IN BOOK 14 OF THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN SERIES:
Housewife assassin Donna Stone must be more than just ready for her close-up if she’s to infiltrate a television reality show in order to stop the broadcast of a live terrorist attack.
Chaoxiang “Chucky” Chan joneses over three things: white-blonde blue-eyed kewpie doll pole dancers, Vancouver Canucks games (to which he has front row seats), and his $360,000 red Lamborghini Huracán.
Sadly, his car is in the shop getting some much-needed bodywork. It seems that its low-slung chassis ran over a fallen lamppost in the middle of the road. Chucky is the reason the lamppost was there in the first place. Cars seem to go bump in the night when you drink and drive while a stripper performs unmentionable acts.
Luckily, Chucky was wearing his seatbelt. However, the stripper’s bucket seat contortions left her with even more bodywork than the car’s. At least Chucky picked up her medical bills. She’ll always have a rod in her back, but the doctor assured her she’ll have a better nose than the one that got smashed when she was propelled through the windshield.
I’ve correctly guessed that Chucky would haunt Vancouver, Canada’s largest Lamborghini showroom in search of a replacement vehicle. And because my latest mission dictates that I be his replacement girlfriend, I got there a few minutes after him. To make it easy for him to see me in the role, today I wear a platinum blonde wig styled in a gamine cut. My contact lenses—really video feeds monitored by Ryan Clancy, my boss at the black-ops organization that employs me, Acme Corporation—are vivid blue. It’s also why I’m wearing a black push-up bra under my low-cut sheer white silk blouse, and a tight white mini-skirt with six-inch heels.
If you saw me, I wouldn’t blame you in the least if you thought my attire left nothing to the imagination. Bingo! That’s the point. To assure that Chucky gets it too, I sink into the passenger seat of a sleek black $1.9 million-dollar Lamborghini Centenarios roadster with my legs parted just wide enough that his imagination goes wild and his fifth appendage hardens. This is a predictable reaction since, as we circled each other in the showroom, he stared at my ass long enough to notice that there was no visible panty line.
I reward his smirk with a come-hither wink and a crooked index finger that invites him to join me.
My interest in Chucky has less to do with his bank account than that of his father’s: Huang Fu Chan just so happens to be China’s Minister of Natural Resources. During his administration, graft has boomed to new heights, thanks to too many collapsing mine shafts, and too few honest owners.
That is, until now. Chucky doesn’t know it yet, but Daddy Dearest disappeared about six hours ago. Acme’s guess is that he’s now the guest of the MSS—China’s espionage agency, the Ministry of State Security—and is being interrogated in some black site located deep in the Tian Shan Mountains. The lives of miners and the reputations of China’s current administration may be gone, but Huang Fu’s ill-gotten gains are an acceptable substitute.
Vancouver is bulging with fuerdai—superrich second generation trust-funders who, like Chucky, have no qualms spending their parents’ hard-stolen money on hot wheels and fast women, in that order.
Or is it the other way around? Not that it matters. In either case, today’s his lucky day.
When it comes to staying in his father’s good graces, Chucky’s sole responsibility is to hold onto the safety deposit box key that contains a list of the banks where Daddy has salted his cash stash. Chucky wears it on one of the silver chains around his neck, but not for long if I have my way.
Of course, at the same time, I won’t let him have his way with me.
After stealing the key, I’ll snatch the list from the safety deposit box so that Acme’s COMINT liaison, Emma Honeycutt, and our tech ops leader, Arnie Locklear, can hack the accounts. The CIA will then trade Huang Fu’s funds for a couple of Chinese-Americans who are being held as political prisoners.
After exchanging lascivious winks with me, Chucky saunters over to the car, leans in, and asks, “Want to go for a test drive?”
“Are you the salesman?” I purr. “Don’t count on me for your commission. In the club where I work, the tips aren’t that big.”
His chest puffs up. “I don’t sell ’em, I buy ’em.” To prove his point, he snaps his fingers at one of his two bodyguards. “Yo, Tong, grab the keys to this ride from the showroom manager.”
