The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights by Josie Brown Page B

sending Dominic to the Caymans to claim the funds and close it down.” Ryan nods toward Jack and me. “In the meantime, you should hit the road for Dixon. And take some matches and butane. The sooner Exodus is annihilated, the better.”

Chapter 7
    Crop Circles

    Crop circles are large patterns created by people who think it’s fun to flatten the stalks of a farm’s crop, be it corn, oats, grass, or rapeseed.
    Typically, these formations are quite intricate.
    That being said, if you’re a farmer whose livelihood depends on what you raise and sell, you may not exactly appreciate a bunch of drunken bozos wandering through your field and ruining your crops, let alone be awestruck at the beauty of their handiwork.
    The paths they make zigging and zagging through your crops as you spray them with buckshot may not be half as pretty, but you’ll certainly find it a lot more satisfying.

    Clover Hill Farms runs east along Interstate 580, just below the Northern California town of Dixon. Arnie has been able to access the SeedPlenish sales file on the farm’s owners, Kerri and Kurt Clement. They not only purchase corn seed from SeedPlenish, but soy as well.  
    Like most of SeedPlenish’s accounts, the Clements have enjoyed quantity discounts based on how much seed they order. However, one order in particular stands out like a sore thumb because the discount makes it a negligible purchase: it is listed on their billing account as EX-0001.
    “For Exodus, perhaps?” Jack asks.
    “We’ll find out when we get there,” I reason.
    Also in the Clements’ dossier is intel gathered from social media. The Clements’ Facebook and Instagram accounts show their pride in their fifteen-hundred-acre farm, which Kurt’s family has owned for five generations. In one photo, Kurt, jacked and blond, stands tall beside a row of corn, his arms crossed proudly at his chest. Another photo shows Kerri, slim-bodied but round-faced with strawberry-blond plaited pigtails, cradling a large watermelon under each arm. Both are in their mid-thirties.  
    They have no children. Their social media postings aren’t personal, but specifically about the farm’s prosperity: things like harvesting yields of their crops, or photos of their fields. In other words, their farm is not just their livelihood, but their life as well.
    Acme’s pilot, George Taylor, lands our helicopter in a meadow close to Clover Hill Farms’ field of corn, but outside of the fence that surrounds the property. It’s not yet sunrise, but there is a light on downstairs, in the kitchen of the two-story clapboard house beside the barn.  
    Jack and I make our way to the back door. His knock gets Kerri’s attention. She stops her pot-scrubbing in order to dry her hands before coming to the door to see who’s there at this ungodly hour.  
    When she gets to it, she doesn’t open it, but stares out at us through the door’s four-pane window. Her face is a mix of confusion and concern. “Can I help you?” she asks.
    “Federal agents,” Jack tells her. He holds up an official badge to prove it.  
    Perplexed, her eyes shift from his face to mine. She hesitates for a moment, then opens the door. “Why are you here? We only use documented workers on this farm, and we won’t even hire for another month or so.”
    “Hasn’t harvest started for you?” I ask.  
    She blinks twice before answering—a sure sign that what she’s about to say won’t necessarily be the truth. “Next week sometime.”
    “We’re not here about undocumented workers,” Jack explains. “Is Mr. Clement home? He’ll also want to hear what we have to say.”
    “He’s…ah, checking on something in one of the back fields. It’s at least two miles down the road. I don’t expect him back until lunchtime.”  
    Again, the two blinks. I’d love to play poker with this woman. I’d clean up.
    Jack raises a brow, so I know he catches it too. “Unfortunately, we have some bad news, and I’m sure