looks or his personality that blinded you to him, but your ego.

  Then again maybe not, when you consider that old saying, “the difference between a pig and a stallion is three martinis.”

  El Chihuahua is thin, short, bald, and has bulging eyes.

  Now his nickname makes sense.

  Above his orange jumpsuit, there isn’t an inch of his body that isn’t covered with tattoos. Odd words and long lines of numbers run in and around his neck, and over and around his scalp.

  Freaky.

  Scary.

  The way he licks his lips as he looks me up and down, you’d think I was a pork chop.

  I try not to shudder as I tantalize him with a long lingering kiss.

  While he and the guard exchange smirks, I apply more lip gloss. This time, it’s the Cherry Noir. Then I slip my hand into the guard’s, and walk him to the door. “Adios, amigo,” I whisper, before fluttering my lashes and laying on a kiss he won’t forget.

  When he wakes up, that is.

  He stumbles out, too woozy to lock the door behind him.

  Great. That gives me one less thing to worry about.

  Okay, show time. Smile pretty for the cameras.

  My leading man thinks that the simper on my face and the sweet nothings I whisper in his ear are meant for him. In fact, I’m playing to the camera.

  In no time at all El Chihuahua has grown by leaps and bounds.

  One part of him, anyway.

  It takes Hector only a few seconds before he’s out of his orange jumpsuit. It’s not just his head and his neck that’s inked, but every part of his body, like some sort of Sudoku manifesto.

  Weird.

  The buttons on my blouse are too delicate for his stubby fingers, so he just rips them off. After a few moments of letting him paw at my breasts, I pull him with me onto the floor, below the webcam’s lens—

  And in a nanosecond I’ve got the zip line to his neck. I only have to yank it once to get his attention. When he feels my heel on his rotator cuff, his groans are loud and steady.

  The boys on the monitor can’t see anything, but what they hear sounds like a man in ecstasy. Perfect.

  After three minutes of this, I hear Jack mutter, “Cut…” Then a moment later. “And print.”

  The loop is engaged. Show’s over. About damn time…

  I twist Hector’s arm behind his back and yank him onto his feet. But before he can scream out in pain, I hiss, “I’m your ride out of here, asshole, so behave yourself, or I’ll leave you to Los Corazónes Rojos’ hit squad. They can’t wait to cut out your heart and keep it as a souvenir.”

  He grins up at me. “Don’t like to mix business with pleasure, eh, bitch? What a shame.” He eyes me longingly.

  He has only the faintest trace of an accent. Heck, the guy graduated cum laude from Wharton School of Business, so that’s to be expected. I shake my head in wonder. “Why am I not surprised that you’ve got a lot of friends in high places? Funny, though, none of them cared enough about you to get you out of this joint.”

  He shrugs. “Until now. What do you want so badly, that you’re willing to do me the favor?”

  “You built the Quorum’s safe house. You’re going to tell me where it is, and give me the floor plan. In return, you’ll be freed on U.S. soil and put into Witness Protection.”
<
br />   His smirk is back. He thinks a moment, then taps the side of his head. “No problem. It’s all here.”

  Satisfied, I release my grip.

  Big mistake. He grabs my breasts for a quick feel, then crams his tongue down my throat—

  And promptly passes out.

  My lipstick is El Chihuahua’s kiss of sleep.

  “Aw, heck,” Jack mutters in my ear. “Well now, this ought to be fun. I guess you’re going to have to carry him out.”

  “In heels? And on that staircase? You’re kidding, right?”

  “I wish I were, babe. It’s either that, or hard time for you in Santa Martha Acatitla. We’ll get a few conjugal visits, but…well, let’s just say it ain’t the One & Only Palmilla Resort, if you catch my drift—which, by the way, is where I made your post-mission birthday reservation. Just imagine: our very own villa, with an ocean view and an infinity pool. Oh, and get this! The soaking tub in the bathroom has a roof that opens to the stars. Cool, huh? Love those fluffy bathrobes. Hey, what say we get his and hers massages while we’re there? Better yet, we’ll role-play. I’ll be Hans the Austrian masseuse, pleasuring the bored British duchess. Then you can be Inga, the Swedish bombshell… Damn, girl, I’m getting horny just thinking about it. Look, the quicker we blow this joint, the sooner I get to admire you in your new thong bikini.”

