The Housewife Assassin's Deadly Dossier (23 page)

“Look, I’m sorry she told them that way. I know how hard it’s been for you.”
 

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Her words were cool, her smile frigid.

She was calling his bluff.

“You know we’re doing everything we can. Seriously, Donna, I wish I could do more–” As Ryan paused, his eyes shifted away.
 

She tensed up.
 

Wow, thought Jack, considering Ryan’s poker face, she’s certainly pretty good at reading body language.
 

“–Particularly since I’ve been ordered to stop Carl’s paychecks after next month.” Ryan shifted uneasily in the café’s hard plastic chair. “You see, because of all the recent terror threats, other things have taken priority–”

Donna sat still for a moment as that sunk in.
 

But she didn’t break out in tears, or even shout angrily at him.

Instead she let loose with a humorless laugh. “Well, well, isn’t that the cherry on the cake of my day! So tell me, Ryan: just what am I supposed to do now? Sell the house, get some secretarial job, and put my kids in after-school daycare?” Her questions were laced in acid.

Jack remembered the estimate she received for Mary’s braces, as well as the bill she got from Jeff’s podiatrist for his orthotics. And with Carl never having been declared dead, a widow’s pension wasn’t in her future, either.

“Frankly, I for one think that would be an incredible waste of your natural talents.” Ryan paused then added, “Why not come and work for me?”

“You’re being funny, right?” If so, Donna wasn’t laughing.
 

Jack hoped that meant she wasn’t considering it, either.

Ryan shook his head. “I’m being perfectly serious, Donna. I’ve got a gut feeling that you’d make a pretty good field op. First of all, you’re in great shape, and you’re a crack shot–”

She frowned. “Yeah, but come on, Ryan. We both know that there’s more to Acme than that.”

“Of course there is.” By the way he leaned forward, Jack could tell that he was just warming to the subject. “I’m not claiming that it will be a cakewalk by any means. Like all our operatives, you’ll have to go through some pretty rigorous training. And yeah, sure, sometimes the work can be dangerous. But it’s also challenging. Meaningful. And certainly more fulfilling than…well, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. More ‘fulfilling’ than being a housewife, right?” she declared sarcastically. One sharp glance from him had her pursing her lips in order to keep from saying anything else. “Look, um, Ryan, I can’t say that I’m not flattered that you’d even consider me. But–well, I guess I don’t see what it is that you see in me.”

“Frankly, Donna, your best feature is that you’d be highly motivated—”

Donna knew what he meant, and so did Jack:

Highly motivated to kill. To avenge Carl.

She’d also be highly motivated to stay alive, he thought, if not for her own sake, then for Mary, Jeff, and little Trisha.

“—and of course, there will be the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll be helping us take down the bastards who took out Carl.”

Jack shook his head. Translation: You’ll get the closure you so desperately need.

As if. Don’t believe him, Donna. The wound may close, but the memory of its pain stays with you for a lifetime.

But wasn’t watching her children as they slept in their beds—all snuggled in, safe and sound–satisfaction enough? Wasn’t it enough that they’d already lost one parent?

Donna must have been thinking the same thing as she murmured, “Ryan, I …I can’t. I guess I’m not as strong as you think.”

That brought the faintest smile to Ryan’s lips. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” He tossed down a couple of twenties on the table and stood up to leave. “Look, there’s no rush. Don’t give me an answer today. All I’m asking is that you think about it, okay?”

She shrugged and stared down at the money on the table.

When she lifted her head, it was in Jack’s direction. There was a faraway look in her eye.

And just the slightest smile on her lips.

His heart lurched when it dawned on him: s
he’s seriously considering his offer.

Maybe he was wrong about her. Maybe she wouldn’t think anything at all about trading elementary school volunteering and endless baskets of dirty laundry and all the work that went with cooking three meals for her children—not to mention cleaning the house yet one more time—for the bone-chilling thrills that working at a place like Acme would offer her.
 

Maybe she’d give up her quiet, safe life in a second, to assure herself that Carl didn’t die in vain.

He prayed that wasn’t the case.
 

The answer to his prayer came a moment later, when the light went out of her eyes. She shook her head firmly, as if confirming her final decision on the issue.

Good, because Donna didn’t need to avenge Carl’s death.

She had Jack to do it for her.

Of course, she didn’t know this—not yet, anyway.
 

She wouldn’t either, until he accomplished that very goal.

Jack waited until Donna drove off before joining Ryan in his car.

Ryan had the cash in his hand and handed it to Jack. He shrugged. “I guess you were right, after all.”

He slid out of Ryan’s car and walked over to his rental.

Jack knew he should be happy with the outcome, but for some reason, he wasn’t. Maybe it was the feeling he had when he saw Donna waver over her decision.

Still, she’d made the right one. He had no doubt about it.
 

If only she felt the same way.

Before he left town, Jack drove by Donna’s house.
 

He found her standing in the backyard, beside the clothesline. She had a laundry basket at her side. He watched as she bent to pick up something and clip it onto the line. Like most of the items already hooked and flapping in the gentle breeze, it was a bright white cloth diaper.

