The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (4 page)

It takes four seconds to rule this out as a viable course of action, the primary reason being that there are too many witnesses. Alas, my inevitable incarceration would defeat my plan to spend as much time as possible with my family.

My second option is to hold my powder and bide my time for the right opportunity in which to show up Penelope in her own fiefdom: here, in MomLandia.

With head held high, I glide graciously toward the back of the room, but I eschew the last empty seat.

I forgot my donut, and the last thing I need is yet another pain in my arse.

I smile through the hour-long machinations that are part and parcel of Penelope holding court. She chastises the group because bake sale revenues are down. (“We need more gluten-free treats, people! Who’s handy with almond flour? Raise your hand! ...Not you, Lorelei. Your cookies taste like lead doorstops.”)
 
She berates the SCRIP team because their tallies were off. (“Maybe you ladies need to take the remedial summer course in sixth-grade math. One more error, and I’ll sign you up for it myself!”) And apparently, too many parents are skipping the mid-semester parent-teacher meetings (“Just because your children aren’t the budding geniuses you’d hoped doesn’t mean you should throw in the towel. If you show up, at least you get an opportunity to blame their teachers, right?”)

No wonder everyone flinches when she proclaims, “Okay, now for some new business–something that will need another volunteer. All those who want to chair the middle school prom committee, raise your hands.”

Instead, most of the women in the room sit on their palms.
 

Penelope scrutinizes each face, one by one. “Oh, come on now, don’t be shy. This is a chance to showcase your hostessing skills! To show real leadership!”

In unison, everyone slumps down in their chairs.

I don’t blame them. Dances have so many moving parts, including the coordination of volunteers to decorate, make and serve refreshments, arrange for entertainment, and to monitor the students most likely to spike the punch or to sneak off and make out.
 

Then again, if you pull it off, the kids have a memorable event.

And your child is proud of you.

This is especially important at a time in which his friends are insinuating that his mother is a slut.

I am not a slut.

However, I am the best hostess ever.

If I pull this off, Jeff will be so proud of me.

My hand shoots up.

Seeing it, Penelope frowns. (At least, I think it’s a frown. Her brow is smooth as glass, but even from where I stand I can see a line of sweat where a wrinkle would be if she didn’t have quarterly Botox appointments.) Her eyes sweep left, then right, in the hope of finding someone else’s hand, to no avail. “I’m being serious, people! WHO WILL TAKE THIS ON?”

I wave both hands, as if sighting a rescue plane from a deserted island.

She looks right through me, then points to Allison O’Connor, in the third row. “What’s that you say, Allison…you’d love to do it?”

Allison bolts upright in her chair. “What? Who…
me
?” she stutters. “No! No way! I–I’m late–to catch a flight, to Bolivia! Yes…Bolivia! We’re moving!” She grabs her purse and is out the door before Tiffy can beat her there.
 

No matter. Now that Tiffy is standing guard, no one else can escape.

The mumbling among the other moms should have Penelope worried. I hear the phrase “make a run for it as a group…” and “can’t catch all of us…”
 

Before the stampede begins, I shout, “I’ll be glad to head it up!”

Everyone freezes.

All eyes turn to me.

In some, I see relief. In others, pity.

In Penelope’s, there is red-hot anger.

Finally, she bares her teeth and purrs, “Why, Donna, how kind of you to take this on. By this afternoon, you’ll be receiving the criteria handbook outlining the specifics.”

I’m tempted to ask if it will be delivered by her army of flying monkeys, but I hold my tongue. Instead, I nod. “No problem.”

Through her gritted grimace, she hisses, “Meeting adjourned.”

I doubt that rats jumping from a sinking ship could move as fast as these women.

I do my best to play it cool as I stroll past Penelope and her posse. I’m almost out the door when Hayley mutters, “She was married to a terrorist. Does that mean she aided and abetted him? Isn’t there something in the PTA bylaws about that?”
 

Tiffy adds, “I hear she’s close to President Chiffray. Maybe he pardoned her”–she gives her girlfriends a broad wink–“and I can only imagine what she did to get it.”
 

A better person ignores such taunts. A better person proves herself with great deeds, not retaliation.
 

In times like these, I wish I were a better person. Alas, I’m a dame with great aim, a mean right hook, and a long memory.

I’ll wait until the dance to show them just how bad–I mean good–I can really be.

Chapter 3

Three Tips for Trimming Your Guest List

Dear, oh dear! Looks as if the number of potential guests for your next party rivals that of a Boeing 747 manifest, despite the fact that your living room is the size of a puddle jumper. Who should you cut? No problem! Just follow these three simple rules…

Cut her if…she’s tried to steal your boyfriend or flirted with your husband. This also goes for anytime she’s (a) borrowed anything and never returned it; (b) paid you too many backhanded compliments; or (c) implied you could afford to lose a few pounds. (Yes, you know it’s true, but it’s not her place to say so. That place belongs solely to your mother.)

Cut him if…you haven’t heard from him in over a year. Was his phone on the fritz? Did he have amnesia? Is he trying to disengage because you’re no longer friends with benefits, but friends with spouses who now share awkward silences? None of these excuses make him a keeper. Should he show up anyway, have the bouncers throw him out on his ear. Better yet, leave that honor to someone who’ll enjoy it more: your husband.