  After what he just said about my having cottage cheese thighs, he’ll be lucky to get me out of that fluffy bathrobe.

  But then, I remember that naughty smile of Jack’s when he teases me, like now.

  And the way in which his pale, green eyes darken when he’s worried about me. Not to mention how great it will feel when his long, strong arms pull me close to his broad chest.

  I can’t wait to feel his hungry kisses on the back of my neck, on my lips, my breasts.

  Just thinking about what will be waiting for me under Jack’s robe gives me all the motivation I need to get the hell out of here.

  Not that he needs to know that. “You had me at prison,” I murmur instead.

  With a sigh, I hoist El Chihuahua over my back and totter out the door.

  My hike down the steep, winding stairwell is accompanied by a duet of snores: the guard’s, and El Chihuahua’s. By the time we reach the fourth story platform, my back is aching. Hector is one hundred and thirty pounds of pure pain.

  And let’s not forget, he’s also naked. Ewwwwwww….

  I push him up against the stucco wall. He slumps into a corner, but at least he’s still standing. Good. As long as he stays out of my way.

  “Donna, remember, you’re just barely within the line of fire, and you’ve only got one shot. When you take it, be sure to lean over the edge as far as possible. I’ll site you on GPS.”

  “Gotcha.” I fumble to take off my earrings. I loop one through the zip cord. Then I hook the other to the lip-gloss missile launcher, leaning over as far over the banister as I can, toward the side facing the water.

  “More to the right,” Jack murmurs. “No, you’ve gone too far. Head left, just a bit… Perfect! Okay, now—”

  A bullet whizzes past my nose.

  Another one hits the stucco wall behind me.

  A third one pierces El Chihuahua in the thigh. He groans loudly and then rouses from his sleep with a long string of Spanish curses.

  My instinct is to put down the missile launcher and staunch the spurt of blood. We can’t lose our asset.

  Jack’s shout sets me straight. “Donna, do it! Now!”

  I press the button on the missile launcher. The zip line whistles as it flies out over the rocky beach below.

  The guard who has spotted us is shouting now. The other guards are either herding the prisoners out of the yard and back into their cells, or running in our direction.

  I lasso the zip line over a heavy wood beam above our heads, then clasp my open compact pulley on the zip line. All the while, El Chihuahua roars out in pain. “You bitch! You got me shot! My lawyer said this was going to be a smooth op—”

  To shut him up, I elbow him in the gut. No pain, no gain, right?

  As long as all the pain is his.

  He doubles over, which makes it easier for me to wrap one end of my belt around my wrist, than the other around one of his, shove him over the side, and leap after him.

  A spray of bullets race after us as we hurtle over the palm trees flanking the beach. With just a few seconds to go before we fall into the ocean, I yell, “Hold your breath, asshole!”

  His eyes get big as he shouts back! “Ay, dios mio! No! I—I can’t swim!”

  Now he tells me.

  We hit the water with the velocity of a cannonball. The sub is just thirty feet below the surface, close enough that we won’t get the bends. We would have popped back up if the pulley’s GPS system wasn’t honed in on the submarine’s outer chamber, which is set to close after us, draining water and filling with oxygen before the main cabin opens.

  What I haven’t counted on is that El Chihuahua would panic. He grabs me around the neck, as if I’m a flotation device. With my free hand, I try to fight him off, but the more I struggle, the tighter he holds onto me.

  My lungs feel as if they are about to burst.

  A dark shadow circles us slowly. Proof that the Grim Reaper not only walks the Earth, but swims the oceans…

  El Chihuahua feels it, too. I can tell because he lurches forward and his eyes pop wider, if that’s possible. His mouth widens with a silent scream. He’s thrashing frantically. The bubbles around us rise furiously, all pretty and pink—

  With El Chihuahua’s blood.

