Guns Will Keep Us Together Read online

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  GUNS WILL KEEP US TOGETHER

  by

  LESLIE LANGTRY

  * * * * *

  ebook Edition

  Copyright © 2010 by Leslie Langtry

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  CHAPTER ONE

  "The Addams Family credo. 'Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc.' We gladly feast on those who would subdue us. Not just pretty words."

  ~Morticia Addams, The Addams Family

  Getting a phone call can be a good thing. It could be someone calling to inform you of an inheritance, or that cute blonde you met last night begging for another round of "find the kielbasa."

  On the other hand, it could be the doctor calling to tell you that you did, indeed, pick up an intestinal parasite while in Uruguay or the husband of the aforementioned blonde saying he will be stopping by this evening with a baseball bat. It's all a matter of where you are and what you're doing that can turn a simple phone call into a bonus or disaster. This was one of the latter. I was in the middle of working when my cell rang.

  Now, when I say I was working, I mean to say I had my foot on a man's throat, slowly crushing his trachea. That's my job. My name is Dakota Bombay, and I'm an assassin. Of course, the damn phone begins to ring, and the worst part was that it was playing Don't Worry, Be Happy.

  To be fair, I'd just gotten the phone and didn't have time to change the ring tone. But how do you scare the hell out of your victim if some stupid shit like that is playing? My victim, or Vic, as we called them in the biz began to smirk. I scowled and pressed harder with my foot. The son-of-a-bitch was a serial pedophile and son of a diplomat—meaning he was untouchable to everyone. Everyone that is, but me.

  Damn. The display showed that this was one call I had to take.

  "Mom," I said, never losing eye contact with the guy under my shoe. Did I imagine it or did he smirk again? "This is a bad time. I'm working here." I pressed a little harder until I got that oh-so-satisfying gurgle.

  "Fine." Mom sniffled, and blew her nose into the phone. She was crying. "Call me in five." And with that, Carolina Bombay hung up. Fantastic.

  "Not your lucky day," I said to Vic as I pulled out my silenced Glock .45. "Normally, I'd make this look like an accident. But Mom sounds upset; so we need to move this along."

  I pulled the trigger twice, and with a thffft thffft, it was over. In a few moments I'd retrieved the two spent casings, scanned the area for any evidence I might have left behind, then walked out of Vic's life (or should I say, death?).

  Mom crying was not a good thing. Not when you come from a family of professional killers. That's right. The Bombay Family has been the first name in assassination since 2000 B.C. The legacy was handed down from parent to child, blood relatives only.

  Four or five nightmare scenarios went through my mind, as I pulled onto the highway and flipped open my phone. It hadn't been a banner year for the Bombays. Just six months ago, my sister, Gin, was forced into a messed up situation from the Council (the family elders who dole out assignments), and her daughter was kidnapped. It all ended up okay. Romi was fine, and Gin was granted an unprecedented early retirement. But after shit like that, you tend to worry a little when Mom's upset.

  "Yeah, Mom. What is it?" I'd called her back within five minutes. I'm not a moron. In this family, you do what you're told. Discipline comes in the form of an ice pick through the ear instead of the traditional spanking.

  I heard a little sniffling and thought that was weird, because my mom is pretty tough. I mean she can take on five or six guys and walk away from their corpses without so much as a wrinkle in her denim jumper.

  "Romi doesn't want to cuddle anymore!" She screamed, locked in one long sob and pronouncing the sentence as a single word.

  "What?" Maybe I didn't hear her right. Important assassin alert number one: Always know what you heard. One of my great-great aunts once made a fatal error because she thought she heard, "Kill the Australian Prime Minister," when what the Council said was, "Let's get the Australian prime rib dinner." As a result, Great-Great Aunt Orleans was made an example of at the 1965 Bombay Family Reunion. I guess the old family adage is true: You can't pick your family, but you can pick them off.

  Carolina Bombay repeated slowly, "Romi doesn't want to cuddle anymore."

  "Uh, and this has what to do with me?" I considered asking for Dad to find out if she was going through menopause or toying with insanity. Of course, in this family, you couldn't get a Section 8 to get out of the business. We kind of look at lunacy as a benefit to the job.

  "Don't take that tone with me, Dakota Bombay!" Ah. The voice was clearer now. "You need to get married and give me more grandchildren!"

  Okay. She was definitely crazy. And crazy, I didn't need. You know how creepy it is when your run-of-the-mill, average parent loses it? Well, it's ten times worse when your mom is one of the best killers in the business.

  "Okay, Mom. Calm down. Stop drinking, or take some pills, or something. Cuz it won't happen anytime soon."

  And that was the truth. I might be thirty-seven, but I was having one hell of a good time. The Bombays lived the good life. Only one or two "assignments" a year, multi-million dollar trust funds and performance reviews only every five years. (Those aren't bad. There really is no gray area in "well, did you kill him or not?") I was too busy jet-setting and sampling the international buffet of leggy blondes to settle down now. Maybe never.

  "Dinner." she said.

  "Dinner?" Great, we were down to one-word sentences.

