The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing (26 page)

My cell in the Santa Monica hoosegow could do with a little sprucing up, but my roomies, Big Bitch Bitsy and Shitfaced Leona, would get in my face and threaten me with some smackdown should I even consider rearranging their fine collection of Chippendales trading cards, which has been stuck onto the concrete wall with Bubblicious.

I’ve been in this hellhole for the past seven hours. I don’t plan on staying here another night. Still, Bitsy (whereas she uses this as a surname, I don’t want to disrespect her by calling her by the much less bestie-friendly Big or Bitch) is no fool. She sees me eyeing the bottom bunk near the window, and wants to set me straight up front that it’s hers. Bitsy’s fist goes for my nose. To her surprise, I’m able to stop it with my stiffened palm, and twist her arm out behind her, which is all it takes to warn her that not only sticks and stones, but pressure in the right spot, is all it takes to break her bones. Being raised by gentlefolk, I release her with a warning that doesn’t mar the reputation of the woman who bore her, or reference some embarrassing part of her anatomy. 

You’d think she’d take the hint that I’m not someone she should be messing with, but no. 

The long shadows cast by our cell’s fugly fluorescent overhead light tip me off that she’s about to stab me with a shiv made from a metal spring from Leona’s bunk. A roundhouse kick to Bitsy’s gut sends her reeling backward into the wall. I cram her head against it with my version of a Vulcan Mind Meld, where pressure points in three key spots on her cranium has Bitsy repeating every word I say. “I will act like a lady at all times. I will share with my bunkmates. I will talk in a lady-like voice. I won’t use my nasty pottymouth.”

Works every time. Thank you, Mr. Spock.

“Tsk, tsk. Is that any way to make friends and influence enemies?”

I turn around to find Jack smiling at me from just beyond the bars. So, that was the reason for the salacious whistles and catcalls coming from the other cells. Usually, it’s for a new prisoner, or as they call them here, “fresh meat.” This time it’s for six-feet-two-inches of prime beefcake in an Armani suit. 

I wave gaily at him. Okay, it’s more like a middle-finger salute. “’Bout damn time you got here. If it’s going to take you seven hours to drive a whole two miles, why do you own a Lamborghini?”

“Because the girls love it.” Noting my raised brow and Bitsy’s shiv in my hand has him rethinking his answer. “In all seriousness, Ryan and I are having a hell of a time convincing the local authorities that you didn’t kill Edwina. It doesn’t help that your prints are the only ones on the murder weapon.”

“But I explained that to the SWAT guys! It was in my hand when Breck and I wrestled for it, and he twisted my arm so that it was pointing at her when he squeezed the trigger.”

“Likely story,” mutters Leona, through her drunken stupor.

I peel her favorite Chippendale off the wall and tear it in half. She whimpers, but takes the hint that she better keep mum in front of my gentleman caller. 

Jack shakes his head at my cruelty. “It doesn’t help that the security video shows you as coming out of the House of Mirrors right after Breck got shot in there.”

Suddenly, it looks like I’ll have the time to complete a full makeover of my jail cell.

I smack the bars between us with my fist. “Oh my God! If I end up in jail for Edwina’s murder, Carl will be given custody of the kids! I’ve got to get out of this mess!”

“Don’t worry about Carl. The files Edwina left behind have put him back on the Watch List, and Breck, too for that matter. Unfortunately, Carl left with Asimov’s contingent before we could stop him.”

“Well, that’s some relief.” I feel tears forming in my eyes. “What have you told the children about my absence?”

“Just that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunately, your arrest made the news in a big way. The police leaked Breck’s version of it. Needless to say, all of Hilldale is buzzing about it. Penelope and her posse actually believe that you’re jealous of Babette. Mrs. Breck’s silence on the topic isn’t helping matters.”

“Figures she’d be toeing his party line.” I shake my head in disgust. “Breck is a member of the Quorum. For that alone, we’ve got to bring him back. Seriously, Jack, what are we going to do?”

“We just have to wait it out, for however long it takes.” He looks down at his watch “Which should be about… now.”

For just a few seconds, all the lights in the jail flash. 

Jack looks down the hall. Seeing that the two guards have been distracted by the shouts of the cellmates over this disruption of their routine, he slips me a small bag through the bars.

“That was Arnie,” he mutters, just barely loud enough for me to hear. “He’s just put their security feed on a loop. It’ll run for a couple of hours. In the meantime, this spray turns these two into sleeping beauties. If need be, you can use the spray on the guards, too, but I think the diversion Arnie is causing in Cell Block C will keep them busy for awhile. We guessed at the uniform size. The smart card gets you through every door in this joint. Abu and I will be waiting down the block in his ice cream truck.”

I give him a thumbs up. I wish I could kiss him, but I don’t want to make my roomies jealous. 

I’m just glad he’s kept his shirt on, and he’s kept his bowtie and French cuffs at home.

Chapter 23

How to Have a Beach’ing Par-TAY!

An outdoor party is always a welcomed change of pace! Forego the backyard barbecue for something a little more adventurous, like a clambake at the beach. 

Set your coals in the sand and fire them up. When they’re white-hot, they’re ready for a galvanized tub lined with seaweed. Fill with two pounds of clams, a half a dozen pounds of small red potatoes, some white wine, and a dozen ears of corn wrapped in tin foil. Cover the tub with wet burlap, and keep the top wet so that the food steams up nice, and you’ll have quite a feast!