  Apparently, his injured leg has attracted a shark.

  The crunch of bone against the great white’s bicuspids roars, like a sonic boom, through the murky water. Jaws and I are playing tug of war with Hector. I fight the urge to let go of him and save myself. The only thing that may save his life—and mine—is the speed in which we’re racing toward the sub.

  I’m still holding onto him—really, to what is left of him—when I slam into the submarine’s antechamber.

  Pissed that his brunch has been rudely interrupted, the shark rams the sub again and again, rocking it from side to side. Gasping for air, I choke as I scream to Jack, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  When the engine kicks in, the sub pitches forward, and I flip over—

  Onto what used to be Hector Negron de la Moraga, which is now just a severed torso and bald head. His bulging eyes stare into mine, accusing me of fucking up royally.

  Yep, he’s right.

  Along with the salt water sieving through the antechamber’s drainpipe is the last of El Chihuahua’s blood, some of his entrails, and my vomit.

  Chapter 18

  What to Do When You Don’t Like His Friends

  You’ve met the guys who hang with your new boyfriend, and you’re less than impressed. He may be your Han Solo, but his buds could pass for rejects from the Star Wars bar!

  On one hand, you feel guilty passing judgment this way. Then again, maybe you have a reason to be concerned. If they’re losers, maybe he’s one, too. Here are a few telltale signs that he needs a classier set of friends:

  1: They greet you by saying, “Hubba, hubba!”

  2: When you reach out to shake the hand of one of his bros, you find it up your skirt.

  3: Half of these dudes show up with bodyguards.

  4: The other half show up with an ATF squad on their tail.

  5: They never remember your name. Instead, they call you Chick, Chica, Babe, Doll, or Bitch.

  6: Their way of saying “Thank you” is to burp.

  Taken collectively, all of these idiosyncrasies indicate that your main squeeze needs to a new entourage. Should he (a) balk, (b) bitchslap, or (c) laugh in your face when you suggest that he consider more refined company, take it as a very broad hint that he’s not your Mr. Right.

  Then take his lowrider, ram it into the nearest ditch, and set it on fire. Doing so will be your subtle hint that y
ou’ve moved on.

  “Well, I guess half an asset is better than none.” Count on Jack to look at the bright side.

  “Think so? Good. I’ll let you explain that to Ryan.” My teeth are still chattering. That’s to be expected, considering I was just a few seconds away from being a great white shark’s dessert course.

  I turn my back as I strip out of my wet clothes to the bikini underneath, not because I’m modest in front of Jack (he always admires the view), but because I can’t stand to see El Chihuahua glaring at me.

  I know why Jack is wincing, and it has nothing to do with the jiggly bits he claims he sees, but because he dreads the thought of calling Ryan. “I guess the sooner we get it over with, the better.”

  He’s right. With or without Hector’s intel, we’ve got to figure out a way to find the Quorum’s safe house and break into it.

  After setting our GPS coordinates and our speed on autopilot, Jack crouches down for a closer look at El Chihuahua. “There are some strange markings on this dude. Not the usual gangbanger tats. More like… I don’t know, calculus or something.”

  I quit toweling my hair for a closer look. “You’re right. But it’s certainly a little more complicated than Mary’s eighth grade homework.” I follow one line of digits, which seem to run on forever but is connected with a plus sign to an equally crazy alphabet.

  Could it be . . .?

  “Oh my God! Jack, this is some sort of code!” I circle El Chihuahua’s torso. “By the look of things, the guy’s whole body is a database!”

  “If that’s the case, then I hope Jaws didn’t munch on what we need. Let’s show old Hector here to Arnie. He’ll know if these are ciphers—and if so, how to decode them.” Jack grabs his iPhone off the control board console and then goes in for a tight shot with the camera app, and takes pictures on what’s left of Hector. I’m surprised he doesn’t pass out, what with the sickening condition of Hector’s corpse.

  The way Hector’s eyes follow me makes me want to gag again.

  I try to shake it off, but it’s hard to forget his shit-eating smirk as he tapped his head and boasted, “It’s all up here…”