The Housewife Assassin's Greatest Hits Page 18

  A woman scorned…

  The vision of Midge Kelsey in the cemetery destroying everything in her path comes to mind, sending a shiver down my spine.

  The thought is interrupted by noises coming from the intercom. Apparently, Ryan forgot to turn it off before he left because Arnie can be heard saying, “Darn it! Okay, Emma, I owe you five. But, hey, Dominic is in for ten, so I guess I got off easy.”

  Emma snorts, “Ha! Yeah, well, I guess I can whistle Dixie before I see that Hamilton…”

  19

  You’re Gonna Get Rocked

  Recorded by La Toya Jackson. Written by Full Force. Released in March 1988. This single peaked at #103, barely missing the Billboard “Hot 100.” It also peaked at #66 on the Billboard “Hot R&B/Hip-Hop Singles & Tracks” chart, and #90 in the United Kingdom.

  Wanna rock his world? Well, of course, you do! Here’s how:

  Rockin’ Him Trick #1: Put on a sexy negligee! (Tip: It should not be see-through, but opaque, to hide your ever-present Flashbang Bra Holster.)

  Rockin’ Him Trick #2: Spritz perfume behind your ears and knees. (And if he gets too frisky too fast, you can spritz him in the eye too, which will immediately calm him down—as soon as he gets back from the emergency room.)

  Rockin’ Him Trick #3: Try something in bed that you’ve never done before (wink, wink). Word of caution: depending on how much perfume you’re wearing, stay away from fire. You want to rock his world—not blow it up, and you along with it.

  The search of the White House will take all night.

  Each member of my mission team has been shadowing a specific White House security detail, which includes bomb-sniffing dogs.

  Lucky me, I’m in Detail A, which is charged with securing the First Family’s private residence on the second and third floors of the White House.

  We were only allowed to search after ten in the evening. The aide who greets us, Candace Forster, warns us to stay out of the master bedroom, Harrison’s nursery, and Janie’s room.

  “The Chiffrays have retired for the evening. The First Lady just delivered her baby,” Candace reminds us. “A healthy boy! But needless to say, she’s exhausted, so please be as quiet as possible.”

  We nod as we continue to swarm through the residence but we find nothing out of the ordinary: no incendiary devices, no cache of unauthorized arms, let alone anyone with a fake clearance badge. No people without proper clearance in places they should not be; no doors that shouldn’t be unlocked but should now give free access; and no rooms that are locked by those who shouldn’t have access to them at all.

  One of the unlocked doors leads to the personal library in the First Family’s quarters. We know Lee must be in there now because two of Lee’s Secret Service detail stand at either side of the door, and Gordy has taken his position as well.

  Lee is sitting in one of the room’s two easy chairs next to the room’s large palladium window. It looks out over the ornate Eisenhower Executive Office Building. He looks up when he hears us enter. His eyes widen the moment he realizes that I’m part of the security detail.

  He stands up and walks over to me. When he leans in too close, I take a step back in order to hold out my hand. “Sorry for the intrusion, Mr. President. We’ll be quick and quiet so as not to disturb the rest of the household. We’ll leave the bedrooms alone.”

  He grimaces at my pivot, but he knows better than to say anything in front of the others. Instead, he shrugs it off. “Not to worry. The First Lady has already retired. And Janie never wakes up. Harrison is in his nursery with his nanny.” He points to one of the two easy chairs facing the large palladium window. Folders are stacked on the table beside it. “I’ll keep working there. Feel free to do what you have to do in this room as well.”

  Two members of the detail, one leading the detection dog, follow Candace down the hall. I’m about to go into another room when Lee asks, “Mrs. Craig, might I have a word with you?”

  I nod and follow as he walks back to the window so that we are far enough away from Rappaport and anyone else who may overhear him. Then, in a soft voice, he murmurs, “I don’t know if anyone mentioned it already to you, but I took the liberty of visiting you in the hospital.”