Afterwards, any out-of-line guests can do a walk of shame—over the hot coals, of course.

Misfit Quay is the smallest gem on the necklace of islands, which make up Turks and Caicos. It is also the one farthest south and west: so close to our government’s Guantánamo Bay Detention Camp, on Cuba. I’ve no doubt the prisoners there could see it, if their cells had windows.

If Gitmo’s tortures were seen online, I wonder if the number of Internet hits would be as high as those for the Island of Misfit Sluts. 

My guess is that it would come close.

We’re just a half mile off Misfit Quay’s south shore, in a three-man submarine. From here, we can easily see that what Breck calls his “sand castle” is really a full-blown palatial retreat. 

From Acme’s fixed-position satellite, we can monitor everyone on the property who shows up as infrared hot spots: the sixteen guards on their surveillance wall posts and all entries and exits, and another six warm bodies inside its various control rooms. 

The master bedroom is easy to find. It’s on the very top floor of the retreat. Its large terrace has a straight-on view of the splendid tropical sunsets. 

We detect the auras of three hotspots inside the room. One can be seen spread-eagled against a wall. Another image can be made out, curled against a bench. Their torturer moves between them. When he strikes with the instrument in his hand, they flinch. 

I can only imagine their screams.

I force my gaze from this scrim of terror in order to scrutinize it for our entry point. Finally I spot some sort of pipe, which runs under the retreat’s main building. Every fifteen minutes or so—perhaps it’s sewage, or maybe runoff from the property’s numerous freshwater ponds and pool—cascades from it, creating a waterfall against a two-story wall of natural rocks. 

I point it out to Jack.

“Yep, that’s our way in,” he murmurs.

We leave the submarine anchored in a thatch of mangroves around a hundred feet from this manmade falls, then grope our way up the rocky slope until we reach the water pipe. 

When the flow seems to trickle to a stop, Jack nods to me. “Ladies first.”

That is such a fucked-up notion in so many ways. Climbing a wet rock wall is one of them.

There are only two guards between Breck and us, both on the floor below his bedroom penthouse suite. 

They go down without knowing what hit them: a bullet through the heart.

What we haven’t counted on is that the elevator doors open into the center of the room. Granted, they do so with a slight whooshing sound, then close just as quickly. 

The only thing that keeps Breck from looking up is that he’s having too much fun fucking one of his captives on her hands and knees, doggie style. It is Antoinette. When she moans, he twists the harness in her mouth so that her neck snaps back, causing her to cry out even louder.

“What took you so long?” Breck says. 

Jack and I look at each other. Apparently, Breck is expecting someone else. The more the merrier would be typical of Breck’s perverted sexual appetite. 

We better move quickly.

Jack motions me to stand directly behind Breck. I nod and move into position, training my gun on the back of his head while Jack sidles up behind the girl strapped to the wall which curves just beyond the elevator circular bank. It is Serena. She’s sobbing, and her back is stripped to a bloody pulp. He touches her gently, on her bicep. When she looks up, he puts a finger to his lips as he unties one wrist tether, then the other, before loosening the straps around her ankles. He then gives me the high sign before stepping back behind the rounded elevator shaft, and out of sight.

I nod back, then shout, “Get off of her, Breck.” 

Breck turns around. When he sees me, the color leaves his face. “What the hell?”

“I said get off of her.”

I hate the way he smiles at me, as if I’m joking. To prove I’m not, I shoot at his foot, missing it deliberately. 

Yep, he gets the point now. He raises his hands and rises slowly.

If only I could knock that shit-eating grin off his face.

He glances at the elevator. Then back to me again. “Finally! Now, do what you should have done back at Lion’s Lair and kill this bitch.”

I turn toward the elevator to find Carl standing there.

I’m sure I look as if I’ve seen a ghost. 

“Sorry, hon, but he’s got a point. You can be such a bitch.” He cocks his gun and pulls the trigger. His head tilts toward me, as if a nod of sympathy makes up for five and half years of living hell.

It can’t. But the bullet that slams into Breck’s forehead is a step in the right direction. 

Then I remember that I needed Breck to ruin Carl. Yeah, that wipes the smile off my face, and fast.

“What the hell are you doing here?...And what the hell did you do that for?”

“Just cleaning house. Once I heard Edwina gave you a memory drive with all those files, I knew this would be your next stop. Breck was such a pussy. He’d have turned Witness Protection after an hour of jail time.” He looks around the corner, where Jack and Serena stand—

Stood. They’re gone now.

Carl’s next bullet is for Antoinette. It hits her squarely between the eyes. She dies with a gasp, collapsing onto the bed. Her dead eyes stare up at me.

“Damn you, Carl! You had to kill her, too?”

“Collateral damage. You know how the game’s played.”

“Yeah, I know.” I kneel beside Antoinette. Gently I close her eyes. Then I stand and turn to him. “Am I going to be collateral damage, too?”

He tilts his head in sympathy. “Like I said, you know how the game is played.”

“How could you? I’m the mother of your children!”

“An inconvenient truth. You’re also standing between me and full custody of my little darlings.”

“I’m willing to share joint custody.” I smile hopefully when I say this.

 “Sorry, but I’m not.” He points his gun at my head.

Even the waves crashing on the rocks below seem to go silent at the sound of Jack cocking the trigger of his gun.

Carl turns fast, but he’s too late. Jack’s bullet bores a hole black and deep into his shoulder that turns candy apple red within seconds.