When she was done, she eased herself into one of the two white Adirondack chairs under the large shady oak tree.
 

He knew the second one had been Carl’s.

He wished he could sit there beside her.

He watched as she took a newspaper from the basket. From what he could see, the section she was reading wasn’t news, or lifestyle. It was the classifieds.
 

She’s looking for a job, he realized. In this lousy economy, what is she qualified for? She married right out of college, and started popping out babies. She never worked in an office. She’s the first to admit her typing skills are lousy. I guess she can be a waitress.

Jolene Caruthers came to mind. He winced at the thought of Donna hustling for tips to make ends meet—to pay the mortgage, and for healthcare, and for the added expense of after-school daycare for her kids while she finished her shifts.
 

Granted, other single mothers had similar financial burdens. But because of him, this particular mother was now in dire straits.

Suddenly, he felt ashamed about the fake inheritance ploy he’d used with her aunt, Phyllis.

He knew how to fix it. By next week, Phyllis’s niece would soon tell her the good news that she was the recipient of a monthly stipend, the legacy of a trust from the long lost friend on her father’s side. And that—surprise, surprise—it covered the monthly mortgage note, and there was enough left over to meet the family’s other expenses as well.

The moment he got back to Paris, he’d make sure to set up a blind trust, and an automatic transfer from his own savings.

As he drove off, he looked at her one last time in his side view mirror and watched as she removed her sunglasses so that she could wipe away a tear.

She hadn’t made the wrong decision. But the only way she’d realize that is if the people who had killed her husband were behind bars, or dead as well.

From now on, this would be his mission:
 

He’d be the one to avenge Carl for her. He’d take down the Quorum so that she could move on.

When she could do so, he’d be waiting for her.

Chapter 18
The Take

Information collected during an intelligence operation is called “the take.” Sometimes it ends up in an asset or agent’s dossier. Sometimes it ends up in a dead file.
 

But are files ever truly dead? Even when a mission has ended or an agent or asset dies, do the memories and experiences and encounters collated in her dossier cease to exist as well?

It annoyed Jack to no end to find a lady friend’s thong tangled up in his sheets. No matter how small and lacy, they were inevitably some color—red, hot pink, deep purple, electric blue—that would turn the rest of his laundry the same silly hue.

Whenever this happened, he didn’t know who was more embarrassed, he or Marie, the new laundress he’d hired now that he was back in Paris. She pinked up whenever she handed over the guilty garment.
 

He had half a mind to tell her to keep them, but he knew better than to ask a former nun if ass floss was her kind of thing.

He could have tossed them out. In fact, maybe he should have done so, since he never called the same woman back, but he hated the thought of someone rummaging through his garbage bin and finding them.

Instead, they went in a drawer.

Since leaving Los Angeles, he’d slept with a different woman each night. He winced when he thought of what Acme’s psych investigator would think of this. He could imagine the man writing,
Trophies?
 

Okay, yeah, maybe.

He’d been cuckolded. Screwing other women in the bed he once shared with his ex wasn’t exactly payback, but it was damn close.

Also in the drawer was her lover’s boxer briefs.
 

The joker had walked out of there commando.
 

The asshole knew exactly what he was doing.

He wasn’t just fucking her, Jack thought. He was fucking with me, too.

Someday, he’d learn the name of the clown.

As far as the panty drawer was concerned, it was time to clean house. Not only would the thongs go to
Armée du Salut—
Paris’ version of the Salvation Army—so would anything else that didn’t matter anymore.
 

He looked around for an empty box. There was one under his desk—

Only it wasn’t empty. It held one thing: Donna Stone’s recipe book.

Somehow he’d forgotten to return it with the rest of the evidence he’d taken during his background investigation of her. He’d barely scanned through it. After all, didn’t most women write their personal thoughts in a diary instead?

He opened it. Flipping through the pages, he noticed that all the recipes were in her handwriting. He’d know it anywhere.

Toward the back was one in which the tab was labeled
Carl’s Favorite Beef Stew
. He turned to it.
 

The tipoff that Donna had not used it since Carl’s death was the envelope stuck in the fold. It wasn’t in Donna’s handwriting, but in Carl’s.
 

The flap wasn’t sealed, but tucked inside the envelope. He opened it:
 

Dear Donna,

If you’re reading this, it’s because I couldn’t come home to you, as I planned.

Please don’t think it’s because I didn’t want to, or that I didn’t try my damnedest to do so. My intention was, and has always been to be the best husband in the world, and the best father to our sweet, wonderful children. My leaving was the only way in which I could guarantee your safety, and theirs.

I have no doubt that somewhere—hopefully on this earth, and soon—we’ll be reunited. When we are, I’ll make good on the promise I made on our wedding day: to spend the rest of eternity with the woman I love.

Yours, always,

Carl

Jack stared down at the note for a long time. Finally, he put it back in the envelope, which he slipped back between the pages of the recipe book.

He knew he had to get this back to Donna.

He’d only been gone from Acme headquarters for less than a week, but Ryan had him booked on the next morning’s flight out of Charles De Gaulle for a debriefing on an important extermination. He’d take the book along and hand it off to Ryan.