Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy

Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy

3.8 107
by Leslie Langtry

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To most people, Gin Bombay is an ordinary single mom. But this mom is from a family of top secret assassins. Somewhere between leading a Girl Scout troop for her kindergartner and keeping their puppy from destroying the furniture, Gin has to take out a new target. Except this target has an incredibly hot Australian bodyguard who knows just how to make her weak in the… See more details below


To most people, Gin Bombay is an ordinary single mom. But this mom is from a family of top secret assassins. Somewhere between leading a Girl Scout troop for her kindergartner and keeping their puppy from destroying the furniture, Gin has to take out a new target. Except this target has an incredibly hot Australian bodyguard who knows just how to make her weak in the knees. But with a mole threatening to expose everything, Gin doesn�t have much time to let her hormones do the happy dance. She�s got to find the leak and clear her assignment�or she�ll end up next on the Bombay family hit list.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

For wisecracking single mother/professional assassin Gin Bombay, who comes from a line of career killers stretching back to ancient Greece, an invitation to the family reunion brings problems that go well beyond Aunt Jean's unappetizing potato salad. For starters, reunion business will include the mandatory blood initiation of Gin's five-year-old daughter, cementing her to the family business; on top of that, Gin's been assigned to eliminate a spy within the family, who may be her beloved younger brother. Things only get worse when she finds out that one of her marks is a client of her brand new boyfriend, a hunky Australian bodyguard. The beleaguered soccer mom/assassin concept is a winner, and Langtry gets the fun started from page one with a myriad of clever details, like the Hello Kitty phone perched in our heroine's "death lab." The book's chief flaw is in Gin's one-liners; unlike the gracefully underplayed wisecracks of Janet Evanovich's like-minded bounty hunter Stephanie Plum, Gin's are one-joke affairs-all assassination, all the time-that quickly become grating. (Aug.)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information

Product Details

Leisure Books
Publication date:
Greatest Hits Series
Product dimensions:
4.30(w) x 6.70(h) x 1.00(d)

Meet the Author

Read an Excerpt

Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy

By Leslie Langtry

Dorchester Publishing

Copyright © 2007 Leslie Thompson
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-8439-5933-8

Chapter One

"On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero." -Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

No one really liked family reunions. I got that. But when I listen to people complain about it 'round the water cooler, I couldn't help rolling my eyes. I mean really, try it when you come from a family of assassins. Kind of gave "avoiding Aunt Jean's potato salad" a whole new meaning.

That's right. Family of assassins. I came from a line of murderers dating back to ancient Greece. Mafia? Puhleeeese. Ninjas? Amateurs. Illuminati? How pedestrian. My ancestors had invented the garrote, the ice pick, and arsenic. And Grandma Mary insisted that the wheel had actually been devised as a portable skull crusher. I'd tell you the names of some of our famous victims throughout history, but I'd had to sign a confidentiality clause in my own blood when I was five. So you'd just have to take my word for it.

I turned the engraved invitation over in my hands and sighed. I hated these things. We only held them once every five years, but for some reason, this time, the reunion was only a year after the last one. That meant someone in the family had beennaughty. That meant one of my relatives was going to die.

As I stroked the creamy vellum paper, for a brief moment I thought about sending my regrets. But only for a moment. After all, it wasn't an option on the R.S.V.P. card. Unlike most family reunions with sack races, bad weather and crappy T-shirts, where to refuse to go only meant you weren't in the ridiculous all-family photo, to turn down this invitation was death. That's right. Death. Any blooded member of the family who didn't show was terminated.

Now, where had I put that goddamned pen? I rattled through the "everything" drawer, looking for the onyx pen with the family crest engraved in gold on the side. It may sound pretty callous to throw a centuries-old family heirloom in with tampons, fishing hooks, batteries, and ten-year-old packs of gum, but I didn't exactly have the usual family sense o' pride.