  "Yes, dinner tomorrow night at seven." It was amazing (and seriously scary) how quickly her voice went from hysterical to stone-cold professional.

  "Um, okay. Why?"

  "I'm fixing you up with a nice girl."

  "Whoa!" I pulled the car over to the curb, afraid to drive during this conversation. "No, you're not. Every time you do that, it ends in disaster."

  "Nonsense." Did Mom actually say nonsense? How very Charles Dickens. "It wasn't Millie's fault she had a hump."

  I rolled my eyes, wishing she could see me. I continued, "Remember Kelly? She was deathly afraid of trees. Trees! And how about Lacy? She wanted to have eight children and told me I'd be good breeding stock!" I left out Dora, the uber-perky Junior Leaguer who dressed like Jackie Onassis and asked if I had any political aspirations (which I thought was ironic). Oh, and Sasha, who passionately loved her job with the Illinois State Museum where she had devoted her life to studying molds and fungus. (Insert shudder here. She actually said, "You seem like a fun-gi! Get it?" B
elieve me. I got it.)

  "Well, Nora is nothing like those other women. You'll see."

  "No, Mom. I'm not coming." I think I even stuck out my lower lip. That's me. The Pouting Assassin. What? I am the baby of the family.

  "You'll be there if I have to get one of Gin's knockout drugs and tie your unconscious body to one of the dining room chairs."

  Okay, she had me there. Mainly because my petite, blonde mother was strong as an ox run amok on an adrenalin high and as stubborn as a pit bull when you tried to take meat away from it.

  "Fine. But no guarantees I'll stay." I made a quick mental note to start carrying a sharp pocket knife with me at all times.

  "You'll stay and like it!" With that, Mom hung up on me.

  So, Dakota Bombay, debonair assassin and sophisticated world traveler, was going to Mommy's house tomorrow to meet a girl she hoped I'd marry on the spot, and possibly begin pro-creating with on the dining room table before desert.

  I did the only thing I could think of. I stopped by my sister's house to complain.

  Gin, short for Virginia, is two years older than me. Once widowed with a five-year-old daughter, my big sister is now married to a retired Australian bodyguard.

  You might be wondering about all these names; Carolina, Dakota, Virginia. . .well, the Bombay Family has a lot of weird traditions, including that of assigning geographic names to their progeny. I know. I think it's totally stupid too.

  I rang the doorbell and grinned into the security cameras. Bombays are nothing if not security conscious.

  "Hey, Dak!" Diego (my brother-in-law from Down Under) answered the door and ushered me in with a clap on the back.

  "Dude," I replied. "How's it going?"

  Diego smiled and led me into the kitchen, "Great and quiet. And with your family, that's just the way I like it. Want a beer?" He'd already opened the fridge door and was holding a large can of Foster's Lager.

  "Yeah," I ran my fingers through my hair, "I just finished a job, and Mom called. So I could use one."

  Diego laughed and sat down at the table. It still amazed me that he was part of the family now. I mean, Gin's okay, but she's my sister. I don't know how she scored a great guy like this. Especially since she killed his client right out from under him. Oh well, they say opposites attract.

  "Uncle Dak!" Romi and Gin burst into the room, and my little niece climbed up into my lap, fiercely hugging me. Maybe the reason I couldn't commit was that my heart already belonged to this little brat.

  "Hey, kid." I squeezed her back. "What's this about you not cuddling with Grandma anymore?"

  Gin arched her right eyebrow. "Oh. You heard about that."

  "Yeah. Mom called in the middle of my hit, sobbing that I need to give her more grandkids. Of course, I blame you."

  Gin snatched a bag of Milano cookies from my hands. Sure, they were her cookies, but she could've asked. After all, I was a guest.

  "Romi just told Mom she was too old to cuddle all the time." Gin explained.

  "Well, thanks to you, I have to have dinner with them and some chick named Nora tomorrow."

  Gin and Diego exchanged looks. Uh-oh.

  "Hey!" I protested, "I saw that. What?"

  Gin plucked a cookie out of the bag and pushed the rest to me. Double uh-oh.

  "Nothing." She said.

  Oh, shit. "What? Who is Nora? And why are you looking at me like that?"

  Gin shrugged. "She's nice. Pretty, even. And blonde. You'd like her."

  I rubbed my chin. "Okay. So what's wrong with her?"

  Gin looked at Diego, who threw up his hands in protest. She turned back to me. "Well, she's—um—Dad's doctor."

  "That doesn't sound so bad." I could do Dad's doctor. As long as she didn't "accidentally" screw up his meds when I dumped her.

  "What is she? Heart doctor?" Gin shook her head, and I started to sweat. "Podiatrist?" Another no. "Proctologist?" Nope. I had a bad feeling about this. "Chiropractor?" I offered hopefully.

  Gin shook her head one more time (and I have to admit, I was getting a little sick of that). "She's his—" she hesitated for a moment—"E.D. specialist."

  That didn't sound so bad. "What's the E.D. for?"

  The pause got me. I knew I was screwed because Gin started laughing.

