The Housewife Assassin's Killer App Page 2

  He’s howling like a banshee, but he’ll survive. The ambulance and police cars can already be heard coming from all directions.

  Lawrence too will live to see another day. But, beyond that, I’m sure that the wise guy who takes Phil’s place will be gunning for him, unless he’s willing to play double agent for the Feds, and pray that he makes it into the Witness Protection Program before the Moretti syndicate finds out it’s been double-crossed.

  Despite his questionable eau de toilette, it must have dawned on Walt that saving Angelina is one way to come out smelling like a rose to the Carducci family. “The family owes you one,” he promises Jack as he scoops her gun off the floor and ferries her toward the door.

  “Hey, where did you hide the thumb drives?” Jack asks.

  I reach into my pouf, where they’ve been held in place by the banana clip.

  He laughs. “I would have never guessed.”

  Partial payment comes with what’s in Jack’s tip jar, which I shove into my vest until I’m pushing a DD width at the very least. When Jack raises a brow, I shrug. “Pay day,” I say, as I push the rest of the bills into his jacket pocket.

  In fact, there are so many dollars that they don’t all fit there, either, so I tuck some under his waistband.

  He laughs. “You can’t buy me.”

  “I think I just did.”

  He smiles. “I guess it’s time to pay up.”

  Before I can answer him, he grabs my arm and pulls me toward the kitchen door, and we disappear into the night.

  Chapter 2

  Emoticons

  In case you didn’t know it, those cute little smiley faces you use in your emails are called “emoticons.” They’re supposed to give the recipient some idea of how you’re feeling, be it happy — — or sad — — or dismayed — :/

  As emoticons go, not all are faces made out of keyboard strokes. In fact, some are actually complete messages. For example, this one says, “I love you”:

  I <3 U

  Others are symbolic of something easily visualized. Case in point: this one is a rose:

  @-→-→---

  Oh, and this is a bucktoothed vampire with a missing fang:

  :-F

  Frankly, in the time in which it would take you to learn every emoticon out there (including and especially the bucktoothed vampire) you could have picked up your cell phone and called to say, “Hi, hope you’re having a great day.” Or you could have plucked a rose and handed it to your friend, and seen a real smile on her face.

  Best of all, you could have called your beloved to say, “I love you.”

  As for the bucktoothed defanged vampire, all I can say is that if you’ve found a use for it, you have too much time on your hands.

  No, I’m not suggesting you create a costume depicting said vampire in order to scare the bejesus out of some pal. Actually, a better use of your time would be writing a note on beautiful stationery, then walking it out to the mailbox.

  Etiquette beats netiquette every time.

  Real emotions are more effective than emoticons. Trust me on this one.

  Jack and I have a pretty good reason to be smooching on the N Train. Keeping face-to-face and wrapped in each other’s arms is the easiest way to avoid being caught by the subway’s security cameras.

  Hey, I’m not complaining at all. My only regret is that our stop—Union Square—is a mere five minutes away.

  One of my hands cups the nape of Jack’s neck. The other is pressed against his chest. Whereas the adrenaline rush of being roughed up by bad guys and dodging bullets has my heart pounding against my ribcage like a metronome, Jack’s is several beats slower. Ha! Maybe next time I should take on the role of lounge singer.

  The thought of my off-key crooning and one-handed Chopsticks wowing the crowds and launching my diva career is forgotten in the heady sweetness of Jack’s kisses.

  Be still, my heart.

  All around us, the sights, sounds, and smells are raw and unyielding. A homeless guy plays a tarnished saxophone with the chops of someone who once was a somebody. The wild-eyed man sitting across from us is picking fleas out of his hair. The dude on the far side of Jack is high as a kite. He lays into a box of greasy fried chicken, devouring it, bones and all. The college student standing in front of us bops her head to a techno-pop ditty, which is so loud that it drones beyond the confines of her Beats. The standing mob around her nudges each other for more space. No one else notices the kid pickpocketing his way through the undulating throng.

  Despite all of it, I wish I could stay here for the rest of the night, entwined with the man I love with all my heart.

  “So listen,” he murmurs into my ear, “I noticed this great little French restaurant just a few blocks from our hotel. What do you say to a little foie gras and some coq au vin, with a nice Bordeaux to set it off?”

  “Sure, okay,” I purr, “if that’s what you want.”

  His right brow rises. “Do you have a better idea?”

  Tenderly, I touch his cheek with my hand. “Here’s my scenario: you join me in our hotel room’s large double tub. Lots of candles, lots of bubbles, lots of sex. Afterward, we pay the bellboy to run down the block and pick up our food order. C’est bon?”

  Before Jack can answer, my cell phone buzzes. It’s a text that reads, simply: You’re needed.

  Oh…no. Not now. Please…

  “You were saying?” Jack stares down at my phone, then back up at me.

  “I…have to go.” I try not to look down at the cell as I text back: ONE HOUR.

  Jack’s smile fades. He shrugs. “Leave after dinner.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t. We need him.”

  “I think you’re wrong. Lee is using you.” Jack’s frigid declaration sends a shiver up my spine. “He thinks of you as his pet—a komodo dragon. Anytime he wants to rattle Carl’s cage, he pulls you out so that you can snarl and wreak havoc.”

  “Your metaphor is less than flattering. I’d like to think of myself as something more beauteous than a two-hundred-pound scaly lizard with a forked-tongue.”

  Jack isn’t laughing.

  Hmmm. Okay, move on to Plan B: remind him why we agreed that I have to stay close to Lee Chiffray, the President of the United States. “The lives—and livelihoods—of our co-workers are also at stake, not to mention my children’s wellbeing.”

  “You mean ‘our children,’ remember?”

  I nod. He’s right, of course. For the past two years, he’s proven it, time and time again.

  Right now, I’m doing everything I can to stop their biological father, Carl Stone, from coming back into their lives. So far, so good, but it hasn’t been easy. I’ve been dodging summonses that are delivered now almost on a weekly basis. To that extent, it helps to have friends in low places. The gate guards for our private community, Hilldale, appreciate my homemade pies enough to warn me when yet another server is coming my way.

  “Maybe it’s time for you to play hard to get,” Jack continues. “My God, Donna, it’s been almost seven months since you made your deal with Lee to backchannel Acme intel before it goes directly to the intelligence agencies controlled by Carl! Since then, Acme—and more to the point, you—have jumped through every hoop Lee has tossed in front of us. And yet, Chiffray still hasn’t made any changes where it counts most—Carl’s removal from power. In fact, things have only gotten worse.”

  He’s talking about the fact that my ex, Carl, is still Director of Intelligence for our country.

  This is quite a feat for someone who was once considered a known terrorist.

  His name was cleared, thanks to Lee.

  At the time, Lee felt he had no choice. He’s regretted it ever since.

  Time for Plan C: appeal to Jack’s sense of duty. “Jack, in all seriousness, you know the protocol.”

  “Is that what you call it, ‘protocol’?”

  I grit my teeth. “What would you call it?”

  He shrugs. “You don’t want to know.”


  “Yes, actually, I do. Because I care about your feelings.” This is my way of saying, What you say next may hurt mine and forever ruin what we’ve built together these past two years—so think before you speak.

  Any notion I may have had that Jack can read minds is put to rest when he declares, “I call it a liaison. A rendezvous.”

  I glare at him. “Next, you’ll be calling it a booty call.”

  He’s silent, but his shrug says it all.

  The fact that he’s put me in this position angers me to no end. “Jack…really? You doubt my love for you, after all we’ve been through together?”

  “No, never.” He hunches down in his seat. “If our profession has taught us one thing, it’s to separate love from sex. But, Donna, I know you well enough to realize you’ll do anything—use any skill at your disposal—to take down the Quorum, once and for all.”

  He’s not coming out and saying it, but he means sex.