The goon shuffles off. A second later he returns with the key fob and tosses it to Chucky, who hops into the driver’s seat. Revving the engine, he asks, “Where to?”
I tweak his nipple under his skintight T-shirt. “Let’s hit the open road—say, up the coast? I know of a little cabin in the woods off the 99, right over Brunswick Beach.”
Chucky takes the requisite two-point-six seconds to prove the roadster can hit sixty miles-per-hour from zero.
We have a shadow: Chucky’s goon squad.
They have one too: my mission leader and main squeeze, Jack Craig. He follows in a nondescript black Lexus—a ubiquitous vehicle in well-heeled West Vancouver, and certainly not as ostentatious as the Lamborghini.
In case Jack loses us on the open road, Abu Nagashahi, another Acme operative, is several miles in front of us, in a white paneled van. Thankfully, the sluggish mid-day traffic over Lion’s Gate Bridge affords both cars excellent visual surveillance.
The whole time, Chucky won’t shut up. He rambles on and on about his assets and holdings, as if I’m a banker who can grant him a mortgage. No, it’s more like he’s got something to prove to a woman who isn’t acting at all impressed.
The babbling is to be expected. At every red light, he takes a hit of the cocaine in the vial dangling from the longest silver chain around his neck. It’s next to the one that holds the coveted safety deposit box key. Now and then I’m rewarded with a glimpse of it. I ache to jerk it off his neck and then shove him out the door into oncoming traffic, solving our problem in a quick and dirty way. But, no, I must follow Acme’s much more discrete plan for Chucky.
Traffic loosens up when we hit Highway 99 on the West Vancouver side of the bridge. Suddenly Chucky is doing his best to break the sound barrier—or at least achieve the speed claimed in the Lamborghini’s spec sheet: two-hundred-and-seventeen miles-per-hour.
Ten or so miles zip by us. In a flash, we’re as far north as Horseshoe Bay, where 99 becomes the appropriately named Sea-to-Sky Highway because of the way it clings to the cliff that winds its way around Howe Sound.
Can Jack keep up? I look in the side-view mirror to reassure myself that he can. Yes, he’s there, about a hundred yards behind us. Unfortunately, so are Tong and his buddy.
Suddenly, Chucky realizes I’m not paying attention to his boasts. Worse yet, I’m slapping away his groping hands. His eyes narrow as he blurts out, “Hey, um…how ’bout giving me some head?”
I snort. “What…are you kidding? So that I end up with a broken nose, like your last girlfriend?”
He looks over sharply, completely ignoring the fact that we’re weaving to and fro on hairpin curves. “Who told you that?”
I shrug. “Dude, it’s all over town. Sorry, but if I’m going to distract you, it’s going to be someplace we can both enjoy it”—I nod at the car with his bodyguards, now right on our heels—“but not with your cheering squad tagging along. What’s with the chaperones?”
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said, bee-hatch?” He takes his eyes off the road to lean in close. “I’m a very important guy! They come along to protect me.” He puts his hand between my thighs. “Look, sweet cheeks, if you make me happy, I’ll make you happy—”
He grabs me by my neck and shoves my head into his lap.
He figures out quickly that it was poor judgment on his part when I bite him—hard—on his thigh.
Chucky’s howl is cut off by the sound of glass breaking. A barrage of bullets shatters the rear window.
I duck onto the floor of the passenger seat.
Instinctively, Chucky looks behind us. As bullets hit his head, it explodes, sending skull fragments and brain matter in all directions.
When his body jerks in my direction, I see that his right eye is dangling from his optic nerve. His seatbelt holds him in place, but his foot has stiffened onto the accelerator.
I scream, “What the hell?”
Jack yells into my earbud, “Chucky’s bodyguards are shooting at the car!”
“Driver down!” I shout back.
The car is now racing along out of control. To take the wheel, I lean over his body and jerk it out of its counter-clockwise trajectory—
And off the road we go.
(c) 2016 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the publisher, Signal Press. (firstname.lastname@example.org)