"Family Secrets"

This year your wife's family vacation will be in the Canary Islands. Your father-in-law has just arrived with the airline tickets and other pertinent information. He gives you a brochure for the hotel that you will be staying at, The Rouge. You peruse the brochure, taking note of the spa and bar. He has arranged for a car to take you to the airport, which will bypass security and take you directly to his private jet. You married into the family ten years ago, so these extravagancies are nothing new to you. You thank him, then head to the kitchen to start dinner.

As you enter the kitchen, you look down and see your fathers-in-law's briefcase. You grasp the tan leather handle and pick it up as gently as a mother with her baby. The briefcase is surprisingly light and looks to be brand new. The pleasant smell of new leather creeps up your nostrils.

You grew up in poverty, deep in the woods of North Carolina. The only time that your family had more than two nickels to rub together was when your granddaddy ran shine with your daddy and that family that lived on the creek. Everything was good for a couple months, until those creek boys decided to tangle with the Sherriff, FBI, ATF, and the ABC, all in one night. There went the two-nickel life, back came the hardscrabble times.

Things changed when you joined the Army. You mostly had a full belly of, mostly, edible chow, and had a warm place to sleep, most nights. They deployed you, which I won't make you relive, and you got hurt. One of the clerks that out-processed you stole your heart, and that was that. Her dad owns a communication company that he works for, while you stay at home. You can't have kids due to your exposure to toxins chemicals during your deployments, but your wife never wanted kids, so it is not an issue.

You arrive at the door to the garage and grasp the cold brass handle. Muffled voices can be heard on the other side, one of which sounds angry. It is your father-in-law berating your wife.

"You are gonna do it! I don't care! I don't wanna hear it, just get it done!"

Your wife's voice is strained as she replies, "What if he finds out? I can't risk losing him, I love him."

"Then get it done."

"Fine, but this is the last time," your wife replies sternly.

A car door slams, followed by the screeching of tires and the roaring of a Ferrari engine. The door handle is torn from your grasp, causing you to jump and flail your arms. The briefcase goes flying through the air, landing in a nearby laundry basket, silenced by the large coat you placed in there earlier.

Your wife also jumps back and gasps. She gabs her chest as she walks toward you, alternating between giggles and gasps. She kisses you on the cheek, then tells you that she is going to soak in the bath. You ask her if she needs anything, which she doesn't, then return to the kitchen, curious about the conversation you just heard.

What is your wife supposed to do? Why would she lose me if she did it? Questions like these march around your head, their pounding footsteps make it impossible to focus on cooking, so you order out, Italian it is.

As you wait for the delivery driver, you remember the tan briefcase nestled in the laundry basket. Your curiosity overwhelms you, so you walk over to the basket and pluck it from its nest. You pull it close to your chest as you look around to ensure the coast is clear. It dawns on you that you resemble a cartoon burglar, down to the tiptoeing.

Your wife will be in the bath for an hour or so, partaking in the jacuzzi jets, so you return to the kitchen and place the briefcase on the black and gold marble counter. The tan briefcase has a set of combination locks, one on each side of the handle, that have glyphs instead of numbers. You prepare to manipulate the combinations but stop before touching them. Your father-in-law is not a very cautious man, so you feel that there is a possibility that the code is already set. You simultaneously press the round lock releases, which causes a mechanical clicking sound.

The briefcase opens with a soft hiss. The smell of leather is now mixed with pungent cedar. You open the briefcase all the way and can now view its contents. There are four sealed manilla envelopes, each with a different name written on them in red marker.

Sibohan Durugorsky

Douglas Smith

Erhman Tatscitore

Bruno Boohun

You open the Douglas Smith envelope and find a small set of papers. Bank records, pictures, aliases, and other sensitive information are included. Before you can look further, you hear your wife coming down the stairs. You place the envelope back and close the briefcase, just as she enters the kitchen.

She smiles as she asks about the briefcase. You tell her that her father left it. She looks at the counter and sees a paper that you forgot to replace. She picks it up and, without looking at it, asks if you opened the briefcase.

You tell her the truth, that you opened it, which causes a look of concern to overtake her lovely face. You turn the tables, revealing that you overheard the conversation she had with her father, and that you want answers. You want to know what she is supposed to do. You want to know why there was a risk of losing you if she does it. You want to know who the names on the envelopes belonged to.

Your wife collapses into a nearby chair and begins to sob uncontrollably. Despite what she is hiding, you still hurt because she is hurting. You kneel before her and reassure her that you will love her no matter what, so she stops crying. You use your shirt to dry her eyes and kiss her. She smiles as she takes a deep breath and sighs.

She tells you that her father's business is a front, in reality they are assassins that are contracted by various governments to conduct difficult assassinations. The most profitable of these contracts are done under the guise of a family vacation, where a large group of assassins takes down multiple targets in a small window. She is not his daughter, but an orphan who was taken and trained to be a master assassin. She trained since she was five years old, going on her first assignment when she was just fourteen. She has been trying to get from under her father's control for years.

You stand up, then pull her up to you and embrace. You look into her eyes and passionately kiss her.

"All I want is to be with you," she proclaims, which causes a wave of heat that erupts from your chest into your limbs.

You assure her that you want the same, just as you hear an engine road into the garage. The roar turns into a scream as the accelerator is mashed one final time before it is shut off. A car door slams, replaced by the loud taps of wingtips on concrete. The garage door opens, and your father-in-law enters with a smile.

He asks if he left his briefcase, which you point to, and he approaches. He unfastens the locks, but this time there is no hiss. He flies into a tirade, screaming, and smashing his fist into the marble counter. You look at your wife, who cowers more with each word, then walk over to a drawer in the kitchen.

He is too busy berating your lovely wife to notice the suppressed .22 Rueger that you retrieve from said drawer. You walk up next to him, raise the pistol to the side of his head, and squeeze the trigger.

He collapses into a heap. A small amount of blood oozes from the small wound. You grab a large kitchen towel and wrap it around his head to soak up the blood. You use a smaller towel to wipe up the Jackson Pollock masterpiece that you produced on the counter and floor. Your wife kisses you, then proceeds to help you dispose of the body.

You and your wife never again discuss that night. Nor do you ever discuss each other's past. Why does the past matter anyway, when it's the future that's important.