  "Erectile dysfunction." Her laughter gained momentum until tears were flowing down her cheeks.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lord Melchett: Grey, I suspect, your Majesty.

  Queen Elizabeth: I think you'll find they were orange, Lord Melchett.

  Lord Melchett: Grey is more usual, Ma'am.

  Queen Elizabeth: Who's Queen?

  Lord Melchett: As you say, Majesty. There were these magnificent orange elephants...

  ~Blackadder II

  Usually, I sleep in. When you only have to kill one or two people a year, your hours are pretty flexible. I'd say ninety-nine percent of the time I do whatever I want and one percent is work. It's a damn good ratio. I'm more of a night guy anyway.

  Which is why I was pissed off hearing the phone ring at 8:00 the next morning. This time it was my grandmother.

  "Hey, Grandma." I used my most endearing voice, the one that made her treat me like a sovereign prince all these years. Yes, I'm a spoiled assassin.

  "Dakota, dear. How are you?" Grandma Mary replied cheerfully. Normally I'd be nervous about this, but she's been sucking up to me even more lately since she almost had me terminated six months ago. I don't hold a grudge, but I'd be an idiot not to milk it.

  "Fine. What's up?" I answered, turning my charm all the way up to eleven.

  "Well, the Council has some work for you and Paris. Meet me at the Hyatt in one hour," she ordered.

  "The Hyatt? Here in town?" Grandma's here? Let the spoiling begin! Last time she showed up she gave me a black American Express card with an unlimited line of credit and a private concierge available 24/7. I can't wait to see what she has for me this time! What?

  "One hour. I'm calling Paris now." She hung up.

  I jumped out of bed and raced to the shower. Okay, so I had to wait for the blonde in there to finish first. I shoved Jill…Jenny…Judy (or whatever her name was) out the door, even turning down her offer to spoil me in a different way.

  Fifty minutes later, I knocked at the Presidential Suite door, a bouquet of flowers in my hand, ridiculously hyper in anticipation of a spectacular gift.

  Paris opened the door. He laughed when he saw the lilies and ushered me in, showing the ones he'd brought. Grandma gave me a rough kiss and hug and invited us to sit down. I put on my most charming smile and awaited my prize.

  "Boys, I called you here because I need your help. The Bombay Family business is in trouble."

  What? I blinked a few times. The Bombays were in trouble…again? And no present?

  "Over the years," she continued, ignoring the blatant look of disappointment in my face, "we've grown the business, utilizing the latest technology and intelligence. But that's not working anymore." Her tone changed. "You'd think quality and craftsmanship would be enough these days, but nooooo."

  I looked at Paris and he shrugged back at me, assumingly pissed about not getting a present too.

  "Grandma, what the hell are you talking about?" I asked.

  She frowned. "No doubt you thought I was in town to spoil you?"

  I stumbled over my denial, "No, ha, ha, ha. Why would you think that?"

  Maryland Bombay (have I mentioned that everyone in the family is named after a city, state or nation?) narrowed her eyes. Uh-oh. It was a look she reserved for her victims. "It's time for you two to put your talents to the test for the family. Dakota, with your education in marketing and Paris' M.B.A. from Wharton, I expect great things from you."

  Uh-oh. "Grandma," I protested, "I'm not really a marketing consultant. That's just my cover."

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Did we or did we not send you to Princeton to study marketing? Did you or did you not graduate ranked fifth in your class?"

&n
bsp; I ran my fingers through my hair. (Maybe it wasn't boyishly tousled enough to warrant a present.) "Well, sure. But I've kind of been out of practice on that particular skill set. Now, if you want me to kill or seduce someone—that I can do."

  She shook her head. "Consider this one of the most important things you can do for the family."

  Paris sat there, nodding like a bobble-head dachshund, and I felt a little betrayed that he didn't argue with her too.

  I sighed. "When do you need us to start?"

  "Now." She smiled as she handed over two large, black leather binders. "This is all the activity of the last five fiscals. You'll find our annual reports in there too. I need you both to discover how we can better market our business."

  I flipped through the pages of pie charts, organizational flow charts, and statistics. Which is really weird when you consider that we kill people for money. Who knew the Council was so organized? I blame the European branch.

  "We have annual reports?" I asked. Why do we have annual reports? Who in the hell would we file them with?

  "So," Paris interrupted, his eyes never leaving the binder on his lap, "you want branding, focus groups, the whole lot?"

  How do you do focus groups for assassination? Find a cross-section of average citizens and ask them, "How do you feel about ice picks versus handguns in life termination?"

  "Let me get this straight," I piped up. "You want us to come up with logos and slogans and try them out on random people to find out which sells murder better?"

  Grandma snapped, "Of course not! The public doesn't know what we do! You're to help the company find our target market!" Target market? Was she joking?

  Paris winked at me, then rolled his eyes to Grandma, indicating he thought I was nuts. Bastard.

  For a moment, I thought I might still be in bed, dreaming. I mean, come on! This isn't the sort of business you create a marketing campaign for. That, and it would be a lot of work. I didn't really have time. There were two new blondes at Gin's spa I hadn't gotten to yet.