The Housewife Assassin's Killer Christmas Tips by Josie Brown Read Free Book Online

feats of domestic glory.
    “How long has it been since your last confession, Sister?” Father Michelangelo Casari’s English is excellent for a Libyan of Italian descent.
    His eyesight isn’t so bad, either. I can barely make him out through the wooden grill that separates us, but obviously, he can see the nun’s wimple on my head.
    “Too long, Father. Since the twenty-seventh day of October, 2011.”
    Father Casari stifles a gasp. Of course, he would recognize that date. Forty-five of his devout parishioners—all part of the anti-Qaddafi rebel faction, which had secured the arms cache that may now be stateside—disappeared that day, right after communion at his church, St. Francis of Tripoli.
    Among them was Allegra Monticello, who began her confession by divulging how and why her husband was able to secure their safe passage out of the country and ended it with a teary prayer for innocent lives soon to be lost at her expense.
    Her penance came with the thumb drive she handed over to Father Casari. On it are files that verify everything she told him.
    No doubt it has caused Father Casari many sleepless nights. “I pray for the souls of those lost on that day.” This code phrase tells him I’m here to give him absolution for any guilt he may have with his own confession about Allegra.
    He cocks his head suspiciously. “I was not expecting a nun to do the pickup.”
    “Neither are your enemies. But they’re onto you, so the sooner you can hand it over to me, the better.” I don’t like the way he’s stalling. Time’s a-wasting. Besides, this wool habit is itchy. That’s what I get for putting it over bra and panties without a T-shirt.
    He reaches under his collar and pulls out a silver thumb drive, hanging from a thin silver chain.
    He’s about to hand it to me through the wood grille that separates us when his head slams into the wall to his right, forced there by a bullet from a gun with a silencer, which now has now splattered his blood and brain matter all over his colorful silk vestments.
    After my shock and awe, I lunge forward to grab what I came for, but the grille is too strong for me to rip off, let alone punch through it. I turn to open the confessional’s door, but Father Casari’s assassin was smart enough to lock it from the outside.
    I struggle with it, but I’m too late. Two slim, hot pink-tipped fingers pluck the thumb drive from his dead hand before I have a chance to kick open the door.
    By the time I do, the nun with the gun is on the run.
    The bullet from my Glock whizzes by her wimple. She ducks and rolls, shooting off a round of her own. I kill the light, literally, when one of my bullets pierces the chandelier hanging over her head. It falls, winging her shoulder. As she drops her gun, she shouts out a stream of Slavic curses.
    “Naughty nun,” I taunt her as I make my way over to her, my gun pointed at her heart. “Do you know how many Hail Marys that’ll cost you?”
    The sound of the parish’s school children caroling down the hall has me pausing just long enough for her to leap behind a pew and scramble for her gun.
    Too late. I kick it out of her way.
    But this gives her the opportunity to grab my ankle. When I stomp on her wrist with my free foot, she grunts in pain, then rolls out of the way. She gets up in time to feel my side kick to her gut, which sends her toppling over another pew.
    When I scurry over it after her, I see it, on the floor, halfway between both of us.
    The thumb drive.
    We circle each other slowly, assessing for weaknesses. She takes the first punch, but I block it. My front kick misses her by inches. She jabs with a closed fist, but I move quickly out of the way. Her pale gray eyes blaze in anger. She realizes we’re well matched.
    We freeze as the carolers walk up the aisle. With eyes downcast, we kneel in the pew together and pray.
    Just as the last caroler strolls off, I hit her with a jab to her side. By the time she’s on her feet, I am, too,