The Housewife Assassin's Fourth Estate Sale Page 2

No time to lose. I grab Ernst by the legs and drag him into the elevator.

  The palm scan is easy. However, getting Ernst’s head propped up level with the retinal scanner is a more laborious task. I do it by grabbing his hair, only to have it come off in my hand.

  So, those thick luscious curls were a toupee?

  Figures. If I weren’t so tired, I’d laugh.

  Thankfully, the door opens with a click. Once again, I drag Ernst, this time down the long, polished hall to his office.

  It’s a minimalist’s dream.

  A phone is the only thing on his massive post-modern mahogany desk. No pen, no paper, nothing else except for a good-sized chunk of stone. It boasts a plaque declaring it’s a piece of the fallen Berlin Wall.

  There are also two post-modern chairs and a closet.

  “The computer is in there,” Arnie insists.

  I use the finger skin to unlock the closet’s door. I do the same with the computer’s thumb scanner.

  Yes, it clicks into operating mode.

  “Where to from here?” I ask Arnie.

  After an endless series of commands, Arnie finally declares, “Now, put in your thumb drive, hit download, and we’re golden!”

  Done.

  I slip the thumb drive into a hidden pocket on my dress, and not a moment too soon, since Ernst is moaning.

  Damn it!

  By the time I turn around, he’s opened his eyes. Seeing me, he smiles—

  Until he realizes where we are.

  I run out of the closet toward the hall.

  Angered, Ernst staggers to his feet and charges at me. But before he can catch his breath, I pick up one of the chairs and fling it at him. He grunts when it wings his shoulder, but it barely slows him down. A high sidekick catches him in the gut, and he doubles over. Once again, I hightail it for the door, but he lunges at me, toppling me to the ground.

  Ernst grabs me around my waist then slams me against the floor-to-ceiling window. “Even at twenty-nine stories up, the architect thought a bit of fresh air would be appreciated.” Ernst flips a lever. The large window flings open.

  I find myself leaning out over six lanes of Wilshire Boulevard traffic. From this height, even the slightest breeze sounds as if you’re in a wind tunnel.

  I struggle, but Ernst has his full weight against me. “Beg for your life,” he hisses in my ear, “or, with one shove, you’re gone—whoosh! Just like that!”

  “Go to hell,” I spit.

  He hoists me higher through the window.

  I close my eyes, but I refuse to cry or speak, let alone beg.

  A hard slap to my ass accompanies Ernst’s laugh. “Your untimely demise can wait, ja?”

  He grabs me by my hair and jerks me back into the room. Apparently, he won’t let me deny him the one thing he has craved all night long.

  Ernst drags me to the desk. Heaving me onto it, he then shoves me down so hard that I hit the back of my head. I’m too stunned to move but I must. As he unzips his fly, I bend my legs. Then, with all my might, I kick him in the gut.

  He slams into the wall.

  I scramble off the desk, but he’s already charging my way. I have to find something—anything—I can use as a weapon:

  The Berlin Wall.

  With both hands and all my might I swing the jagged chunk of concrete against Ernst’s skull.

  Dazed, he drops to his knees.

  Instinctively, his hand reaches for his wound.

  Big mistake.

  Ernst gazes at the warm, thick blood on his fingers. Already, some of it has flowed onto his white shirt and turned it a bright scarlet.

  He staggers to his feet, but he’s too dizzy to do anything but go backward—

  Through the open window.

  By the time I reach it, his body is hurtling downward at such a high speed that a second later the cars below are screeching to a halt.

  Then, silence.

  Except for the wind.

  I get the hell out.

  As I enter the elevator, Arnie whispers, “His office had one heck of a view of the Hollywood sign! But I tell you—from that height, I got vertigo!”

  “You and me both,” I mumble. As the elevator rises, I feel as if my heart is going to burst.

  I head to a different suite on another floor of the hotel. Abu Nagashahi, another Acme operative, has already moved my things into it. He reserved the previous room under an alias. He’ll check out as soon as he’s done scrubbing away anything that might tie Jack or me to the room.

