Stand By Your Hitman Read online

  I just didn’t want the boys to grow up too weird. They lost their dad before they were old enough to remember him and they lived on a remote island where they were trained since age five to be assassins. A little normalcy was required.

  Monty and Jack were sitting on the couch playing video games as I came in. Neither of them looked away from the screen, but both shouted, “Hi, Mom.”

  The fact that they looked like two kids from opposite sides of the gene pool always got people’s attention. Monty resembled his father, Rudy, in looks and disposition. He was more cautious, more intellectual and at times could be more serious than his brother. Jackson’s red hair was a recessive Bombay trait that skipped every generation. His shorter, athletic build came from my dad. His wicked sense of humor and penchant for getting in trouble came from me.

  And I loved them like no other mother could. For seventeen years, they’d been my whole life. It would be really tough to give them up for college in the near future. Then I’d be alone. Huh. I’d never thought about that before. I hastily pushed that thought from my mind.

  It occurred to me that I’d have to leave the boys here for a month while I was on the show. That was an unpleasant idea. The boys had just turned seventeen and were hell on wheels. If we’d had wheels in the jungle, that is. There was no way I could leave them.

  I toyed with making Mom watch them, sending them to live with their father’s parents in the States or for a brief stint in military school, or possibly just rendering them unconscious for a month. I could have done that last one, but there were some side effects involved and I didn’t want them to have excessive facial hair or golf ball–sized warts.

  I pulled a beer from the fridge and sat down next to them on the couch. Figuring out what to do with two adolescent, hormonal, teen assassins would be worse than doing the damn show. Either way, I was pretty sure that the one person who wouldn’t survive in either case was me.

  Chapter Three

  Diplomacy is the art of saying “Nice doggie” until you can find a rock.

  —Will Rogers

  I was up early the next morning, doing my usual jog around the island. Santa Muerta’s pretty small. It usually took about an hour and a half to run the sandy beach perimeter. Jogging always helps me think. I don’t know if it’s because more oxygen is going to the brain or whether I just jar it into action, but I don’t question anything that works. Oh yeah, and I do it for the exercise too.

  I’d never had good luck with exercise. Yoga twisted me into so many knots I spent a week at a chiropractor’s in Florida funding the doctor’s summer home in Aspen. That time I tried aerobics I ended up breaking my coccyx (the doctors still scratch their heads over that one). I swam for a while. We had a pool on the island in addition to the ocean. But that backfired when I was attacked by sharks. In the pool, no less. I always suspected Jack and Monty of that one but could never prove it. Other attempts proved disastrous, from general calisthenics (I got shin splints from push-ups—apparently I was doing them wrong), to Tai Chi (did you know that howler monkeys consider some of those movements very threatening?), but nothing seemed to work as well as jogging. It’s boring as hell, but it does the job.

  And speaking of jobs, this assignment had me worried. Because of the other work I do for the Council, I hadn’t done a lot of fieldwork in the last five years. And my isolation on Santa Muerta had kind of turned me into a hermit. I could be social with the best of them, but really only for short periods of time. How the hell was I going to spend thirty days, 24/7, with a diverse group of Canadians?

  So, I guess I was saying I was a rusty, antisocial assassin. Neither quality would lend itself well to this particular hit.

  Another thing that bothered me was the fact that I didn’t know what kind of environment I’d be in. The last couple of Survivor shows took place in the Arctic Circle and Gobi Desert. And since this was the first season of the Canadian program, I wasn’t sure what they’d do. With my luck, they’d maroon us on the Bering Strait.

  At least Burma was right. My being an inventor could make things easier. I had no doubt I could come up with ways to make my team’s life a little better, and that would keep me on the show longer. Making stuff à la MacGyver (damn, I miss that show) came naturally to me and I loved doing it. The only problem was, I wouldn’t have any tools with me, nor would I know where we were going until they threw us off the boat.

  I was just about to the bungalows and still had no ideas, when I spotted two familiar figures sitting in the sand. Changing direction, I headed right for them.