Cut them if…they’ve never invited you to anything other than their wedding, or for that matter, their child’s circumcision, baptism, bar or bat mitzvah, confirmation, or graduation. This isn’t to say that they only think of you when they’re looking for a handout, or that they want to rub your nose in their happiness–

Ah hell, okay, yes: they love it when you’re pea-green with envy. Now you can return the favor. Just make sure every friend you share with them is invited, even if they aren’t.

Okay, time to peruse the list to see who’s left on it…

Your mother.

Sigh.

Expect a blatant hint that you’re diet isn’t working–again.

Acme Industries takes up a three-story cubed and mirrored building in one of the sprawling, ubiquitous office parks abutting the 405 freeway on the west side of Los Angeles. There is no sign out front. All employees enter via an elevator coming up into the lobby from an underground parking lot two buildings away. The cars in the lot fronting the building belong to no one, and therefore no one is ever seen going in or out.
 

In other words, from the outside, you’d never know it’s home to one of the world’s most active black-ops organizations.
 

Sometimes the mandate is something as simple as an exfiltration of a diplomat in a dangerous situation. Then again, it could be the complex extermination of a political enemy. The one guiding criterion is that the client is either one of the U.S. government’s many intelligence arms, or an intel agency of one of its allies.

When it comes to discretion, we live by the rules set by our clients. When it comes to methodology, Acme is given a very wide berth. It is the true meaning of the phrase
don’t ask, don’t tell.

As I wait for Ryan’s high sign that I may enter his private office, I gaze out into the analysts’ pit. The rows and rows of five-foot-high cubicles are too tall to see the heads of the analysts who oversee the missions in play. But if you listen carefully, every now and then, you can make out a word or two from the low drone that comes when a hundred or so people are muttering into headphones–giving directives, warnings, intel, or encouragement to their charges, Acme field operatives. They are our eyes and ears.

But the heart and soul of Acme is the man who will soon accept my resignation.

I look around for my heart and soul–Jack–but he’s nowhere to be found.

Finally, Ryan beckons me. Strapped to the small of my back is Acme’s latest standard-issue to all of our agents: a Sig Sauer P226R. I’ll be turning it in, along with my resignation. There is an ache where it sits, in the small of my back. I’m sure I’m imagining it.
 

The one I feel in my heart hurts more. It’s real, and not going away anytime soon.

As I enter, Ryan rises from the chair behind his desk to walk over and give me a peck on the cheek. “Care to sit down?”

I shake my head.

“I thought you’d pass on the honor.”
 
Then realizing his eyes have slipped down toward my wound, he blushes. His way of compensating is to maneuver me over to the window. There is a slim greenbelt between Acme headquarters and the steady stream of cars flowing down the 405. In another hour or two, it will slow to a standstill.
 

Life in LA is one big traffic jam. Life in general has its detours. One of mine brought me here, to Acme.

Now it’s time for me to get back on the main road in my personal journey.

I tamp down the urge to blurt out that I’m leaving, that I will always appreciate the opportunity he gave me to prove to myself that I had a life after Carl, and more importantly, to right Carl’s wrongs. Instead, I ask, “How is Tatyana’s interrogation going?”

Ryan shrugs. “She’s close-lipped, as expected. But that should change any moment now.” He hesitates, then adds, “At least, I hope so. The cipher team has yet to crack the microdot’s message. For all we know, the mission is already underway. But now that Jack is in there with her…” He shrugs. “Well, I guess we’ll know soon what’s going down.”

“In there” refers to Club Dread, a room that’s forty feet below Acme headquarters.

From street level, it can be accessed only via a secured rolling cargo door on the farthest side of the building. Should, say, a wayward FedEx driver wander in by mistake, he is greeted by a beautiful but stern woman who is trussed up in a black latex catsuit and thigh-high boots. With long, lacquered talons, she’ll point to the lobby’s “wall of shame,” where photos of the club’s “members” are shown in various states of undress and distress. She’ll then hand him a flyer listing the current month’s members-only punishing events, none of which are for the faint of heart.

Even if they arrive in a catatonic state (and most do), all “members” are made to sign release forms before entering the bowels of the club. It is one way in which Club Dread LLC gets by the country’s annoying little executive order that ensures “lawful interrogations” and does away with extraordinary renditions of captured terrorists.

In any event, oopsies happen all the time (make that every time), and most of the members leave in body bags, through a very long, very dark tunnel just wide enough for a van that can carry a body or two.
 

The tunnel ends somewhere on the other side of the Pacific Coast Highway.

Welcome to the club, Tatyana.

On a more jovial note, Club Dread is where Acme holds its Christmas party. And during Halloween, it’s decked out as a haunted house. In our business, gallows humor abounds.

“Jack mentioned he has a history with Tatyana,” I murmur casually.

“You could say that.” To cover his wince, Ryan pretends to be fixated on a sixteen-wheeler honking its air horn at a Porsche Boxster that just cut it off.

The fact that I don’t say any more tells him that Jack hasn’t divulged the circumstances of their past run-ins. The fact that Ryan feels it is Jack’s place to tell me is implied by what he doesn’t say.

I won’t be able to convince him otherwise.