  Arnie has already erased me from any and all hotel security footage. Jack turned in his notice this morning.

  The moment I get into my new hotel room I upload the intel to Acme’s server.

  Then I throw up.

  Vertigo finally kicked in.

  When Jack finally comes into our room, he’s whistling. He doesn’t seem at all surprised to see me there. Yes, our bags are packed, but I lie on the bed in my robe.

  Jack points in the direction of Ernst’s suite. “How’s sleeping beauty?” he asks.

  “Clean up on Aisle Five,” I declare. “Well, more like a splatter on Wilshire Boulevard.”

  Hearing this, Jack raises a brow.

  “Long story,” I admit. “But not half as interesting as yours, I’ll bet.”

  “I doubt that.” He flops down on the bed beside me. “You know, Wera hated him and everyone else at Wagner Klein. From what she intimated, she knows the law firm has dirty hands.” He shakes his head. “She’s no friend of the Russians. Too much history between her people and theirs.”

  “With what she suspects, why didn’t she go to the Feds?”

  “She was afraid of being deported: not to Germany, but Russia. According to her, ‘The U.S. Government has been infiltrated at the highest level.’”

  “How did you loosen her up?” As if I didn’t already know.

  Propping himself up on one arm, Jack faces me. “I hit her hot button, alright.” He points to the television remote control and presses a button. We’re on the premium network that plays around-the-clock live soccer. “The true saving grace was that the Bundesliga was playing! Dortmund versus Leipzig. She’s a Zig’ger, of course.” He chuckles. “Otherwise I’d have had to find another way to, um, detain her.”

  “I doubt it would have been a rousing game of chess.” I roll on top of him. “Wera will be disappointed when she finds out you’ve turned in your notice. By the way, what did she say when she saw Ernst and me in the hallway?”

  “What any woman might: she called him a pig.” He smiles. “On the other hand, I simply suggested that you two get a room.”

  “Ugh! Hardly!” I declare. “I’m glad to be done with this mission.”

  “Really?” Jack shrugs. “I’ve got to admit there’s something I’ll miss about it.”

  “Oh?” I coo. “Do tell.”

  “This place has a lot of heavy tippers!” He pulls a wad of greenbacks from his pocket.

  I laugh. “I’m sure Ryan will think of some way to make it up to you.”

  “Frankly, I was hoping for a different sort of compensation and certainly not from Ryan.”

  I bat my lashes. “Such as?”

  Actions speak louder than words. Jack scoops me up in his arms and takes me into the bathroom. Apparently, the sunken tub had piqued his interest too.

  But I’ve beaten him to the punch. The Jacuzzi jet stream is gurgling. Candles flicker around it. And because I’ve added a couple of bath bombs, the scent of roses fills the air.

  Jack puts me down and pulls the sash on my silk robe.

  Noting his satisfied grin, I untie his tux bow and toss it away. Then I unbutton his shirt and pull it off. When I unzip his pants, I have reason to smile too.

  Once again, I find myself in Jack’s arms. He steps into the tub and eases me into the water.

  Does watching a sudden death make one delirious for life? I think so. It’s why my lips thirst for Jack’s.

  And why the mere thought of hi
m fills my eyes with tears.

  And why my heart swells with joy whenever he is in sight.

  I run my palm over his skin to reassure him that nothing is as important as him and me, both now and forever. My tongue moves to his earlobe, the cleft in his chin, his nipple. My fingertips follow: stroking lightly, probing gently.

  Jack groans as he tries to hold back the urge to reciprocate. He knows his time will come soon enough.

  When, finally, I move on top of him, he is more than ready to enter me. Still, he holds off. He gets too much joy from my gratification.

  He doesn’t disappoint. Even with his eyes closed, he remembers all my pleasure points. After putting me on my hands and knees, he moves his mouth from my neck to the small of my back. He cups my breasts before stiffening my nipples with his tongue. His fingers prod gently and deeply before opening me.

  Enraptured, I moan as he finally enters me. He gasps, delighted when I tighten around him.

  In no time, all our sensations are synchronized to his thrusts.