  “Mom”—I plopped into the sand beside them—“Aunt Carolina, what are you doing here?”

  My mother and aunt smiled at me serenely. For a moment, I wondered if they were on something. Shit. I bet they found my little cannabis garden. What? I’m saving it up in case I get glaucoma someday.

  Mom giggled and Carolina followed suit. There was a faint whiff of herb mingling with the salt sea air. Both women wore very modest swimsuits and, by the numbers on the bottle lying in the sand, a thick, impenetrable force field of sunscreen.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Mom answered. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Uh, it’s always a lovely day here. The weather is perfect year-round.” All right, so maybe I didn’t have to be so contrary.

  “Are you looking forward to the job?” Carolina beamed.

  I crossed my legs in front of me. “No, not really.”

  My darling mother ignored my comment. “Carolina was talking about her new granddaughter, Sofia. She just got her first tooth.”

  Oh hell. I knew what was going on. “Mom, you have grandkids. Monty and Jack. Remember them?”

  “Oh, I know. I just thought it would be fun to have a baby in the family again.” Her eyes narrowed meaningfully at me.

  “I’m forty-five. I don’t want another baby.” I pointed at my aunt. “Borrow hers.”

  No one spoke for a minute and I haaaaaate uncomfortable silences, so I offered, “How’s Louis?” I was referring to my aunt’s other new grandchild, seven-year-old child genius, Louis Bombay.

  Carolina beamed. “Oh! He’s so adorable! My only grandson. I spoil him rotten. But I have to admit, I have no idea what he’s saying most of the time.”

  I had to laugh at that. Louis was scary-smart. The long-lost son of my cousin Dakota, Louis was more like me than his father.

  “I’d love to have him visit,” I ventured. “He could work in the lab with me. Do you think I could borrow him sometime?”

  “Of course! He talks about you a lot. You made a huge impression on him when he was here last.”

  I nodded, and changed the subject. All this talk about babies felt like fire ants breeding under my skin. “Mom, I think you need to pull a few more strings on that Canadian show. It would be easier if I knew where we were going to be. Then I could do some research and make some plans based on the lay of the land.”

  “Hmmmm, what?” Mom looked up, her mouth full of Twizzlers. Where the hell had they come from? “Oh yes. You’ll be in Costa Rica, dear.”

  My heart leaped. “Really! That’s terrific! I’ve been there about thirty or forty times!” It was true. Costa Rica was one of my favorite places. I’d been just about everywhere—the beaches, San Jose, the cloud rainforest, the volcanoes. I felt a wave of relief drown the aforementioned imaginary fire ants.

  I frowned. “But if you know that and we find out what we need to know early, why can’t I just go and wax Vic before the cameras arrive?”

  She shook her head. “It just won’t work, Missi. The producers will notice that Vic died and you disappeared. We don’t want any untoward publicity.”

  I rolled my eyes. This from the same group that ordered my cousins Dak and Paris to come up with a marketing plan for the family business earlier this year, complete with a Web site and branding.

  “Fine. At least I know where I’m going.” I stood up and brushed the sand off my legs, getting ready to run back to my workshop.
r />   “Missi,” Mom said slowly, “why don’t you pack your bikinis for the trip? You have a nice figure and might as well show it off. You never know who will be watching the show.”

  “Mom, this isn’t a bizarre, jungle blind-date-athon. I’ll be on assignment. I’m not there to pick up men.”

  She leveled her eyes at me. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try. You’ve been without a man so long, you’re starting to get, well, a little strange.”

  This was coming from a stoned, sixty-seven-year-old woman with a floppy hat, 150-plus-SPF sunscreen and a bag of Twizzlers.

  “She’s right, you know,” added the woman who, up until this moment, had been my favorite aunt. “Look at Gin and Dak! They found wonderful spouses. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life alone, do you?”

  I looked away, into the surf, repeating the silent mantra: I won’t kill them. I won’t kill them. I won’t kill them. After a few deep, cleansing breaths, I turned back to their upturned and inquisitive faces.

  “Well, I’ve got work to do, so I’d better get back. Nice to see you again, Carolina.”

