Maid For Danger (lisamcmann)

            I twisted my hair into a ponytail, tucking it under my cap and lowering the brim. Then I took a final look around the room of strangers, wondering which of them would help me escape, and which would try to kill me. A dangerous smile played under the serious line of my lips. You see, this is the problem with being a maid in the exclusive hotel, The Blue Jasmine, which catered to assassins, crime bosses, dirty politicians, and even people who—on paper—should be dead: I didn’t get hazard pay.

            While I did get a healthy payment for keeping the hotel and its customers’ nasty little secrets, and it was helping me pay off a major debt, right now I was wondering if maybe I should have opted in for a job that had employee benefits, like maybe keeping my livelihood safe. That’s why I was leaving; the reason my employers were tracking me down wasn’t to give me my last paycheck, it was to kill me.

            One reason: I saw Congressman Boaton shoot a man named Sal in cold blood while he was strapped to a chair.

            My walk was brisk, a thick wad of cash pinching my thigh as I moved. Finally I saw a face I knew. My hope lit up like a Christmas tree. “Terry,” her name came out in a sigh of relief. I hurried over to her, but froze at the sight of my boss standing just behind her.

            “I’m sorry, Cheryl.” She drew my wrists into zip-tie handcuffs and led me into a room off to the side, just the two of us.

            The door clicked shut and I spat, “How could you?” She didn’t seem to be listening, instead pulling out a small gun with a silencer from inside her maid outfit. Dread coiled in my stomach as I remembered that we were in a room without cameras…but then she handed the gun to me.

            She pointed to her calf, “A flesh wound, please. You know the stairs. Get outside in two minutes tops.” I just looked at her and she answered in a harsh whisper, “Go!” I mouthed thanks, shot and ran.

            Three hours later, when I was sure no one had followed, I checked into a no tell motel. In my room I sat on the bed and laughed with giddy relief and adrenalin. After it wore off, I just looked at the wall hollowly, wondering what I would do next.

Two days later I opened my door to fill up my ice when I came face-to-face with a gun, and the man holding it said dangerously, “FBI.”

            I raised my arms half-heartedly, trying not to sound too irritated as I said, “Please, don’t shoot.”

We were sitting in a loud, cloudy bar when he told me his story and plan. Sal was a narc that worked for him, Agent Wallace. The Congressman supposedly had two mil worth of cocaine and Wallace needed a new in. And I needed an out, because the hotel had dropped the body with some of my effects, framing me.

            Clever, I thought, clean.

            “I’ll help.”

            “Good.” He smiled. “We’ll get you a clean record and immunity from anything you might have…failed to report on.” We both ordered and ate. Wallace looked like he was struggling with something before he said, “You know, for all your information we got from the hotel, we don’t have your last name. What is it?”

            I smiled tightly, “Not important.”

            “But—”

            “Let’s go over the plan again. I want to be sure.”

The whole shebang was scheduled to happen as fast as possible, which basically meant that we only had one plan and a small opportunity for success, so we were doing it the next day. My hair was cut, my skin colored a different pigment. Agent Wallace was disguised with a mustache, glasses and a fake bald head. We were both packing, our back-up waiting in three vans placed separately and strategically a block and a half away.

            We checked in under false names, and my confidence in the plan rose when I was sure that I wasn’t being recognized.

            We feigned going to our room, and when no one was looking, we headed for the Congressman’s. I pulled out the maid key that I’d swiped from a cart and opened the door.

            Wallace lifted his gun as we walked in, but we weren’t attacked. He went for the toilet, where Sal had, on the phone, told him the drugs were being hidden. Lifting the top, he reached in and pulled out bags of white powder. He barked a laugh, maybe feeling what I was: that this was unbelievable. A slight click warned some instinctual part of me. I yelled ,”Wallace!” trying to warn him as quickly as possible.

            We both turned to face to face a shooter with Congressman Boaten standing behind him. Because he had moved in time, instead of hitting his heart, the bullet went through his arm. