The Housewife Assassin's Greatest Hits Page 17

  Jack’s answer is to stare out the window. Ryan’s nod is all the assurance I need.

  “Nola gave me the riddle. I’d just won a fight with Sebastian Gillingham in the ocean.” I shudder again at the thought. “She pulled up in a sailboat. When I asked her where Eric’s act of terror would take place, she mentioned that there ‘wasn’t much time since the sun is setting in the west.’ At that moment, a pigeon flew overhead. It landed in the boat because its wing was broken.”

  Jack leans forward in his seat. “I don’t get it.”

  “The sun setting in the west, and a broken wing,” Ryan murmurs.

  “Exactly!” I exclaim.

  “And what did she say would happen there?” Jack asks.

  “She didn’t say it. The pigeon…” I’m so excited that for a moment I forget the other thing about the bird…

  Heck! What was it?

  Jack smirks, “The pigeon said something to you?”

  “Yes. It cawed out Lee’s name.” It’s my turn to look away. At the time, I thought it was telling me that Lee was in my hospital room—but now is not the time to get into that with Jack.

  “What prodded your memory about this particular adventure?” Ryan asks.

  “Rin Tin Tin. He came into the kitchen with a live pigeon between his jaws. The bird’s wing was broken.”

  Jack shakes his head in disbelief. “Now I’ve heard everything!”

  “You’ve got to admit, Jack, that it’s quite a coincidence.” Ryan counters.

  “Yes—but that’s all! Look, Donna—you got what you came for: Acme is following up on your paranormal intel. That still doesn’t mean you’re well enough to tag along.”

  “Tag along?” I sputter. “How dare you, Jack Craig!”

  “The only reason Lee wants you there is so that he can ask you to…” His voice breaks from despair.

  Ryan’s bushy brows rise almost to his non-existent hairline. “So that President Chiffray can ask her what?”

  Jack must be thinking about Lee’s proposal to me while I was comatose. I don’t know what he’s so worried about. Whether I’d been awake or unconscious, I would have said no.

  Still, I bat my eyes at him innocently.

  Angrily, he turns to Ryan. “Okay, if you’re going to let Donna’s hunch play out, then as her husband and—I’m still the mission’s leader, I assume—”

  “For now, yes.”

  Ryan’s answer doesn’t deter Jack from making his point. He smiles grandly. “Good to hear it. As I was saying, even if Jonah and Dr. Bellows’ assessments clear her for duty, as both her husband and her mission leader, I retain the right to personally assess her physical and emotional stamina.”

  “Sounds kinky,” I purr.

  “This isn’t a joke, Donna,” Jack retorts. “The lives of my mission team are on the line.”

  I can barely hear Carl’s whisper: Shoot the messenger…

  “And yours,” I murmur sadly.

  “Thanks for your acknowledgment of that.” Jack’s statement is cold and crisp.

  Ryan looks over at me. “Are you okay with Jack’s parameters?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  Jack is silent the rest of the way home.

  When it comes to their Mom and Dad, our kids have built-in radar.

  When one parent (Jack) gives the other (Me) short, barbed, or pointed answers, all roughhousing stops. This happened when Ryan called Jack and me to say that Jonah gave me a clean bill of health. In fact, Jonah’s exact words were, “I’ve never seen someone work so hard, or get results so quickly.”

  When one parent (Me) either ignores the other (Jack) or only speaks to him in frosty overtones, chatter comes to a standstill. This happened after Ryan texted Dr. Bellows’ assessment that “Donna’s trauma is typical of most coma patients. She accepts that her psychotic experiences were, in fact, delusions exacerbated by the guilt she feels for those who died on her watch. On the other hand, her near-death experience has given her clear purpose as to how to make the most of her new lease on life. My assessment is that her participation in the mission will give her closure on her recent subconscious activity.”

  When their dad stomps off to sleep in the guest room, it’s time to duck and cover—like when Jack asked me, once more, to stay home for my own sake.

  I said no.

  At least, from the guest room, he can’t hear me cry.