  As I turned back and jogged in the direction of my lab, I realized that I’d finally figured out who would look after the twins while I was gone. And good luck to her. Mom wouldn’t miss grandkids after keeping up with those two for a month.

  That thought made me feel a lot better.

  Chapter Four

  MICHELE: Hey Romy, remember Mrs. Divitz’s class, there was like always a word problem. Like there’s a guy in a rowboat going X miles, and the current is going, like, you know, some other miles, and how long does it take him to get to town? It’s like, “Who cares? Who wants to go to town with a guy who drives a rowboat?”

  —Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion

  Sure. I wanted to find someone special again. But that was not first and foremost in my mind. I’d been married once. He was a great guy. Rudy could make my heart swirl, was fantastic in bed and he fathered two wonderful sons. Unfortunately, he’d had really bad timing while crossing the street in Dallas. It’s said that when the bus full of evangelical teens hit him, you could hear him screaming a mile away.

  I slammed a few drawers in my bedroom. Mom had to know she pissed me off with this crap. I decided a long time ago that I’d met my perfect match. And while it was unfortunate that fate intervened in the form of a busload of Christian adolescents singing “Kumbaya,” my chance for love was over.

  The accident left me a widowed mother of twin boys going through their terrible twos. I fled my life in Texas and moved back here. And that’s how it’s been ever since.

  I was happy. Living on a tropical island was everyone’s idea of a dream. It made it possible for me to pursue my first loves—science and invention. I had a huge trust fund (all Bombays did) and could travel whenever I wanted. Life was perfect. My stomach clenched. Where did that feeling come from? I loved my life on Santa Muerta.

  Which might be why I wasn’t looking forward to this upcoming trip. I scanned the collection of swimsuits now laid out on my bed. No, I wasn’t going to wear any bikinis, no matter how bad Mom wanted me to. Not that I was worried about my body—I took care of myself and exercised. I even invented a skin cream that made me look much younger than I was. If I had to, I could turn the cosmetics industry on its ass. Even so, I chose a couple of one-piece suits and put the rest away.

  It occurred to me that I didn’t know what to pack. There were no instructions. Maybe we’d get to take a backpack? I’d heard somewhere that contestants were allowed to bring one personal item. What would I take? Deodorant? A toothbrush? Scissors? Twister? I love that game!

  Hmmm. From what I’d seen before, the biggest trouble was making fire and cutting things. I’d need to come up with something that would hide flint and a cutting edge. That gave me the first glimmer of hope and I took off through the jungle to my workshop.

  I went through boxes with my usual stab at organization—throwing crap everywhere. Truth be told, I wasn’t very tidy. Oh, I knew where everything was—but I didn’tknow what I was looking for. But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. Mental note— download more U2 onto iPod. I wonder if they’ll let me take that with me?

  Hmmm. Surveying the clutter, I realized I’d need a plan. Well, I could always come up with some sort of flint scissors. No—I’d never be allowed on the airplane with those. Whatever I made had to get past security screeners. Of course, I could hide a blade in some sort of lead enclosure.

  Oh brother. That’s what I get for reading the kids’ Superman comic books. In my own defense, I’ve always been a comic book geek. I’m still not sure how the boys got hold of an Action Comics no. 1 from June 1938. They were extremely rare and very, very expensive. Honestly, I didn’t really want to know anyway.

  Okay. What would Batman do? Bruce Wayne was an inventor. He had what I thought was the best superpower—a brain. Sure, Superman could fly, was bulletproof and strong. But he wasn’t near as smart as Batman—who could do all those things, but with his BRAIN. Wait a minute. I don’t mean that his brain was bulletproof and could fly. That would be ridiculous. I mean, where would it go?

  GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! Focus, Missi! Focus!

  Unfortunately, it was impossible. So I fired up the speedboat to head to the mainland for some supplies. There was this great surplus store in Ecuador (hey! that rhymes!) where I filled up on flints and knives in various shapes and sizes. I was back home by evening and unloaded everything on the kitchen table while I whipped up some tapas for dinner.

  “Cool stuff, Mom!” Jack and Monty burst into the kitchen like Siamese twins. Hmmm. I didn’t know if I’d ever seen them apart. There was that stomach thing again.

  “Is this for Survivor?” Monty frowned as he flipped one of the butterfly knives expertly back and forth. Most moms would be freaked out to see their teenage son do that, but I was proud. I taught them that trick when they were seven.

  “It’s Survival. A Canadian show. And yes. I’m trying to figure out how to smuggle them onto the program.” I shoved a couple of plates toward them and we all sat at the breakfast bar to eat.

  Jack picked up one of the flints shaped like a small rectangle. “Can you hide it in soap or something?”

  I shook my head. Damn. These tapas were gooooood. I reached for the sour cream. “I don’t think they let you take stuff like that. I think we get to bring a small tote bag of clothes, but I don’t know if we’re allowed anything else.”

  The boys looked at each other, then down at the stuff, then back at each other. I know this may sound weird, but I admired that connection. It was comforting knowing they’d have it for the rest of their lives. Monty and Jack would never be alone. My stomach winced, and this time I reached for the antacid.

  We continued to eat while picking at the pile of flints and blades. None of us spoke. But I knew that was because we were all trying to come up with a solution to my problem.

  Wow. I’d never really thought of my sons as adults before. They’d had their training and first kills of course, but it didn’t occur to me until this moment that they could help me with anything. Kinda brought a tear to my eye.

  The phone interrupted this Hallmark moment and I picked it up.

  “Gotta go, boys,” I said, replacing the receiver. “The Council’s got the scoop on the other contestants.”

  Jack leaped up. “Can we go?”

  “Please?” Monty begged.

  “I don’t see why not.” I shrugged. “After all, it doesn’t really matter who anyone is but the Vic.”

  The three of us headed downstairs to the conference room to meet with the Council. Despite their age, my sons were very protective of me. Both taller than yours truly, they flanked me like bodyguards.

  You know, it was sort of nice that the boys were interested in my assignment. I felt a bit of pride welling up. Someday maybe the three of us could work together. Neither boy had any interest in inventing, but their brains were as slippery as Lex Lut
hor’s, and that made them smart enough to be helpful.

  As we entered the room, I noticed that only Georgia and York were there, pointing to a cluttered table.

  “He’s a stud!” Jack pointed at the picture of one of the contestants.

  “Yeah! Mom could actually get some!” Monty nudged his brother and they grinned at me. Okay. Maybe not so helpful.

  “Get some?” I hollered. “Get out!” I pointed to the door and watched as they put on their saddest puppy-dog eyes and slunk out of the room.

  I turned back to York and Georgia. Where was Mom? And the others?

  Georgia smiled—she’d had two boys too. Unfortunately, I’d killed her evil son Richie a little less than a year before, but she didn’t seem to hold it against me. She still had Coney—her son with a PhD from an Ivy League school, who up until recently was a carny. I heard he was on some sort of sabbatical now.

  “Here’s a list of the other participants.” She brushed her dark brown hair from her eyes before continuing. “I managed to hack into the studio’s server.”

  The table was littered with eight-by-ten-inch glossy photos and résumés. I picked up the one the boys had pointed out. Hmmmm. Lex Danby. Lex? Like the bad guy in Superman? I brought the photo closer. He was cute. I felt my face redden and quickly put it down. Looking up at Georgia confirmed my fear—she’d seen it. My aunt winked at me.

  Isaac Beckett, the Vic, was there too. Apparently he claimed to be an expert poker player. I guess putting “terrorist” on his application might have made them think twice. He was almost as hot as Lex. But bad guys were verboten. Maybe it had been too long since I’d had a boyfriend. Of course that would mean Mom was right and there was NO WAY I’d admit that!

  “Take these with you and study them,” York interrupted with a yawn. Apparently I was boring him. “You should be getting your instructions in the mail today.” He waved his hand, indicating with arrogant dismissal that I was done here. You know, being on Survival might actually be a nice break from dealing with the Bombays.