The Hotel
The Royal Hotel. The heart of luxury in the city, exclusive only to those who could afford to stay within its walls. One-thousand four-hundred pounds and ninety-nine pence per night.
She could afford the ninety-nine pence at least. The rest was of no concern. The night had already been paid for by the client. Posh Twat. What made this place more special than the Premier Inn down the road?
These sorts of places would normally trip over themselves in the rush to get her back out of the door. She wasn’t of this world. But today she was at least pretending.
Prada shoes clinked upon the marble floor. The echo found its way down the ear canals of curious men and their hungry eyes devoured her frame.
A Mulberry bag dangled off her arm. Mostly empty, it only contained what she needed. Not that she had any clue what posh women kept in these things.
As the eyes kept staring, the woman felt the urge to pull her dress down around her exposed thighs. It was so short she felt as though she needn’t have even bothered wearing underwear, her labia might as well be out there for all to see.
The dress’ front wasn’t much better; it was lower than she thought possible, and it wasn’t like she had the kind of chest to show off. The only thing on show there was her bony sternum. Proven by the young concierge, who didn’t even bother looking away from her eyes.
“Room number.” He said in a learned reserved English accent.
She told him in a false accent. His eyebrow raised slightly, but he did not comment. Something in her voice maybe didn’t fit the image he was seeing. Instead, he simply pointed her towards the lift. “Fourth Floor madame.”
The woman nodded her thanks to this wannabe posh bastard, behind his desk, wearing a ridiculous outfit. Clinking and clacking her way towards the lift she considered whether it would have any ‘fancy lift music’.
It did.
The floor numbers cycled at a comfortable pace. Not too slow for the impatient clientele, nor too fast to cause alarm. The Fourth Floor came quickly, and it was time for her to take the job seriously.
The floor was expensively carpeted and absorbed every footstep. Yet she removed her shoes to further mask her approach.
Also, they made her feet hurt.
The room was along the corridor and around the corner to the right. There would be one lone security guard standing. Ex-military or something like that. Easy pickings for her.
Turning the corner, she quickly measured the distance between herself and the big, strong-looking guard and adjusted her speed appropriately.
He watched her suspiciously as her hand slipped into the Mulberry bag; his fingers twitched near a holstered gun, then relaxed as she pulled out a compact mirror.
The woman made a big show of checking her lipstick, being unsatisfied and reaching into her bag again, presumably for said lipstick.
The guard obviously thought so. He did not flinch. He should have.
The bullet obliterated the back of his skull and covered the wall with a brand-new bloody Jackson Pollock. The cleaners waiting in the fire exit would have it gone before she even left.
The large suppressor, paired with thick fancy insulated walls, meant that the guard’s death went completely unnoticed.
The door to the room was stark white with sparkling gold highlights in the shape of ivy. A peep hole was placed inside one of the leaves.
She stayed clear, which wasn’t difficult considering how much shorter she was without the bloody heels.
The guard was supposed to have a keycard to let in the occupants’ guests, though she did not know which pocket it would be found in. Hence the headshot.
She quickly frisked the corpse and cursed when she found it in a pocket underneath his limp muscular weight.
It was a thin metal card embellished with the same golden ivy as the door. The room number embossed into the metal using what was probably an expensive technique just for the sake of it. The woman rolled her eyes.
It quietly unlocked the door, releasing the electromagnets with the most imperceptible of a clunk.
Inside was a room larger than any flat she had lived in. Killing people for a living gave her just enough income to rent in the city. She questioned her choice of career for a brief moment. Maybe she needed to do whatever this guy did, people probably still died as a result. Maybe she would ask him beforehand.
His back was turned. He was fiddling with his phone, probably lost on some social media app. Wide set, probably had no clue what a gym locker room smelled like. His hair was very thin and blonde, brushed in a weak attempt to hide the wrinkly pale skin. His main problem was the horribly uneven fake tan that darkened everywhere except his scalp which seemed to glow like a lighthouse beacon.
He was embarrassingly, unashamedly, stood naked, drying his crotch with an unfortunate white towel. She almost gagged at the sight of a large American Flag tattooed upon his lower back, worse than any tramp stamp she had ever seen. Her trigger finger twitched.
“Grab me a soda from the refrigerator, Josh. And something for yourself.” He said in a cheese grater American accent that felt like an attempt to lobotomise the woman’s eardrums.
He thought the guard had stepped in. The arrogance not to even turn and look.
She went to the fridge and pulled out a can that she hoped was whatever the American was asking for. She also took a small bottle of alcohol that she could enjoy later.
“Also, find out when my wife is supposed to arrive.”
Surveying the room as she walked, the woman picked out the many different potential weapons available. This job was a very specific one, and she needed to think of ways to make it look exactly as ordered. The table was set with solid gold cutlery, impractical for long term use but they looked posh- and in this place that was all that mattered. They were probably single use.
The American took the can without looking, he only reacted when the steak knife slid through his throat. With a quick gasp, his towel fell open as his body crumpled to the carpeted floor. The woman chuckled at the sight, it must have been a cold shower.
She wanted to say some cool one liner like they do in the movies but frustratingly couldn’t think of anything. Instead, she stood and watched the American writhe in his puddle of blood and piss. Eyes wide in recognition he thought he saw who had killed him. Confusion followed as he analysed her appearance further. The American died unable to question the sight before him, his final breaths escaping through the vast wound in his neck.
The phone, still grasped in a meaty hand sent out a post to millions of followers reading- Loving all that this quaint little English city can offer. Maybe I should buy Buckinnam Palace and live herehdreoiofjuyshgbvudbkusbfklvnhfjfhbjgnbkn
Wiping the guards’ prints off the keycard, she replaced them with her own, even smearing a little makeup on it for good measure, then threw it into the puddle alongside the knife to complete the order.
She left the scene to be discovered later by room service or a prostitute, if he had ordered one.
The door closed and locked with a slight click and the woman was met with a pristine corridor, devoid of a body, blood or gore. The guard, Josh, his name had apparently been, has ceased to exist thanks to the work of the cleaners.
The Prada heels returned to her aching feet, the lift doors slid open, and she tolerated the fancy music as it took her back down to the vast marble lobby.
As she had left it, full of witnesses ready to say how they had seen a woman in an eye-catching dress with thick red hair came and went around the time of the murder. The concierge especially would be able to pick out the American accent and hazel eyes, seeing as he didn’t look anywhere else on her body.
She click-clacked across the marble floor, drawing the eyes over towards her. Making sure she would be fresh in the memory of every straight old man with eyes. Then, when the doors slid shut behind her, she relaxed. It was time to vanish.
A mile away, walked in those god-awful heels, she could grab her bag and, in the less than modest shelter of a dingy alleyway, she stripped naked and changed into her normal clothes. An oversized hoodie, jeans and converse trainers. The makeup was wiped off, hazel contact lenses removed from piercing green eyes, the red wig peeled away from short platinum blonde hair, and the fake fingerprints were peeled away from her own. The false skin covering her tattoos would have to come off later in the shower.
The bag containing her costume would be burned somewhere far from the city.
Tomorrow she would be able to watch the news as the American’s wife is arrest for the murder of her husband. Innumerable eyewitnesses to her arrival and quick departure, the makeup and fingerprints all there in place to incriminate her.
The woman opened the small bottle of alcohol and drank happily, celebrating a job well done.