  Lust is that timeless interval between longing and penetration. Each piercing jolt brings anticipation. All pulsating sensations take your breath away. Every second must be savored, its memory stored away for those times when our lives are deadened by acts of inhumanity: those of others.

  And yes, our own.

  At least, at this moment, I think only of the here and now: the sky-high ecstasy, the deep-down bliss, and the all-enveloping love I share with my husband.

  Only after we crash back down to our reality do I remember:

  Tonight, I killed a man.

  Even before his fall, Ernst’s life was already ebbing from his body. Still, this doesn’t make me feel any better.

  A spy must kill or be killed. The stakes are always high, and the odds are invariably low.

  A successful mission must be savored. It too is an act of lust.

  So, why am I crying?

  Gently, Jack wipes away my tears, shushing me all the while.

  “It was that good, eh?” He’s teasing, of course.

  I’ll never tell him how bad it might have been.

  Instead, I vow, “Always.”

  2

  Citizen Journalism

  When untrained members of the public take to social media to report news, we hail their efforts as citizen journalism!

  If enough people see an article and it resonates with them, it catches the zeitgeist like an electric charge zapping dry kindling. Enough reposting on Instagram, SnapChat, and Facebook, along with a plethora of re-Tweets and mainstream media will notice too.

  First, the poster must capture the story with eloquence. Can this be done with a simple photo and caption, or in two hundred and eighty characters? A resounding yes!

  Next, the story must resonate with readers. To do so, it must leapfrog videos of piano-playing cats and clumsy dance moves. Think natural disaster, or inspiring moment, or (yes, sadly) act of terrorism. We are in awe of the first. Our heart fills with joy at the second, and we cry at the last. In any regard, our emotions are stirred.

  Finally, you must accept this new reality: you are the camera. You are the logical answer to the hypothetical question: If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

  Without us to bear witness, it never happened.

  “Hey, so guess who’s the new editor of the Hilldale High School Signal?” our son, Jeff, announces.

  Jack glances up from his iPad, where he’s reading today’s Washington Post. “Are you trying to tell us that congratulations are in order?”

  “If it earns me an extra pancake, heck, yeah!” Jeff nods toward the stove, where I stand watch over a griddle filled with hotcakes.

  Jack tousles Jeff’s hair. “Wow! I’m proud of you, son. These days, the Fourth Estate needs all the help it can get.”

  “We’re studying the U.S. Constitution in history class,” Trisha informs us. “Freedom of speech is written into the First Amendment. But I don’t understand why they call journalism the ‘Fourth Estate.’”

  When I look up to reward Trisha with a smile, I have to stifle my gasp instead. Her make-up is as polished as a supermodel's and as thick.

  Oh…no.

  Jack catches my eye. With a cough and a shake of his head, he warns me away from confronting our youngest daughter in front of the rest of the family.

  I nod and turn away. I realize I have to give Trisha some leeway now that she’s in the fifth grade. Still, our understanding was that meant clear or pink lip gloss or nail polish, not carte blanche access to her sister’s make-up case. Or worse yet, mine.

  Jack’s able to keep a straight face when he turns to address Trisha. “Historically, the three branches of our government—Legislature, Executive, and Judiciary—were considered the First, Second, and Third Estates. Because news organizations have acted as a check on all three of the branches, they’ve become known as the Fourth Estate.”

  “Unlike Russia or China, which only have state-sanctioned media, and are really mouthpieces for those governments,” Jeff adds.

  “But not all of our news outlets do a good job.” My aunt, Phyllis, points out. “They have to take advertising, so sometimes they don’t go in-depth in telling people the whole story.”

  I don’t know if she’s scowling because of her feelings about the media or because of her homemade green juice: a concoction of almond milk, pulverized kale, frozen berries, and a handful of carrots.

  And yes, it tastes as bad as it looks. She drinks it as part of her new “live forever” regimen. My guess is it won’t even last as long as the Thigh Master that’s collecting dust bunnies under her bed.

  “And some news outlets don’t fact-check either,” Jeff concedes. “A lot of TV and radio so-called news shows are a bunch of talking heads who shout blather at each other and call it news.”

