The Housewife Assassin's Greatest Hits Page 21

  “What if she tries it again?” I ask him.

  She will. Lee, you know it too…

  He shakes his head. “She won’t. She now realizes that I know the score.” His lips rise into a grimace. “We’ll soon find out if the adage, ‘Hold your friends close and your enemies closer,’ rings true.” He squeezes my hand. “And if it doesn’t, you’ll save me—again.”

  Yes, I will.

  And then, I’ll kill Babette.

  When I rise to take my leave, Lee gets up as well. He hugs me as if he wishes time would stand still.

  It won’t. We both know it.

  I long to go home, but I have one more stop.

  23

  Let Me Rest in Peace

  Sung by James Marsters. Music and lyrics by Joss Whedon.

  The song was never released as a single. However, it was part of the 2002 soundtrack album made up of the fourteen songs written for the only musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, “Once More with Feeling.” The album reached #49 on the Billboard “200” chart; and #3 on the Billboard “Top Soundtracks.”

  The TV episode, celebrated by fans and industry reviewers, was the third-most watched show that week, and is credited with influencing other TV series to “put on a show.” Sadly, although the episode was nominated for an Emmy for “Outstanding Musical Direction,” the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences forgot to include it on the ballots sent to its members. And, unfortunately, the make-good postcard to voters did not help it win.

  That’s okay. For several years after, Buffy’s rabid fans flocked to public sing-alongs—until the Screen Actors Guild sued the network for licensing the events. Ah, well. Thank goodness for online clips of the show!

  Does a corpse get to rest in peace? Hardly!

  Decomposition—the breakdown of a dead body—is an ongoing process, especially when it lies a-moulderin’ in the grave.

  To help it along, bacteria, maggots, and other organisms that have used the body as a host while the body was alive are now having a field day in the decay. Talk about a feast!

  As for the soul, it too goes through a different kind of reckoning. Until we die, we don’t really find out if there is a heaven, promised land, Valhalla, etcetera—

  Which is the best reason to live each day as if it were your last.

  “Has he come to?” I ask.

  Although Jack’s eyes are open and he’s seated upright in a chair in Eric’s hospital room, he’s so exhausted that his head jerks up before he focuses in my direction.

  Whereas Acme has the job of interrogating Eric when and if he awakens from his coma, outside the door, two NSA agents are standing guard.

  From the look of Eric’s medical chart—not to mention his battered body and unconscious state—that’s a big if.

  Eric’s head is wrapped up in bandages. The prosthetic mask he used to pass for Jack is in my husband’s hand. Its empty eyes stare up at me like an eerie death mask.

  As Jack stretches, he mutters, “No, not yet. How did your ‘errand’ go?”

  “It wasn’t fully successful,” I admit. “Although I got Babette to admit that she conspired with Scarlett and Eric to murder POTUS, Lee refuses to do anything about it.”

  “Well, what do you know?” Jack murmurs.

  “You sound surprised.”

  He shrugs. “I guess I am.”

  “At which part? That she wanted him dead, or that he’s letting her skip on it?”

  “Personally, I wouldn’t mind if he met with an unfortunate incident, so no surprises there.”

  “I wish you didn’t hate him so much!”

  “And I wish he wasn’t so fucking hot to have you,” Jack counters. “As for his being in denial about Babette’s true feelings for him, no surprise there, either.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He shrugs. “She knows he pines after you. That’s enough to make any spouse furious.”

  “But furious enough to kill him?”

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought of it myself,” he mutters.

  I tap the prosthesis in his hand. “Hey, if she’d had her way, you might have taken the fall, what with Eric masquerading around as you.”

  Jack nods. “At least now we know why he was able to roam around Capitol Hill without being stopped, let alone arrested.” He stuffs the mask into the pocket of his jacket. “Souvenir,” he explains gruffly. “I presume you’re here to take your shift. I’ll leave you to it.” He puts on his jacket and heads for the door.

  “Jack—wait! Please! We need to…to kiss and make up.”

