Chapter 1
I knew one thing: as soon as anyone said you didn't need a gun, you'd better take one along that worked.
- Raymond Chandler
"Paris Bombay!" Perry, the announcer shouted. I flinched inwardly. The rose they gave me still had thorns and I was sweating like a fat guy in a sauna in this tux under these stage lights.
"The time has come!" He continued. "Who are you going to choose? Cin, or Teri?" I felt a clock ticking inside my head and it made me think of the bombs my cousin Dak and I used to make as kids. How did I get into this mess? I never wanted to star on The Single Bachelor: Bachelor No More - Ever. Great. Cin and Teri are looking at me thinking I'm about to make a decision. How do I tell them I can't?
It all started two months ago. And it was all my sister, Liv's, fault.
o0o
“But, I just finished a job!” I protested. And if you think it was easy taking out an African warlord using only a plastic hotel key (hint – it’s all in the wrist), you’re kidding yourself.
“Well I can’t do it! Alta has the state science fair and Woody is trying out for the Olympic Archery team! It’s the finals!” Liv folded her arms over her chest and pouted. She actually pouted. And that’s when I knew I was screwed.
“We’re not supposed to do each other’s assignments.” I whined, even though I could feel myself giving in a little. And when I say “assignments” I mean contract killing…just to make that clear. I’m an assassin. So is my sister, my dad, my cousins and my grandmother. Well, actually, Grandma Mary is retired.
The Bombays have been contract killers since ancient Greece. After four millennia of wet work, you become pretty good at it, and we are the best. Every child born a Bombay joins the family business, whether we like it or not. Retirement is something that only happens when you are old enough to join the Council. All jobs are handed down by the Council. If you screw up…let’s just say the consequences are dire.
On the plus side, we are each independently wealthy, world travelers who can creatively kill anyone with anything. I’m serious. I’ve seen (or participated in) death by mangoes, scotch tape and once – a cleverly placed cotton ball. We are allowed to pick our own modus operandi, as long as the work is done and the Bombays aren’t implicated. Technically speaking, we only have one or two assignments a year. Assignments we are not allowed to pass on to other Bombays.
Liv threw her hands in the air – a gesture of futility she knew would work on her little brother. “It’s bad enough I can’t do both of the kids’ things! Todd and I have to split up to go! And I won’t pick whether your precious nephew or adorable niece feels abandoned on their big day! I just won’t do it!”
I sighed the sigh of capitulation. And Liv knew it. I have to give her credit for not gloating. I would’ve.
“Okay, fine.” I walked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of chardonnay. “I’ll do it.” After uncorking the bottle, I handed my sister the first glass.
Liv threw her arms around me and kissed my cheek. I saw that coming. It was what she did every time she needed me to cover for her. I could write the dialogue for these conversations. She always won, and I always lost.
After she left (with a small, in-your-face victory dance when she thought I wasn’t looking), I opened the envelope with the information on the Vic and this assignment.
Chuck Plimpton was a big time tv producer who ran a human trafficking ring for his string of sweat shops on the side. The problem (well, besides the human trafficking ring) was that Chuck was a hermit. No one had taken a picture of him in years. He didn’t go to parties or awards ceremonies. Rumor had it he liked to spend all his time “playing” with his employees.
