The Housewife Assassin's Handbook
Read The Housewife Assassin's Handbook Online
Authors: Josie Brown
Tags: #action and adventure, #Brown, #chick lit, #contemporary romance, #espionage, #espionage books, #funny mysteries, #funny mystery, #guide, #handy household tips, #hardboiled, #household tips, #housewife, #Janet Evanovich, #Josie Brown, #love, #love and romance, #mom lit, #mommy lit, #Mystery, #relationship tips, #Romance, #romantic comedy, #romantic mysteries, #romantic mystery, #Romantic Suspense, #Suspense, #Thriller, #thriller mysteries, #thrillers mysteries, #Women Sleuths, #womens contemporary
The Housewife Assassin’s Handbook
Murder. Suspense. Sex.
And some handy household tips.
A Novel
Josie Brown
© 2011 Josie Brown
© 2007 Josie Brown
All rights reserved
Published by Signal Press Books. [email protected]
V121914KBL
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 Please Read and Follow Directions Carefully…
Chapter 5 Divvying Up Household Chores
Chapter 7 Be the Life of the Party
Chapter 8 Starve a Fever, Feed a Cold
Chapter 11 Mattress Testing Tips
Chapter 12 Can She Make a Cherry Pie?
Chapter 13 Children Shouldn’t Play with Explosives
Chapter 14 Hostess with the Mostest
Chapter 15 Establishing a Good Neighbor Policy
Chapter 20 How to Make Your Bed
Chapter 23 Well-Balanced Meals
Chapter 24 Ring Around the Collar
NOVELS IN THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN SERIES
Chapter 1
Please Read and Follow Directions Carefully…
Any woman can be both the perfect housewife and an accomplished assassin, because both functions require the same qualities: creativity; a never-say-die attitude; and an attention to details, no matter how small…
All I really needed to know about being a freelance assassin I learned before my youngest daughter, Trisha, started kindergarten.
I’ve come to that realization as I lay naked and handcuffed to the bed of my target du jour, a sleazebag by the name of Yuri Petrovich.
Yuri has just downed a couple of Viagra with the last of his Starbucks venti-sized nonfat decaf caramel macchiato. This is to ensure us both that his attempt to mount me will have all the gusto of a broncobuster breaking in the wildest filly in the corral before heading on into the sunset. (In truth, we are in a hillside suite at the Chateau Marmont. But considering Yuri’s attitude toward women, the cowboyspeak sums things up quite nicely.)
Believe it or not, everything is going just as I planned, and right on schedule.
At least, that is what I tell myself as I watch him unzip his rock star-tight leather pants and squeeze out of them as quickly as he can because of his erection, which seems to be growing by the nanosecond and has him wincing in pain. (And in Yuri’s fantasy if anyone is going to say ouch, it’s going to be me.)
Like, say, eighty-eight percent of all my targets, this Russian mafia boss—who came here to unload a cache of AK-103s on some Idaho Neo-Nazis—has an obsessive-compulsive personality. In Yuri’s case, that means staying in the same suite at the Marmont every time he hits Los Angeles (although his Slavic accent and pockmarked greaser looks have hardly earned him an iota of the ass-kissing accorded aging rock stars, budding celebutantes, or out-of-town British actors); doing the down-and-dirty with some rent-a-whore, both before and after the arms sale; and drinking macchiatos nonstop, even during his favorite sex act, that Kama Sutra position euphemistically called “the ostrich’s tail.” (Don’t ask, because you really don’t want to know.)
I work for Acme Industries, one of the many CIA-sanctioned subcontractors that handle any and all dirty tricks that won’t pass a Congressional panel sniff test. My mission is simple:
Take Yuri down.
Here’s my to-do list:
First, I was to stall on the sex until the skinheads showed up. Done.
Next, I was to plant a GPS system on one of them, so that ATF can track and apprehend them during the pick-up. Check.
And finally, as a show of tit-for-tat diplomacy with Uncle Sam’s publicly acknowledged BFF, Russia, I’m to see to it that Yuri never leaves his hotel room alive.
All in good time, dearie. All in good time.
In fact, all of this is supposed to be accomplished before three o’clock, the time at which I have to pick up my ten-year-old, Jeff, and a carload of his teammates for an after-school baseball game. Otherwise I’d have to face the wrath of two other mothers for having blown the team’s shot at taking the county title without a playoff game—
This is why I pray that the 405 isn’t a nightmarish backup by the time I head home.
From the moment he landed stateside, Yuri’s cell phone calls were monitored. The one to his favorite LA escort service was rerouted to an Acme phone operative, who scheduled Yuri a date with “Precious.” (A suitable alias, seeing how I’m trussed up in a push-up bra, a low-cut tank top, and the tight denim micro miniskirt I raided from my twelve-year-old daughter Mary’s closet. My gut told me that Yuri would not have appreciated my own Lily Pulitzer twill.)
The fact that I showed up an hour after the appointed time put me just a few minutes ahead of the Neo-Nazis: perfect timing in my book, since it foiled his plan for a little pre-sale foreplay.
Needless to say, Yuri was miffed at me for ruining his timetable. To make this point, he pushed me up against the wall, kicked my legs apart, and frisked me roughly. Really, it was more of a test-the-merchandise fondle.
Anticipating that maneuver, I’d left my trusty 9mm at home. That’s okay. In my hooker getup there was no place to hide it anyway, which is why these kinds of close range hits are always tricky. And it’s why I get paid the big bucks.