  18

  I Don’t Wanna Fight

  Sung by Tina Turner on the 1993 soundtrack album for her autobiographical movie, “What’s Love Got to Do with It.” Written by British songbird Lulu, Billy Lawrie (Lulu’s brother), and Steve DuBerry.

  It remains Turner’s last single to chart in the Top Ten of Billboard’s “Top 100,” where it reached #9, as well as #1 on Billboard’s “Adult Contemporary” chart.

  Love means never having to say you’re sorry? As if!

  Couples argue. It’s inevitable. So, how can you keep your silly little tiff from escalating into a full-scale nuclear war?

  Tip #1: Try to reach a compromise. By that, I don’t mean you choke him unless he says, “I’m sorry,” or by suggesting dueling pistols at five paces instead of ten.

  Tip #2: Take a walk around the block to cool off. And yes, you should not stop off at the local gun shop while you’re out. Our anger should not lead us to temptation.

  Tip #3: Never go to bed angry. In fact, if you don’t kiss and make up before midnight, try to sleep with one eye open in case your spouse “accidentally” drops an anvil on your head.

  I mean, let’s be honest: no one wants to die while asleep.

  Jack says nothing on the drive to Acme.

  When we get there, he leads me into the basement and down a long hallway to the very last door. Beyond it is what Acme euphemistically calls “the Box,” a tiny windowless room, where hostile witnesses are interrogated.

  I go in first. When he closes the door behind us, it clicks ominously.

  The room barely fits one desk and three chairs. Arnie sits behind the desk. He’s playing with the buttons on a polygraph machine. When he sees me, he turns red but points to the chair next to his. He clears his throat. “I’m, er, going to have to hook you up.”

  Hmmm.

  Okay, I get it. Jack is doing his best to intimidate me. What does he expect me to confess to—that I indeed made a pact with the devil who has allowed me to live in order to carry out some diabolical plot to end all of mankind?

  Dammit, I wish I could remember what Carl told me…

  I plop down in the designated chair and purr, “Hook me up, Buttercup.”

  Reluctantly, Arnie places my arm flat on the desk and attaches wired bands on my index and ring fingers. Next, he wraps a heartbeat monitor cuff around the bicep of my other arm. He then puts a belt around my abdomen. It holds six tiny straps, attached to suction cups.

  Arnie picks up one of the suction cups. “Um… I’m supposed to attach these doohickies to your, er, chest.”

  “Let me make it easy for you,” I murmur as I unbutton my blouse, exposing my black lace push-up bra.

  Arnie stares down, entranced.

  “Ah, hell, give that to me!” Jack snatches it out of Arnie’s hand.

  The whole time he’s adhering them to my flesh, his eyes never meet mine.

  “State your name,” Jack demands.

  “Donna Craig,” I respond.

  “Don’t you mean Donna Stone?” he retorts.

  I pause just a second before responding: “No. Donna Craig.”

  Arnie winces. I don’t take this as a good sign.

  “Were you recently in a coma?” Jack asks.

  “Yes.”

  “While in the coma, did you have delusions?”

  “No. I heard the conversations of those around me, including those of my mission team, discussing recent hacking of governmental security agencies.”

  “You’re now saying you had no delusions? But didn’t you tell me that you had a conversation with the Grim Reaper?�
�

  I hesitate before answering: “Yes,” I say emphatically.

  “Didn’t you also tell me that you made a pact with him in order to come back to the living?”

  Ah, heck. In for a dime, in for a dollar. “Yes.”

  “While in Hell, did you happen to run into one of your hits—an operative named Varick, who had once worked with Eric Weber?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he was starring in some Satanic version of a Gilbert and Sullivan musical?”

  “Not starring in it. He sang a clue using the lyrics from one of their shows, The Mikado—”

  “Ah, I see.” Jack tamps down a smirk. “And did your visit to Hades include fighting again with others whom you’d previously killed?”

  “Yes. Six of my hits.” I shrug. “It was supposed to be seven, but the seventh fight got botched—”

  “Thank you,” Jack declares. “That ends this session.”

  “Huh?... That’s it?” I glare at him.

  “Yes. You passed.”

