The Housewife Assassin's Handbook (6 page)

“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–”

This was true. I was solid as a rock. Hell, I had all morning to work out at my gym since the place had a nursery, and I also ran five miles a day, rain or shine.

“–And you’re a crack shot–”

“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, I 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?”

He searched my eyes. Had I been insulted by his implication that my current existence is brain numbing, mundane, and unrewarding? Well, heck yeah–

Bullshit. Who was I kidding? He was talking to a woman who had just spent the morning rearranging her Tupperware drawer, then reconciling the fourth-grade’s SCRIP fund. And let’s not forget the momentous task of washing Trisha’s dirty cloth diapers. (I’m a fan of the dry pail method, but only because there’s less of a chance of a bigger mess, should it be knocked over by Lassie’s constantly wagging tail.)

So, okay, yeah, maybe it was time to get out of my rut and kick some ass.

But what if it got kicked instead? After all, that’s what had happened to Carl, and he was so much better prepared to be an assassin than me.

“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.”

Highly motivated to kill. To avenge Carl.

And to stay alive. For Mary, Jeff, and Trisha’s sake.

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

Satisfaction. This, some day, might translate into the closure I so desperately needed.

But wasn’t watching my children as they slept in their beds—all snuggled in, safe and sound–satisfaction enough?

It would have to be, for the simple reason that my kids had already lost one parent to God and country.

“Ryan, I … I can’t. I guess I’m not as strong as you think.”

That brought the faintest smile to his 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?”

I shrugged. Ryan was a confirmed bachelor, not a mommy with three kids in tow. He could afford to risk his life, whereas I couldn’t even afford next month’s mortgage payment.

On my way out the door, I splurged on a newspaper so that I could scan the job listings while hanging Trisha’s diapers out to dry.

One night, less than a week after that final lunch with Ryan, I heard a beep from the house’s security system noting a heat sensor breach. Before we had moved into the house, Carl had installed it, along with infrared night vision webcams. 

At the time I thought he was being overly paranoid, and he chided me for forgetting to switch it on. After his death, I never forgot. At night, since I often couldn’t sleep anyway, I kept one eye on the computer monitor as it switched from one camera to another, looking for any motion, anything that looked out of place. 

Sitting up in bed, that’s when I saw him: a tall figure, running from Trisha’s playhouse to the back kitchen door. He was dressed in black, his face covered in a ski mask and goggles, holding a semiautomatic rifle—

Carl’s killer.

And now, he wanted to kill me. Kill us.

My gun. My God, get the gun…

I rolled out of bed shoving the pillows vertically down the mattress in order to give the impression that someone was still sleeping there. I now kept an M&P9 with a silencer between the mattress and the box spring. After slipping it out, I crawled to the terrace door in the master bath. Silently I unlocked it and inched it open—

The only light I had was coming from the moon, but it was all I needed: there he was, crouching by the back door. As still as he was, though, I had a wide-open shot.

And that was my dilemma: if I hit him in the head, he would die instantly. Certainly there was some satisfaction in that. But we’d never get our answer as to who killed Carl.

So instead, I shot him in the leg.

He grunted loudly and rolled for cover under the picnic table. My second shot ricocheted off one of its planks. 

He shot back, but it was sloppy. This gave me another chance to wing him, but he had ducked out of the moonlight, and I couldn’t see a thing. Realizing this, his aim suddenly got better. Of course, it helped that he was wearing night goggles. In fact, he was shooting so well that he had me taking cover back through the terrace door…

Then I heard Trisha crying.

Damn! Damn! I froze, torn between going to my baby and finishing the job. But what if she woke up Mary and Jeff too? 

I knew I had to go to her. I rolled back in and locked the door behind me, and flicked the switches on the outside floodlights and the alarm that alerted both the police and Acme.

I got back to the monitor just in time to see the prowler limping away his right leg dragging. At least he’d have one scar to remember me by. Perhaps that was how I would know him the next time our paths crossed.

And when that time came, I wouldn’t have to resist the urge to kill him or any of the other bastards who took Carl from me.

Because I’d be working for Acme.

“I want in.”

There. I’d said it. Ryan and I were sitting across the very wide table that spanned Acme’s hermetically sealed conference room. The office is located in one of the many nondescript, mirrored buildings that contribute to the mind-numbing sameness known as Ventura Boulevard. 

“Hmmm. Well…” His words trailed off, although he did blink. Twice.

Ha. Considering the grand recruitment speech he’d given me just the week before, I had expected him to do a cartwheel or something.

At the very least he could crack a smile. 

Instead, he frowned.

“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts about the offer! What, have you filled your mommy quota for the month or something?”

“Part of your charm has always been your sense of humor. No, Donna, we are always on the lookout for good field ops. And quite frankly, I can’t think of a better candidate for what we need. Your ‘mommy’ status is the perfect cover. And the fact that you already know how to shoot is a bonus, but–” He stopped abruptly. “Tell me, Donna: have you ever killed anyone?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that his sudden change in attitude was giving me an itchy trigger finger, but I thought better of it. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Because once you make the decision to join Acme, there’s no looking back. I just want you to be perfectly sure that you won’t regret the choice you’re about to make.”

No looking back. No regrets.

What was there to look back on? Behind me were secrets, heartache, and lies: my mother’s painful illness; my father’s inconsolable remorse; my husband’s double life.

As for having any regrets, at that very moment I only had one:

That I didn’t have the skills or the resources to take down Carl’s killers.

Of course, as an assassin for Acme, I’d have what I’d need to do so. 

“My bottom line is this, Ryan: I’m not spending the rest of my life as a victim. All I'm asking is that you give me a chance. It's the least you can do.”

I was almost out the door when I felt his hand on my arm. “Okay, tell you what. Come back tomorrow, say, around ten. I’ll put you on the shooting range to see if you’re as good as Carl claimed. Then we’ll take it from there.”

That would work. Trisha would be in nursery school until two. I shook his hand, then, hesitantly, gave him a kiss on the cheek. 

Ryan blushed bright red. Ah, so he has a heart after all.

The next day I showed up bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and prepared to dazzle. Ryan handed me Acme’s standard issue, a Sig Sauer P229, and we headed for the shooting range.

I knew I impressed him by the lift of his brow with each bullseye. (Though, I must admit, I went for the groin on the last two pop-ups. Then again, they looked incredibly menacing and no doubt deserved it.)

I also passed the physical with flying colors. The polygraph went well, too.

The agency’s standard thirty-page personal history statement wasn’t scary, just tedious. I had nothing to hide–unless you considered my ever-growing list of library fines. (No, I didn’t mention that on the form. I figured if it didn’t turn up on my background check, then our country needed me all the more.)

But it was the psychological testing that blew Ryan away. “I’ve got to be honest with you, Donna, I was–well, a bit surprised.”

“In what way?” We were in the sterile conference room again. I had yet to see Ryan’s office. I could just imagine what that was like. My guess was that he wiped it clean of fingerprints each night before going home.

“You’ve scored well across the board. But you were superlative in Part Six of the test.”

“Oh yeah?” Part Six stood out to me because the responses seemed to be gauging how well the respondents would do in dire circumstances. Things like: You are facing two assailants, both with firearms. The one to the left is in a car. The one to the right is standing only four feet away. Which one do you take out first? (I went for the closer dude, figuring that maybe I could get his gun away from him somehow, and then use him as a human shield when I ducked out of the car assailant’s sights.) Or you can take out your attacker with a pole, a rope, or a fork. Which one do you choose? (I chose the pole. That would allow me to attack from many angles and to do so from a distance.)

“Your answers were right on the mark. You’re a natural born killer.”

“I live in suburbia, Ryan. It’s a jungle out there. The instinct is natural.”

“Hmmm. Well, if that’s the case, then remind me to stay out of the OC.”

“Aw, what a shame! There are a couple of cute women in the neighborhood–you know, divorcees–whom I could easily set you up with–”

The scowl that darkened his face told me I’d crossed a line.

“No? Oh, um, okay. Well gee, how time flies! I should go pick up the kids…”

“Just one more thing. I wanted to tell you that I’ve scheduled you to go to The Farm.”

I grimaced at the insinuation. “Well, I may still be sporting a few pounds of my baby fat, but seriously, Ryan that’s a bit cruel–”

“Donna, ‘The Farm’ is not a chubby club. It’s Langley’s training facility, and it’s a must for all new agents. Weeds out those that don’t have the right stuff.”

“Oh.” While in school I was always top in my class, so I was sure I’d do well down on The Farm.  “I think I can get Phyllis to cover me for that weekend–”

“No, Donna. The commitment is for twelve weeks. And you have to live on-site.”