  My plea stops him cold. And yes, he laughs at how I put it. But it’s a heartless, cold chuckle that implies his total disdain for my request.

  He doesn’t even turn around as he growls, “Sorry, not this time.” He shrugs. “I can’t save you from yourself, Donna. I’ve tried. At the very least, I can save myself from you.”

  I have no answer to that. After what I almost did to him, he’s right.

  “How disappointing! I was hoping to enjoy your make up sex—vicariously, of course.” Eric’s lustful whisper shocks me awake.

  Or am I?

  He stands beside me, but he’s also in the bed, so I have the answer to my question. The beeps from the monitors surrounding comatose Eric are few and far between.

  Eric's soul sees my grimace and shrugs. “It’s a shame you weren’t successful in enticing Mr. Craig because, as you see, I don’t have much time.”

  “Every act of kindness counts…over there.” He knows I mean the Afterlife. “Perhaps, if you answer my questions, the lives saved will count for something—”

  His laugh echoes through the room. "Ha! I don't kiss and tell. But if you kiss, I'll tell."

  Ewwww…

  But hey, it's worth it.

  I mean, it better be.

  He leans in. When his lips touch mine, they are cold with lust and longing.

  Our connection allows me to see deep into his soul. I do my best not to pull away, but what I find there repulses me: torturous couplings devised to shred my skin and destroy my soul.

  While the stench of his brand on me sears my thigh, he longs to hear me plead for mercy. As he carves his initials in me, I’m to beg for my life. He punches the bullet hole in my gut and laughs when I scream in pain.

  He has one fantasy, however, that makes me chuckle: when he rapes me, I’m supposed to enjoy it.

  As if.

  Insulted at my reaction, he pulls back. “I take it I went too far?” he asks stiffly.

  “I'm supposed to enjoy it too? Tsk, tsk, Eric Weber! You certainly have an over-active imagination!”

  One of his monitors hiccups wildly—not a good sign.

  “How about we move on to the Q&A portion of the visit?” I ask.

  Eric nods.

  “So tell me: how and when did you get your hands on the satchel holding the nuclear codes?”

  “Not the satchel itself, dear Donna. But the aluminum case within.” He shrugs. “Those things all look alike.”

  “I stand corrected. So, I take it you swapped out one case for another?”

  “Go to the head of the class!” He nods admiringly. “Of course, the codes in the fake one won’t launch any missiles. However, POTUS would have certainly racked up points in a few MPP games—Keep Talking, and Nobody Explodes, for one. I hear it’s quite popular.”

  “You still haven’t answered the question of how the case fell into your hands.”

  “Not exactly the best way to describe it,” he retorts. “Like you, Scarlett had numerous talents. One was keeping POTUS’s security detail well-hydrated while he slept on Air Force One on his last trip from Lion’s Lair to the White House. Some sleight of hand put them to sleep for as long as it took for her to make the slip.”

  “She would have needed the code to unlock the satchel,” I counter.

  “Good point! You see, that’s where the conniving Mrs. Chiffray came in.”

  I shake my head in awe.
“What was Babette’s skin in your game?”

  “You mean, besides her usual fifteen percent fee of the proceeds from an auction attended by your country’s sworn enemies?” He giggles gleefully. “A more appropriate term would be ‘ounce of flesh’.” He places his hand over my wound. “Yours.”

  Now I know: Babette ordered my hit.

  “You acted as the middle man with my assassins,” I murmur.

  “I felt it was a fair trade,” he admits.

  “Who rigged the bomb in the EEOB’s tunnel?”

  “Another of Scarlett’s specialties. Our IT contact loosened the necessary security precautions that allowed her to do so. It would have added an additional layer of terror to POTUS’s hit. Ah, well. Not all great schemes come to fruition.”

  I shudder when I think of how many innocent people would have been killed.

  Time to round up those seeking to do the greatest harm of all. “I suppose the auction’s bidders include Russia and China?” I ask. “Can we also expect North Korea? Iran? How about Pakistan?”