  “Oh!” I yank the suction cups off my breast. “Good! Let’s tell Ryan.”

  “Agreed. The sooner he realizes you truly believe you’ve been to Hell and back, the sooner he’ll order you to take the time you need to rest. It’s the first step for getting back in the field after suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

  “But the fact that I passed the polygraph means I was telling the truth!”

  “You’re wrong, Donna. All it means is that you really believe these paranormal delusions.” I’d like to smack that smug grin off his face. “But I was impressed with the depth of your conviction. In fact”—Jack looks down at Arnie’s scribbling—“only one answer was false: when you answered ‘no’ when I asked you if your name was Donna Stone.”

  “I hesitated only because of how you asked it,” I insist.

  Jack shrugs. “Not buying it. The machine never lies, but people do.” He turns to Arnie. “Get the recording to Ryan. Tell him we’re moving on to the physical fitness portion of Donna’s assessment.”

  Arnie nods at him. But when he sees how upset I am, all he can do is shrug helplessly and turn away.

  Jack smiles down at me but points to my chest. “You may want to button up.”

  True. And I may want to beat you up, I think.

  I’m about to get my chance. I pray I don’t bust my stitches trying.

  “Okay, let’s get this over with.” Jack’s cockiness is supposed to throw me off my game.

  I’ll be honest; I'm a bit nervous. He doesn’t know the full extent of my pain, and I’m not going to show it to him now.

  We’re both dressed for battle, which means the kind of clothing that allows for movement and flexibility—nothing that your opponent can hang onto or use against you. For me, it’s a one-piece black catsuit. Underneath it, I’ve wrapped my wound tightly so that there is no indication that I was ever injured. No need to remind Jack why we’re here in the first place.

  For him, it’s a black wrestling singlet, except it’s got the full-length coverage of a surfing wetsuit. In other words, if he keeps taunting me, I’ll have to figure out a way to strangle my husband without yanking his belt out of his pants and putting it around his neck like a noose.

  That won’t be too hard since we’re standing in Acme’s tactical warrior gym. I’ve got all sorts of goodies to choose from. The four padded walls of this sixty-by-sixty-foot windowless room are intermittently lined with ropes of varying sizes, garden tools, an assortment of cutlery with blades in varying widths, and a wide collection of home accessories.

  We are alone except for the webcams that hang in the top corners of the ceiling. I’m sure Ryan will be monitoring the action, and not just to verify my readiness.

  He wants to make sure we don’t kill each other.

  From the look in Jack’s eye, it may happen—

  Which is why I’m the first to come out swinging.

  Jack and I are standing side by side. Still, I’m far enough away to hit him with a sidekick that takes him off balance.

  He lands on the floor with a grunt. And yet, he’s smiling.

  “Clever,” he acknowledges. “But not as cunning as all the salt you put in my scrambled eggs this morning.” He hops back up. Crouching low, he runs at me.

  As I back away, I scan the walls. Ah, I see what I need. “Consider this payback for my freezing shower this morning. I thought you said you were going to fix the thermometer in the water tank.” Jack ducks at the cheap ceramic bric-a-brac I hurl at him.

  He’s not so lucky with the round metal platter that comes flying his way. When it glances off his shoulder, he grimaces. “I thought I had fixed it. It was supposed to scald you.” He shrugs. “My bad.”

  He charges at me again.

  I’ve got just enough time to grab a machete. Jack sidesteps my first jab and dodges when I swing it at his chest. “That would have done some damage,” he mutters, crouching low.

  I circle him, the blade ready to strike again. “Glad you think so. I want to leave no doubt that I’m up for this mission.”

  Jack’s hand reaches back toward the wall behind him, grabbing hold of a bamboo pole, which he swings in my direction.

  It strikes my wrist. I yelp as I drop the machete.

  Jack laughs. “I disagree with Jonah. Your reflexes aren’t yet up to par.” To prove his theory, he comes at me, swinging the pole at my neck.

  It’s my turn to duck and tuck into a roll, just out of his reach.

  When I leap up, I’m close enough to a wall holding an axe. One quick swing and I’ve chopped his pole in half.