I found the pen behind some broken cassette tapes and dusted it off. The coat of arms practically glowed on the cold black surface. Crossed sabers entwined with an asp were topped off with a vial of poison. Lovely. Really sent that warm homemade-chicken-soup kind of feeling. And don't forget the family motto, carved in Greek on the side, which translates as, Kill with no mercy, love with suspicion. Not exactly embroider-on-the-pillow material.

The phone rang, causing me to jump. That's right. I was a jumpy assassin.

"Ginny?" My mom's voice betrayed her urgency.

"Hey, Mom. I got it," I responded wearily. Carolina Bombay was always convinced I would someday skip the reunion.

"Don't use that tone with me, Virginia." Her voice was dead serious. "I just wanted to make sure."

"Right. Like I'd miss this and run the risk of having my own mother hunt me down." For some reason, this would be a joke in other families. But in mine, when you strayed, your own family literally hunted you down.

"You know it makes me nervous when you don't call the day you get the invitation," Mom said, whispering the words the invitation. It was a sacred thing, and to be honest, we were all more than a little terrified every time we received one. (Did you ever notice that the words sacred and scared differ only by switching two letters?)

"I'm sorry," I continued lying to my mother. "I just popped the R.S.V.P. into the mailbox on the corner." And I would too. No point in taking any chances with my mail carrier losing it. That would be a stupid way to die.

"Well, I'm calling your brother next. I swear, you kids do this just to torment me!" She hung up before I could say good-bye.

So, here I was, thirty-nine years old, single mother of a five-year-old daughter (widowed-by cancer, not by family) and still being treated like a child. Not that my childhood had been normal, by any means. You grew up pretty quick with the ritualistic blood oath at five and your first professional kill by fifteen.

To be fair, Mom had a right to be nervous. She had watched her older sister, also named Virginia, get hunted down by Uncle Lou when she failed to appear at the 1975 reunion. That really had to suck. I'd been named after her, which kind of jinxed me, I think.

In case you hadn't noticed, my immediate family members were all named after U.S. states or cities (Lou was short for Louisiana, much to his dismay, and Grandma Mary was short for Maryland). It was a tradition that went back to our first ancestors, who thought it would be a cute idea to name their kids after locations, rather than actual names. My name was Virginia, but as a kid I went by Ginny. Of course, that had changed in college when everyone thought it was a real hoot to shorten my name to Gin. That's right. Gin Bombay. Yuck it up. I dare you.

Bombay had been the last name of my family since the beginning. Women born into the family weren't allowed to change their names when they got married. In fact, the husband had to agree to change his name to Bombay. You could guess what happened if they refused.

Non-blooded Bombays were allowed to miss the reunion, as were children under the age of five. Bombays had to let their spouses in on the "family secret" by the time the first reunion in their marriage rolls around. It wasn't exactly pillow talk. And of course, you weren't allowed to leave the family once you knew, or well, you know what happens.

Most of us didn't even tell our spouses until the first five-year reunion. I guess I'd been lucky, if you could actually call it that. My husband, Eddie, had died of brain cancer four years into our marriage. And even though I'd seen the lab results, I still eyed my cousins suspiciously. While I'm fairly certain we haven't figured out a way to cause cancer, with my family, you never know.

Roma, my daughter, had been born one month after Eddie died. I'd given her the traditional place name, but rebelled against the state thing. I called her Romi. I smiled, thinking about picking her up from kindergarten in a few hours. She was my whole life. All arms and legs, skinny as a stick, with straight brown hair and big blue eyes, Romi had given me back my laughter when Ed passed.

My heart sank with a cartoon boing when it hit my stomach. Romi was five. This would be her first reunion. She would have to be drawn into that nest of vipers that is the Bombay Family. Her training would begin immediately after. And in a couple of weeks, she'd go from playing with Bratz dolls to "icing" them. Shit.


Excerpted from Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy by Leslie Langtry Copyright © 2007 by Leslie Thompson . Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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