  For us, it’s an occupational hazard.

  “You sound like a jealous schoolboy,” I chide him. “Lee is not ‘my boyfriend.’ You are, or have your forgotten?”

  “Prove it.” He looks me in the eye. “Don’t go.”

  I sigh. Then I reach for his hand and hold it tight. “For the record, Jack, he and I don’t have sex.”

  “I’ll take you at your word,” he smirks. “Of course, that doesn’t mean Lee doesn’t want to have sex with you.”

  In my heart, I know Jack is right. All it would take is one signal from me.

  Jack and I are too close, physically, for him to miss my blush.

  And we are too close, emotionally, for him to ignore this unspoken truth.

  “Ah, I see.” His eyes are angry, but he keeps his voice deadly nonchalant.

  “Jack, I swear he’s been a perfect gentleman! You have to trust me when I say that I’ll never betray the love we share…with my body, or my soul.”

  His way of showing that he believes me is to pull me in close.

  His lips are warm. They part naturally at the touch of my own. Their taste leaves me tingling. I lose all sense of time and place.

  I ache, mind and heart, when he pulls away.

  “This is my stop,” Jack mutters. “Last call.”

  I sigh and shake my head. I have four more stops to my exit—Grand Central Station—where I’ll flag down a taxi, then exit it a few blocks from my real destination.

  Without another word, Jack rises and heads toward the door. But before strolling out, he tosses the homeless guy playing the sax one of the dollars crammed in his coat pocket.

  With a grateful smile, the man tips his hat at Jack.

  The rest of the trip, he serenades me with Blues in the Night.

  How appropriate.

  When it’s my turn to hop off, I also bend down and put a buck in his hat.

  He winks at me. “Your man—he’s a good one. Now, don’t you go two-timing him.”

  I nod stoically.

  Then I run off, so that he can’t see my tears.

  Jack is right about one thing. When Lee and I meet, it’s always off the books—that is to say, never in the Oval Office or the West Wing, and certainly never in the presence of his staff.

  And certainly his wife, Babette, knows nothing about it. Her suspicions of me are worse than Jack’s.

  That’s okay. The feeling is mutual.

  Today’s meeting is to take place in the private penthouse apartment on Riverside Boulevard, overlooking the west side’s Hudson River. I don’t know if it is owned by Lee, or one of his many companies that are now held in a blind trust until he leaves office, or if it’s a second or third home of a loyal constituent who honors POTUS’s ask-no-questions criteria.

  I honor it too.

  According to the protocol that Lee and I have set up, I’m to arrive before him and his entourage. Despite any protestations of his advance team, he insists on entering the residence alone. That way, his security detail never sees me.

  Thank goodness, too, because the way I’m dressed now, they’d worry they have another Slick Willy on their hands.

  Not to mention, Lee would jump to the wrong conclusion too—

  And try to prove Jack right.

  I’ve got to find some different duds, and fast.

  By the time I emerge onto Forty-Second Street, I’ve only got half an hour to do something about it, which means I don’t have time to run over to Saks. Besides, it’s already closed, as are most of the decent clothing stores between here and my destination.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a couple of streetwalkers giving me the high sign. One lets loose with a lowdown whistle before exclaiming, “Whoooeeee! You are swanky, girl! Where’d you get them hot pants?”

  I hold up a twenty. “Hey, doll, I’ll give you this for your coat.”

  She strips it off in a flash.

  When you’re meeting the leader of the free world, you’ve got to have some coverage, even if it’s hooded, hot pink, fake and furry—and barely grazes your thighs.

  Desperate times call for a desperate wardrobe. If her micro-mini wasn’t so short, and lime green to boot, I’d have her throw that in as well.

  By the time a taxi gets me to my destination—forty blocks north and on the west side of Manhattan—I’ve got less than five minutes to spare.