  He can’t help but nod admiringly, even as he comes at me again. “I hope that’s not some sort of metaphor.”

  I toss the axe far away and grab the fallen half of the pole, which has rolled just a foot away from me. “You men! Why does everything revolve around your—”

  I don’t have time to finish the sentence because Jack takes a swing at me.

  I brace his pole with mine.

  The blows keep coming, but each one is blocked high or low, or deflected on one side of me or the other.

  But Jack keeps getting closer and closer until, finally, he’s close enough that my only defense is to brace my pole against his.

  For what seems like forever, we stand there, practically nose to nose—

  But he’s stronger. He shoves the pole against me—

  Slamming me back up to the wall. His pole, held against my shoulders, makes it difficult for me to move my arms—

  But not my head. When my noggin slams into his, he folds.

  Stunned by the pain, I fall beside him.

  We lie there, side by side.

  Jack gasps, “Nice head butt. Did one of your ghostly ghouls teach it to you?”

  I’m breathing heavy too because my head hurts. However, I force a smile on my face. “Nah. Although I did crack a few skulls when I was in Hell.” So that we’re eye-to-eye, I roll on top of him. “Frankly, I prefer some of Babette’s moves—like this.”

  I kiss him, long and hard.

  When our lips part, Jack sputters, “How did you know that? You heard us kiss?”

  “You can’t hear a kiss. I already told you I was conscious during my coma,” I point out. “I saw it.”

  “You…what?”

  He wants me to set the scene? Sure, okay. “You. Babette. My hospital room. Remember? She wanted to ‘comfort you.’” I make smooching sounds.

  Then I do more than that: I reach for his groin.

  He’s a man so, yeah, it hardens at my touch.

  Did it also stiffen when she touched him?

  “Cut it out,” he growls.

  But he doesn’t move. And he certainly doesn’t push away my hand.

  Like he did when she reached for him.

  “Thanks for putting her in her place,” I murmur.

  His eyes widen at the thought that, yes, I also saw him shove her away.

  My eyes soften as a come-hither smile
rises on my lips.

  But as he leans in to take advantage of my invitation, Carl comes into my mind. His warning plays again and again in my head:

  You must kill Jack…It’s the only way to stop Eric…

  By all means, I’ve got to stop Eric—

  Jack gasps, “Donna—stop…choking me!”

  I must have closed my eyes because when I open them, I see that I’m holding one of the poles against Jack’s throat.

  When I loosen my grip, Jack jerks the pole out of my hands and throws it as far away as possible. He barely has time to roll out from under me before dry-heaving onto the floor.

  Ryan shouts through the room’s intercom, “Donna, I think you’ve proven your point.”

  His footsteps can be heard as he walks away from the microphone.

  I crawl over to Jack. “Look…I’m sorry! I guess I got carried away! Let me see if there’s a bruise.”

  But when I try to examine his throat, he swats away my hand. “Just…don’t touch me.”

  “Jack, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please, believe me!”

  “You could have fooled me,” he retorts. He rises to his feet. I guess I can’t expect him to be a gentleman and help me up since I nearly crushed his larynx.

  The door opens. Ryan sticks his head through. Gruffly, he warns, “Thank you, Agents Craig. I think we now have validation.”

  “I’ll say we do,” Jack mutters.

  Ryan nods. “I’m glad we’re in agreement. Okay, Donna, you’re mission-ready.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Jack shakes his head in disbelief. “Didn’t you see what happened here? Donna almost killed me, Ryan! It was as if…as if she lost her mind or something!”

  “Do you think it might have something to do with all the jibes you’ve thrown her way all morning?” Ryan jabs a finger in my direction. “Your wife came back from the dead—and somehow she had intel that has already panned out on our suspect. Even if she’s just in the vicinity, one of her premonitions may prove useful.”

  “Great. Now we’re Ghostbusters,” Jack mutters.

  Ryan heads for the door. “Both of you: clean up and grab your gear. The plane leaves in an hour.” As he passes Jack, he adds, “Next time, you'll know better than to taunt a woman scorned."