  I feel my cheeks warming up. “I know.”

  Lee looks up, sharply. “So, Jack did mention it?”

  Ha! Hardly. I shake my head. “No…but I—”

  I did what—hovered ethereally over him as he kissed me? Watched helplessly as my husband almost punched him out?

  Think fast…

  “I heard it from one of the nurses. She was quite thrilled.”

  Lee’s smile is hard to resist. When I chuckle, he laughs along with me.

  But there is no happiness in his eyes.

  Only longing.

  As much as it breaks my heart to do so, I say the one thing I know should extinguish the embers of desire that never seem to burn out: “I wish I had been awake to tell you how much I appreciate your friendship and…Babette’s.”

  His way of hiding his disappointment is to shift his gaze to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, which sits across the White House lawn from the West Wing.

  I do the same. I’ve never taken a good look at the EEOB from this angle. By night, with most of its lights out, it gives its ornately embellished French Second Empire façade the feel of a long-deserted hotel.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flicker in a window directly across from us on the fourth floor.

  Spooks. Ghosts. The building is filled with them.

  Where have I heard that before? Oh, yes, Catherine Martin. She said something else too. It had to do with Lee…

  Damn it! If only I could remember.

  “Babette has never been your friend,” Lee admits. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I know.” My response, faint though it might be, sounds sad even to my ears.

  Impulsively, I kiss his cheek.

  I turn to find Director Rappaport looking at us with a raised brow. Quickly, he turns and busies himself by running a security wand in a far corner of the room.

  My search team is in and out in ten minutes.

  By the time we leave, Lee is back in his easy chair.

  The search has been a bust.

  In fact, the most egregious breach was a couple of interns caught in a supply closet, going at it.

  Dominic accompanied the detail that found them. Supposedly distressed that both are now to be let go, he slipped the female intern a business card with the promise of “helping you secure other interesting work—er, after I view the security feed of your little liaison here. Perhaps your true talents have yet to be uncovered.”

  She blushes red at his suggestion. Good for her. Hopefully, she’s smart enough to stay away from anything Dominic offers—unless he takes an STD test first.

  Director Rappaport’s declaration is tired, but firm: “Sorry, Acme folks, but it looks as if this has been a wild goose chase.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Jack’s murmur is low enough that only our mission team hears him.

  Miffed, I hiss, “Thus far, my tips have worked out.”

  “You mean your ‘intuition,’ don’t you?” he counters. “And stop me if I’m wrong, but just like this one, you’ve misinterpreted all of them.”

  “Give her credit,” Abu says. “One panned out.”

  “But when it did, it was too late,” Jack reminds him.

  “Children, let’s not air our dirty laundry in public. We can discuss this on your ride home.” Ryan’s sigh roars through our earbuds. “Donna, admit it: you struck out. For God’s sake, it’s one in the morning, Eastern Time.”

  “‘Struck out’?" I grumble. “That’s rich! Who cares how late it is…”

  Struck. One.

  Salem’s words ring in my head: The clock struck one, and Lee was done.

  “Thank Director Rappaport for indulging us, but wrap this up,” Ryan warns me. “He’s got an early morning
tomorrow. He’s testifying in front of the Senate Armed Services Subcommittee Cybersecurity. They’re looking for a fall guy for all the recent security breaches. Unfortunately, he may be taking a bullet for the president.”

  One of Catherine’s declarations is just as loud:

  Lee is clueless about the power that is wielded in Washington. I mean, let's face it: He's no Eisenhower. That man knew how to dodge a bullet, literally and figuratively…

  Once again, my eyes are drawn to the window. The Eisenhower Executive Office Building, outlined in the three-quarter moon, looks ominous.

  “Dodge a bullet…” I whisper.

  “I beg your pardon?” Irritated, Director Rappaport frowns down at me.

  “Um—nothing. Sorry, but”—I tap my earbud—“Mr. Clancy asks that you indulge us a bit more. He reminds me that our search didn’t cover the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.”