  As I place a serving platter stacked tall with bacon on the table, I ask, “So, what are your plans for the paper, Jeff?”

  “Hard news only,” he assures me. “True investigative journalism! And our teacher advisor, Mr. Franklin, says I’m fully in charge of editorial decisions, including who gets on staff.”

  Mary, our eldest, looks up from her texting, with the love of her life, I presume: Evan Martin, who is now a freshman at UC Berkeley. “Wait! You convinced Mr. Franklin to make you the editor? But you’re just a freshman!”

  Jeff leans back on the banquet with a satisfied smile. “He knows talent when he sees it. I guess my social studies paper convinced him I was the right person for the job. I wrote about how commercialism has ruined journalism and scored an A-plus-plus.”

  Great grades are my crack. I fold my fingers into a heart and send it to Jeff with a kiss.

  “Mr. Franklin agrees with me that, from now on, we publish only in-depth articles that are fact-based and fact-checked.”

  “Booooring,” Mary grumbles without even looking up. “Trust me, Jeff. Without a society page or gossip column or anything that features the students themselves, no one will read the darn thing!”

  Her brother shakes his head. “Sure they will, if we tackle issues that are important to them.”

  Mary snorts. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  Jeff’s brow creases. “Well…for example, instead of just reporting that the gym got tagged this week and quoting Coach Everett as saying it’s a disgrace.”

  “Coach Everett’s exact words were that it was a damn disgrace, and if he finds out who did it, he’ll beat the kid to a bloody pulp,” Mary reminds him.

  “How do you know?” Jack asks.

  Mary snickers. “Because he bellowed it during my first-period volleyball class. Everyone in the gym heard him, so Jeff will have plenty of sources to fact-check.”

  “If I were already the editor, the Signal would have quoted him exactly,” Jeff responds. “Not only that, I’d have sent a reporter to track down who did it.”

  “And the poor sap would have gotten spray-painted by the taggers,”
Aunt Phyllis retorts.

  Jeff shrugs. “Journalism is a dangerous profession. But it shouldn’t stand in the way of the truth! The students have a right to know things, like what really goes into our cafeteria food and why the student parking lot has more expensive cars than those in the teachers’ lot.”

  “That’s because Hilldale parents spoil their children,” Aunt, Phyllis argues. “Anyone under the age of twenty-one shouldn’t be driving a brand spanking new Mercedes, Porsche, or Lexus.”

  Jeff nods fervently. “Exactly! And for that matter, if teachers were paid decent wages, they wouldn’t be driving ten-year-old second-hand cars. Hey, did you know that some of them are still paying off their student loans?”

  “I don’t think Hilldale High students want to hear you preach about how good they’ve got it,” Mary counters.

  “If they aren’t aware of economic issues now, they’ll soon be facing them,” Jeff says. “How much do you think college will cost by the time you’re there? Or me? Or Trisha?”

  “Well now, there goes my breakfast,” Jack mutters.

  Mary waves her bacon at him. “See? My point exactly! Who wants to read about horrible things? You should make the paper fun!” She leans back languidly. “Look Jeff, if this newspaper makeover of yours is going to work, you’re going to have to put honey on that gruel. What say I make it easy for you? If you like, I’ll be glad to be your lifestyle editor.”

  Mary is offering to help Jeff?

  As my eyes go to our eldest child, my spatula misses its opportunity to catch the pancake I’ve just catapulted into mid-air. One of our dogs, Lassie, is the beneficiary. Snatching it before it hits the ground, she’s out the dog door with her booty.

  Our other dog, Rin Tin Tin, looks hopefully at me.

  I shake my head. “Nope, sorry.”

  Mournfully, he whines as he follows her out.

  Jeff is smart enough to be suspicious too. “Why would you do that?”

  Mary shrugs. “If my college transcripts are going to stand out, I’ll need a few more electives.” Mary bats her eyes at me. “And who knows? Maybe it’ll help me earn a scholarship so that our parents won’t have to shell out so much next year.”