  It’s not my first time here. I’ve long memorized the security code that gets me inside the building. As in past rendezvous, I lift the coat’s hood over my head so that the security camera can’t pick up my face, or the color and cut of my hair. Yet another code gets me inside the express elevator to the penthouse, and another opens the front door to one of Manhattan’s most exclusive residences.

  The floors are marble. The walls, gold in tone, are at least fifteen feet high. The top eight inches are adorned with intricate moulding designed with a baroque flair of deep swirls.

  Completing the fantasy of being transported to a wing in St. Petersburg’s Hermitage Museum are the sumptuous rooms’ high-backed, deep-seated furnishings in white silk brocade.

  So that none of Lee’s security detail spots me when he opens the door, I head for the penthouse’s terrace. When I open the large glass sliding door, a tuft of hot-pink faux fur floats back inside, alighting on one of the settees.

  I’m tempted to leave it there, but I know better. The last thing Lee or I need is to leave behind even a trace of evidence that can be analyzed by the best forensic labs in the world—a most likely scenario if Carl should ever find out about this place.

  The building is tall enough that the penthouse’s four-sided terrace has a three-hundred-degree view. I look east and south, so that I can gaze upon the most iconic landmarks in New York’s midtown skyline: the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the GE Building; and further to the south, the spire of the new Freedom Tower.

  I don’t hear Lee walk up behind me, but I feel his presence, which is usually the case.

  He likes watching me without my knowledge.

  Like all guilty pleasures, his fleeting voyeurism has a price. Time to pay up.

  I turn to him. Every time I see him, his hair is a little grayer around the edges, the circles around his eyes are a shade darker, and his worries are etched even deeper on his brow.

  Dealing with the world’s most challenging issues is already taking its toll.

  Despite this, he’s smiling, and I’m sure he hoped I’d be too. But no, this time I must disappoint him. “Mr. President, to what do I owe the honor of your summons?”

  Noting my curtness, his smile wavers ever so slightly. “Ryan mentioned you were in town. Since your trip coincided with my own—one of the party’s many fundraisers—I thought you might catch me up on how it went.”

  I nod. “Mission accomplished. Jack and I were able to intercept a thumb drive containing cell phone metadata stolen by one of New York’s mob syndicates, something both the NSA and the FBI will appreciate.”

  “I appreciate it too.” He holds out his hand
.

  I hesitate, but yes, I take it.

  His palm is large and warm, but dry. My eyes lock onto his as I grasp it firmly. I’ve been out here long enough that my own hands are cold. There is a chill in my voice, too, as I counter, “Duly noted. Perhaps you can show it with a little quid pro quo—specifically, catching me up on Carl’s status within your administration.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” His sarcastic tone indicates otherwise. “Since we last met, Carl has been busy doing end-runs on my handpicked IC directors.”

  This is serious. If my allegiance with Lee is to pay off, he needs the intelligence community directors who must report to Carl to be POTUS’s eyes and ears on our mutual enemy. They’ll be in charge of agencies within the DOD, like the heads of the NSA, Military Intelligence, and Defense Intelligence; or those under the auspices of the DOJ, such as the FBI and DEA; not to mention stand-alone agencies such as Homeland Security.

  “He can’t get away with that, can he?” I ask.

  “Thus far, he’s been successful in two out of four attempts. In one, the vetting caught something that later turned out to be a false accusation. Still, the Congressional subcommittee approving the appointment—not to mention the press—had a field day with it.” Lee frowns. “The second didn’t even get that far. While waiting for his acceptance, my appointee candidate arranged a private meeting to let me know he was passing on the honor. He was scared off by what he called a blunt threat to, quote-unquote, look so far up his rectum with a microscope that something was sure to be found.”

  “Did he name Carl, specifically?”

  “He did better than that. When I asked him who said it to him, he wrote Carl’s name on a sheet of paper and handed it to me.”

  “Did you confront Carl?”

  Lee smirks. “His response was that he had the obligation to conduct his own due diligence on the candidates, to assure that my choices aren’t an embarrassment to my presidency, a legacy he cherishes as if it were his own.”