  Ryan growls, “Donna, I gave you a direct order!”

  “The EEOB?” Rappaport sighs, but nods. “Sure, what the hey? Better safe than sorry,” he reasons. “We’ll go via the tunnel between the buildings. Unit A search the north side, top to bottom. So that this goes quickly, Units B, C, and D will meet us there. B, take the west side. C, take the south. D will cover the east portion.”

  Jack is with D Unit. Considering the building takes up ten acres of prime D.C. real estate, we shouldn’t run into each other. With how he feels about this task, that’s fine with me.

  Ryan is still yelling in my ear when I pull out my ear bud. What hurts even more is Jack’s retort, “Ah hell! Here we go again.”

  Hell is right.

  No, I’d better be right.

  God, I hope I’m wrong.

  We are halfway through the tunnel when our K9 lurches forward, almost pulling his handler off his feet. They end up in front of an electrical panel on the right wall. The dog is now on his hindquarters, scratching at it.

  One of our detail’s IED experts motions for the K9 handler and everyone else to back away. Instead of placing his fingers on the handle of the panel, the IED expert takes out a tiny drill and gets to work on the panel’s hinges. When the screws are loosened enough for him to peel back the panel, he peeks in. “It’s attached to a bomb alright.”

  Director Rappaport commands. “Everyone, back up and let the man do his job.” He motions to another of the security detail. “Secure every safety door on both sides of this tunnel segment.”

  We do as he says, making our way back toward the White House. Rappaport follows us through the closest door. It shuts with a tight gasp, signaling that it is hydraulically sealed off from any blast.

  On his iPad, Rappaport is able to tap into the security cameras that line the tunnel. We sweat it out as the IED expert cuts a wire—

  The correct one.

  Our detail cheers.

  As I raise my voice in solidarity, I hear Nola’s voice in my head. My mind’s eye sees her again as she pointed to the dove flying over our boat: Look there—to the west…its wing is broken…

  West. Wing.

  The homing pigeon was squawking Lee’s name.

  My mind flashes back to just a few moments ago, when, as I was standing in the West Wing with Lee, I saw a quick flash of light on the fourth floor of the EEOB…

  Catherine’s whisper tickles my ear:

  Spooks. Ghosts. The building is filled with them…Carl knows that better than anyone…

  In a flash, it hits me:

  Eric is here—

  And I’m on the wrong side of the building.

  The security door unlocks with a gasp.

  I’m through it in no time.

  It’s now Ryan’s voice I hear, shouting, “Donna, where the hell are you going?”

  “To the east side of the building! It faces the West Wing!”

  “Jack’s detail has it covered. Stay with your own!”

  Like hell I will.

  I run toward the east entrance lobby.

  20

  Fallin’ for You

  Performed by Colbie Caillat. Released on June 26, 2009, it hit #12 on the Billboard “Hot 100” and #2 on the Billboard “Top 40” charts.

  How do you know when you’ve fallen in love? Here are three telltale signs:

  You’re giddy whenever he’s around.

  Passion surges through you whenever you feel his touch.

  You never want to let him out of your sight.

  How do you know if he doesn’t feel the same way?

  He frowns whenever he sees you.

  Revulsion makes him shudder when you try to touch him.

  Whenever you’re in sight, he runs the other way.

  So what’s a gal to do?

  Don’t chase. Show some pride!

  Don’t cry. He ain’t worth the tears!

  Most importantly: DON’T SHOOT. He ain’t worth the bullet!

  “Hey—where are you going?” Leonard, D Unit’s leader, shouts when he sees me.

  “Top floor!” I yell back.

  “No need. Craig already has it covered,” he replies. He shrugs as I fly past him to the elevator.

  After pushing the button, my eyes are drawn to the EEOB’s celebrated grand staircase. I pause just a moment to peer up at the domed stained-glass skylight five stories above me. With the way in which each of its floors are suspended on elegant white columns, it resembles an exquisite nautilus.