  “All of the above. A couple of minor players as well, but we anticipated they’d drop out after an initial bid or two.”

  “Are our enemies still awaiting word on where and when the auction will take place?”

  “Yes,” he mutters. “Mrs. Craig, you’re exacting a high price for that kiss.”

  “I hope you feel it was worth it.”

  “I have my doubts,” he admits.

  “Don’t be cruel, Eric. It’s so not like you… Oh, wait! It is just like you! Now, I’ll need the intel on your contacts and your crew.”

  “So much for my grand resurrection.” Eric sighs. “I was staying at the Hay-Adams. The Presidential Suite.”

  “Under what name?”

  He laughs. “Why, Jack’s of course!” His monitors are now working overtime. “Anything else, darling Donna?”

  “I think that covers it…” I frown. “Eric, I just want to say…”

  His eyes soften at my hesitation. I start again: “You’ll fit right in.”

  What else can one say?

  He’s gone, but I’m sure he heard me.

  I make my exit as the crash team rushes in.

  24

  Come Fly with Me

  Performed by Frank Sinatra. Composed by Jimmy Van Heusen, with lyrics by Sammy Cahn. It was the title track of Sinatra’s 1958 album, and spent five weeks in the #1 slot on the Billboard “200” chart.

  Specifically written for Sinatra, the song was a standard in this incomparable singer’s concert repertoire, and was prominently featured in at least twelve feature films, including Catch Me If You Can.

  When in an airplane’s economy class, here is one simple rule of airplane etiquette: have respect for your fellow passengers’ personal space.

  For example:

  Don’t steal another’s assigned seat. After all, the seats are all alike (too small for your bum, let alone your legs) and they take off and land at the same time—almost always, anyway. (If not, you’ve got bigger problems than your seat assignment.)

  Don’t recline your seat. Doing so impinges on the personal space of the person behind you. You may argue, “Well, how am I supposed to relax?” I will counter: “You’re not. You’re on an airplane.” Unless your seat can fully recline—without putting you in the lap of the person behind you—stay awake until you land.

  (Doing so means you can jump up quickly and get out of that tin can faster than your fellow “bent out of shape” passengers.)

  Don’t fart. Why? you ask. Because everyone who smelt it will know you dealt it. You will become the pariah of the economy class cabin.

  Suggestion: Consider buying a first class ticket! With the price you paid, in this rarefied air, if you feel a fart coming on, you’re free to let it fly. The attendants will pretend they smell roses.

  “More bubbly, Mr. Kahoon?” I smile up at the Pakastani military colonel as I hold out a tray of Baccarat flutes filled with the Moët & Chandon Dom Pérignon White Gold.

  Javed Kahoon leans forward from the plush captain’s chair in this tricked out Fokker 70 and grabs a glass. He has yet to leave his seat. He was sent by the Pakistan Intelligence Bureau to bid on the nuclear football, and like all the other bidders, he’s hoping to end up with the prize to trump all prizes: our country’s nuclear codes.

  After gulping down his drink, he mutters, “How long before the bidding starts?”

  I look at the elegant Calatrava Patek Phillippe watch on my wrist, pretending to gauge his question as it pertains to the reality of this little sting operation. “We just reached cruising altitude five minutes ago, so it should be any moment now,” I murmur soothingly.

  Apparently, my promise does little to assure him. Still nervous, he turns and stares out the closest porthole.

  What Javed is looking at is a looped digital image of Montenegro’s skyline projected on a paper-thin vinyl screen. Now and then, Acme’s pilot, George Taylor, tilts the wings of the slick private jet just enough to give the impression that we’re circling this tiny country’s airspace until the last bid has been accepted. Montenegro’s lack of extradition agreement with anyone made it an acceptable locale for all the bidders.

  In truth, our final destination is a mere forty-five minutes away: the U.S. Army Camp Bondsteel, which is located in Ferizaj, Kosovo. There, our guests will be held as bargaining chips with the countries that sought to ruin our nuclear defense.

  Acme had less than a day to come up with a viable plan.

