Killers of a Certain Age (Killers of a Certain Age, #1)

by Deanna Raybourn

Always choose an alias with your own initials, their mentor has told them. At some point, you will be tired or distracted or simply human and you will start to write or say your real name instead of your alias. It is far easier to correct your mistake without arousing suspicions if you have at least begun with the proper letter. Also, it means never having to change your monogram. Remember, ladies, your lives are lies now, but the fewer you tell, the simpler it is to keep them straight.

“My dear Miss Webster, that is rather the point. We don’t make killers. We simply find them and point them in the right direction. We know what you are.”

She pursed her lips. “Billie, far be it from me to criticize, but shouldn’t we have kept him alive to get the override?”

Duh???

“The other side,” they said. Three old women, nodding their heads like the witches in Macbeth. I’d known them for two-thirds of my life, those impossible old bitches. And I would save them or die trying.

Helen and Mary Alice reached out, hoisting me under the arms until I flopped into the bottom of the boat, coughing up seawater. Helen looked up into the night sky, assessing the stars to determine our location.

And here I thought this whole novel would take place on the cruise ship

Mary Alice kicks off her shoes and flops down on her bed. “I love this place. Helen says it’s just like something straight out of Winnie-the-Pooh or The Wind in the Willows. And Miss Halliday is a pip. I like her.” “Well, she didn’t just call you a slut, so I get that.”

“In Classical mythology, the Furies were the bringers of vengeance. They tortured people who had not paid for their crimes.”

“Happy fucking New Year,” said the clown. “You too.”

And the day he shows Natalie the file on her grandmother, she suddenly understands the impulse towards chaos which beats in her blood.

“You’re expendable to the board. Whoever is arranging the freelance hits isn’t, so the board has decided to protect them.”

Vance Gilchrist, her mission leader for the assignment, has been unstinting in his report and she realizes she will be watched to see if she makes a habit of going off piste.

thinking about a strange phenomenon the French call l’appel du vide, the call of the void. It’s when you stand up high, staring into an abyss, and have a strong desire to throw yourself into it. It can take other forms. You might be driving and suddenly think about jerking the wheel, sending your car into oncoming traffic. Or you might be out for a hike and fantasize about hurling yourself off a cliff. It is not a suicidal impulse. In fact, it is the opposite. Psychologists say it’s actually about how much a person wants to live. They perceive a nearby threat to themselves and they think about that threat because they want so much to survive.

Before she leaves, he puts his chain around her neck—the St. Christopher medallion, still warm from his skin.

Vance Gilchrist was a little more elusive, but we figured we’d deal with him when the time came.

Hmmm.

Carapaz will take care of dispatching the Volkmars while Vance has reserved the baroness for himself. She is the first Nazi the Museum has targeted in over a decade, and taking her out will ensure a promotion. Money, status—these are important to Vance, but nothing means as much as going down in the history of the Museum as a Nazi killer.

“Not me,” Mary Alice said. “I’m being cremated and letting Akiko put my ashes in a nice urn. Maybe something from Pottery Barn. I can sit on the mantel and she can decorate me for holidays.”

“Billie, I care about you, but this is an intervention. That smell is you. Go take another shower.”

Seriously? I was hoping they had been made and this was another attempt. So far, this has been almost too easy.

God, I love men, but they are disgusting.

True

Vance’s hand is clapped to his neck, red seeping between his fingers; his face is a mask of fury and Billie realizes too late what she’s done. It has been more than a decade since the Museum has found a Nazi to execute and it should have been Vance’s kill.

There is his motive.

“Sofonisba Anguissola. The Queen of Sheba Arising,” Vance says. He does not mention the bullet hole in the corner, and neither does Billie, but she watches as the painted face disappears into its hiding place. It will be almost forty years before she will see it again.

“True leadership, Miss Webster, is not about trusting yourself. It is about trusting your team.”

I knew she’d talk when she was ready. My only mistake was thinking she’d talk to me.

Later I looked them up and found out they were worth about eighty grand. If I’d known that at the time, I might have at least considered branching into jewel theft.

There keeps being lines like this that give away what ends up happening. I mean, we know Billie survives, but part of the draw is not knowing she survives.

“Hello, Martin.”

Tsk. Typical.

“He thought he could turn the board against the four of you and get us to issue a termination order. Then he would give you just enough information to come after us, using the four of you to take us out so he could take over the organization. I mean, exterminating the entire board would leave a hell of a power vacuum, wouldn’t it? You see, Billie, this was never about you. It was about Martin, thinking he could use you like his very own little puppet, jerking your strings to make you dance. You and the other three would remove the board and leave him in charge of everything.”

“It’s not the worst plan in the world,” I told him. “And you’d have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for us meddling kids.”

(Most people don’t realize exactly how flammable nondairy creamer is. Consider this a PSA.)

And then the bastard smiled at me. He smiled the same smile I’d seen a thousand times, a hundred thousand. The smile that said, I know best. The smile that said, I’m better than you. The smile that said, I’m safe here and you’re not. The smile that said I have a dick, so I win.

Rage rolled up in me like the sea and I felt it sweep over my head, threatening to drown me. And then I heard a voice, small and still, a voice I hadn’t heard in forty years. I closed my eyes and listened. It isn’t your anger that will make you good at this job. It is your joy.

“That can’t really be the first time a woman has faked it with you.”

🤣

And behind him stood Helen, holding Constance Halliday’s beloved Colt revolver and smiling. It really was just like old times.