  The elevator opens soundlessly. I glance down at my watch. It’s two minutes until one.

  Each second of the ride is agony.

  The only light reaching the EEOB's fourth floor comes from the full moon’s glow streaming in through the skylight. I take off my shoes so that no one can hear me as I run down the marble checkerboard hall to the office suite that faces the West Wing of the White House.

  The office’s lights are off, but the door is cracked open. I pull out my Sig Sauer P229, holding it low and ready, walking heel-toe to avoid detection or tripping.

  As I approach, Arnie murmurs through my earbud, “There’s no cam feed in there, but I can send a flying spider drone to the window and take a peek inside.”

  “Go for it,” Ryan commands him.

  It feels good to have him onboard, finally.

  “Feed is live…” Suddenly, Arnie whistles. “Donna called it! The shooter is at the window and in position—and from the looks of things, he’s got a clear shot of POTUS!”

  Crouching low, I nudge open the door.

  I wait for my eyes to adjust. Yes, I see someone sitting on a chair.

  Scarlett Hancock.

  Her hair is slicked back. She holds a Heckler and Koch MR556A1 carbine, all tidy with a bipod and suppressor attached. She even sprang for Swarovski glass on top, how fancy.

  It’s aimed directly at the palladium window of Lee’s study—

  Where he sits. Babette stands to his side. She has her arms lovingly around his neck.

  * * *

  Varick’s ditty plays in my head:

  Three little maids in attendance come

  To one little maid is a bride, Yum-Yum

  Nobody's safe, for ONE cares for none…

  So, Scarlett is the operative who Eric has on the inside.

  Scarlett murmurs. “Shouldn’t you have taken off? It’s just a few seconds to one.” She smirks but she doesn’t look up. “Don’t they make a cozy picture? Like Jack and Jackie just before Oswald’s second hit. Blood splatters on the peignoir will be a wonderful touch, don’t you think?”

  A bloody nightgown—like the one Valentina wore. It was her second clue to me.

  “It was her idea to wear it,” she continues. “I even helped her pick it out. I made her model it first, though.” She giggles. “I’ll bet you wish you’d been there, eh?”

  When I don’t answer, instinctively, Scarlett turns to see why.

  My shot, to her forehead, sends her toppling backward.

  “Cleanup on the fourth floor,” Arnie declares.

  “I’m on my way,” Abu ass
ures him.

  Who was Scarlett expecting…

  Eric, of course. So, he’s here too?

  That thought sends a shiver through me.

  I run out the door. Where is Jack? He should have been here by now.

  I head toward the elevator. After punching its button, my eyes are drawn to the stairwell. Each floor below mirrors this one: a mesmerizing checkerboard pattern, framed by an intricate banister that coils its way to the ground floor.

  I see Jack two floors below me. Just then, he glances up. Seeing me, his eyes grow big. He frowns.

  Because he’s looking up at me, he’s taken off guard as someone slams his fist into his face.

  The elevator pings. I run in and shove my thumb against the button to the third floor and pray I make it before it’s too late.

  As the elevator door opens, Jack’s assailant is splayed faced down, unconscious but groaning. Like Scarlett, Jack, and me, he’s dressed all in black.

  Catherine was right. This building is filled with spooks.

  Jack’s gun is pointed at the man. He’s about to shoot but stops at the sight of me. Instead, he lowers his arm.

  “Thank goodness,” I exclaim fervently. “I saw you struggling with him! Are you—”

  Before I finish my sentence, he says, “Fine? Yeah, no problem.” His voice is hoarse and his grin comes with a shrug. “Saved this too.”

  Jack’s other hand holds a black satchel.

  I stare at it. “Is that the president’s—”

  “Yeah—the nuclear football. Somehow, he stole it,” he mutters and then coughs.

  Edwina Doyle comes to mind. She’s tossing me the football: Here—catch! But don’t drop it!