  As Eric promised, the list of interested parties was found on a memory card in his room at the Hay Adams. It was taped to the last page of a German-language version of Kafka’s Metamorphosis.

  It took Arnie several hours to decipher it. The card also had the names and contacts of Eric’s outside team—yes, Scarlett was among them—as well as the freelancer who released the ransomware and hacked the security systems. He’s based in Germany. The BND is already beating the bushes for the guy.

  Emma then took the names of the bidding countries and pulled their operatives’ bona fides. Along with Kahoon, we’re hosting a Russian named Anatoly Popov, who uses his journalistic credentials as a cover for international travel. Also on board is Gong Kwang-Min, a North Korean operative who poses as a South Korean IT student at Cambridge.

  China’s bidder is the financial industrialist Wen Li, and Iran’s Hassan Nouri is his government’s senior technology engineer.

  It was my idea to hold the auction on an airborne jet. Ryan immediately realized the value in this ploy: no weapons would be allowed onboard, and every inch of the plane is under recorded surveillance to provide the undeniable proof of their participation in the Quorum’s scheme.

  Dominic is our auctioneer. Abu plays bartender while Arnie acts as the cabin steward, circling our guests with delectable tidbits. While doing so, he’s also hacking and scanning the cellular data on their mobile phones.

  And I’m the assistant-slash-eye candy to the event’s host: the Quorum’s CEO, Eric.

  Really, it’s Jack. I can barely stand to look at him today—not just because it sickens me to know how he feels about me, but because he’s now fitted with prostheses that make him look like Eric, whom all parties have met and are expecting to conduct the auction.

  When Ryan proposed it, Jack snickered. “Talk about quid pro quo! I only wish I’d known that the Presidential Suite at the Hay Adams was waiting for me.”

  He would have gone without me. Not that I blame him after my blackout attack on him and the damage I did to his doppelgänger, Eric.

  At the moment, Jack is speaking in German to Anatoly. When his eye catches mine, I shift my gaze to Javed so that he too can see that the natives are getting restless.

  After giving the Russian’s back a firm pat, Jack makes his way to the podium where Dominic stands, gavel in hand. He’s still laughing uproariously at Anatoly’s request—

  Which must have something to do with me because the Russian winks suggestive
ly at me.

  Smiling, I wink back.

  My role here is to stroke egos. Thank goodness this flight is too short for Mile High hanky-panky—

  Did Jack lead Anatoly to believe otherwise? Why the nerve of him…

  “Welcome, one and all!” Jack’s pronouncement, made in English, perfectly mimics Eric’s tone and Germanic inflections. “Despite the pleasantries, snacks, and libations, we are here for a bigger purpose.” He points to me. “Lola, my beautiful assistant, will hand out the handheld devices from which your anonymous bids will be recorded.”

  The devices are also registering their fingerprints and scanning for facial recognition: all part of collecting the evidence we’ll need to prove their participation in the theft of vital U.S. intelligence.

  “As previously discussed, the opening bid begins at a billion dollars,” Jack continues. “We anticipate it will rise rapidly from there. All bids will be projected on the monitor to the right of our auctioneer.” In a move that was classic Eric, Jack opens his arms wide in a gesture of inclusion. “Gentleman, your bids are now welcomed."

  No surprise: thanks to Anatoly and Wen Li, the bids leapfrogged beyond those of Javed and Hassan Nouri.

  Gong Kwang-Min hung in there for as long as he could, but even he couldn’t keep pace. Seeing his distress, going home may not now be a survivable option. He may actually welcome a long stay at Bonesteel.

  The final bid was Anatoly’s. Like his Chinese and Iranian counterparts, his blank countenance doesn’t give away his status as the victor.

  The plane has started its descent. Although the guests have taken their seats, Arnie, Abu, and I are still plying them with their favorite drinks.

  When I reach Javed, he waves me away. His dejection is no secret. He slumps down in his chair, glaring out the porthole—

  But then something catches his attention. His head swivels up, toward the cabin’s interior. Turning back to the porthole, his eyes widen as he scratches at it.