For this job, my weapon of choice was a tiny, serrated dagger that is appropriately called the “street assassin.” However, I’m willing to bet that Yuri and I won’t be anywhere near asphalt when I strike, but between some very expensive 700-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
What a waste. I wonder if the hotel knows that little trick about using meat tenderizer on bloodstains. Not that I planned on sticking around to find out.
I shrugged off his grope with a giggle. “Yeah, the service warned me how much you love a little foreplay, so I brought these along.” Still spread-eagled, I unhooked pair of handcuffs from the metal belt slung low over my skirt, and jangled them tantalizingly in front of him, in case he needed additional proof that I was his fantasy fuck. That shut him up. It also kept him from noticing my dagger, which hangs as innocuously as any of the buckles on my belt: a great way to fool metal detectors, which, believe it or not, are sometimes used by the bad guys, too.
Then to make sure I had his undivided attention, I rubbed the all too obvious bulge in his jeans with one hand and nodded approvingly, while relieving him of his Starbucks cup with the other. As I took a swig from it, one of his two goons snickered out loud.
Yuri’s eyes blazed at my impudence. He lifted his hand to slap me but was stopped by a sharp knock on the door.
The skinheads. Perfect timing.
“Jeez, nobody said it was going to be a party! But hey, I’m open to anything – as long as you cleared it with my service.” I handed the cup back to him, sauntered over to the couch, and flopped down as if I owned the place.
While Yuri’s goons frisked the two Neo-Nazis, I crossed my legs seductively and leaned over so that my cleavage runneth over in plain view for all to enjoy. No doubt about it, the skinheads were appreciative. The fatter, uglier one even had the balls to ask me if my boobs were real.
“Wanna come over here and find out?” I crooked a finger at Ugly. As he pulled me onto his lap, I copped my own feel: under the collar of his military fatigue jacket, where I planted a tiny GPS bug.
Seeing me all over Ugly made Yuri even hotter to be done with the business portion of his trip. He yanked me off his guest and shoved me in the direction of the bedroom.
“No party. You wait in there,” he growled.
I pulled him close for a deep kiss. Then, as a reminder of all the fun and games I had in store for us, I handed him the key to the handcuffs. That was all the incentive he needed to get rid of the skinheads
tout de suite
. He closed the door fast, which was fine with me. The tranquilizer I’d slipped into his macchiato before giving it back to him (a time-release version of Rohypnol) was to kick in sometime within fifteen minutes. I was estimating that he’d need about ten to get rid of the boys, which would leave me five to stall before he fell on his face, making it easy to slit his throat before hightailing it out of there.
The minute he shut the door, I set up for the kill. First I snapped on a pair of gloves – black lace from fingertips to the elbows. Sexy, for sure (in fact, they match my G-string) but because they are lined in a microthin flesh-toned latex, I won’t be leaving any telltale prints. As I expected, the sliding door to the terrace outside the bungalow was locked and the curtains were pulled, which allowed for complete privacy from the outside. After disabling the alarm with the tiny decoder I keep on my key ring, I went ahead and unlocked the sliding door so that when the time was right I could make a quick getaway.
I wasn’t worried about the handcuffs since they were the kind used by magicians and I’d only need a strategic jerk of the wrist to break free. Even if the roofie didn’t kick in before Yuri snapped them onto my wrists, I’d be able to get out of them in only a few seconds.
Finally, I slipped the knife under the mattress, near the right side of the headboard. I’d retrieve it when the time was right.
As Minute Eight slipped by, I heard a door close on the other side and guessed rightly that Yuri had said bye-bye to his new skinhead pals. During Minute Nine, Yuri instructed his homeboys not to disturb us no matter how much moaning I was doing – and he planned for me to be doing a lot of it.
Then, as predicted, Yuri opened the door ten minutes after he’d left me. Locking it behind him, he smilingly approvingly at my state of total undress: my only attire was my G-string, stilettos, and the lace gloves.
I was somewhat surprised that he wasn’t at least yawning by now. Apparently he has the constitution of a rhino. I was hoping that I wouldn’t find out if he had the staying power of one as well. It was then that I noticed that the Starbucks cup was still in his hand...
Damn! Hadn’t he finished that thing yet? Okay, no big deal. So I’d have to stall for another minute or two.
To put that thought out of my mind, I envisioned the kill instead: watching his eyes grow drowsy from the drug – or if necessary, closed in the ecstatic throes of passion – yanking my hands free, and then reaching under the mattress for the knife…
Yuri wrongly assumed that my sigh was in anticipation of what he pulled from his leather jacket’s pocket: my handcuffs. “Okay, bitch. On the bed.”
Obediently I dropped onto it and grasped the middle finials on the vine-patterned headboard. As he slapped on the cuffs, he stifled a yawn. (Yes! Yes! Finally!) To keep alert, he took a long sip of his macchiato. Then, as if remembering something, Yuri pulled something out of an inner pocket of his jacket…
Ah yes, the perfect pre-sex appetizer: Viagra.
Humph. I wondered what effect that might have on the roofie…
Now that Yuri’s striptease is over, it seems I have my answer: not only does the Rohypnol appear to have been neutralized by his little blue devil, it seems to have accelerated his hard-on–
And from the look of things, it acted as a growth hormone to boot.
Not good. At least, not while I’m in my current position: by that I mean naked, chained to his bed, and about to be mounted like a prize rodeo steer.
But Yuri is in no hurry. Nonchalantly, he ambles over to the built-in armoire and takes a two-foot-long velvet box from the top drawer, which he lays down beside me with a smirk. Then, opening it slowly, he pulls out–