The Housewife Assassin's Handbook by Josie Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

the truth–you know, about Carl?”
    “I didn’t have to. All I had to say was that you’ve applied for a research position that allows you to work part-time out of the home, which, actually, gives you close to the same income that Carl was bringing in. I also mentioned that we’d be paying for a childcare stipend during your training, which you’d pass along to her.” He eased back into his chair. “Other than chastising me for having put Carl in a position, as she put it, to ‘run off with one of your office floozies,’ your aunt is a real sweetheart. She says she’s there for you, whatever you need. I know she’s looking forward to more time with the kids.”
    “Yes, she’s always there for me. That’s why I love her.” I knew he wouldn’t like it, but I gave him a hug anyway. “Thanks, Ryan, for everything.”
    “Save it. If you feel the same way a few years from now, you can tell me then.”

    Let me tell you, The Farm was no picnic. More like a college sorority hazing, its instructors just as cruel and cunning as any of the senior house sisters I’ve known. 
    No, make that a fraternity, as there is nothing feminine at all about the place. It attracts a certain breed of men: cocksure, arrogant, and aimed at turning The Farm into their own private fort, no girls allowed. 
    Needless to say, any woman masochistic enough to enter this alpha male sanctuary quickly learns that she has three strikes against her from the get-go: two above the waist and one below. The only way to prove she is one of the boys is to successfully jump through any hoops The Farm’s instructors throw her way. Otherwise she’ll join the exodus of pledges, both men and women, whose spirits have been broken while trying.
    Not only did I make it through my hoops, I did so with a smile on my face and while enthusiastically asking, “So, what’s next?” 
    I got through it because I knew I would have made Carl proud.

    So here we are, almost five years and some twenty-eight kills later.
    Was the first one hard, you ask? That would be Manuelo Cisneros, a kid who had made it up the ranks of a Colombian drug cartel, in town for a little R&R. Still, he was just a kid. Some mother’s son. Perhaps some wife’s husband. Maybe even a father of his own sweet, loving brood.
    To do what I do, I can’t think about that. All my missions are shoot to kill, period.
    That went for Manny, and the others who followed. What stiffens my resolve is the knowledge that every kill is payback for some ruthless bastard taking Carl away from my babies.
    For taking him from me.
    What are the most important skills you need to be a CIA field op, you ask? Perhaps the Japanese martial arts of bujutsu, karatedo, jujitsu, kendo, and laido? How about firearms, or explosives handling, parachuting, or crash-and-burn driving?
    If you can keep it from the boys, I’ll let you in on a little secret: it’s none of the above.
    In all honesty, the skills you need to be a crackerjack CIA agent are the exact same ones that make a good mommy.
    For example, recruiting spies from other foreign agencies is a lot like coercing your son to eat his vegetables: at first he may be reluctant, but as soon as you convince him that it is the quickest route to dessert, he’s ready to jump onboard. 
    Whereas surviving a prison camp takes the same mindset as enforcing a time-out: Instead of giving in, just tune out. Eventually the other side gives up. 
    As for losing a surveillance tail, I liken that to getting a toddler to take a nap: When the time comes, your best bet is to get her into a routine that makes her comfortably drowsy. Then, when she zones out, slip away. 
    Setting up a kill is a lot like planning a dinner party: attention to even the smallest of details guarantees its success.
    And finally, in regard to pulling that trigger: I’ve yet to meet a man whose primal instincts match those of a mother trying to keep her child safe from danger.
    Speaking of naps, Trisha has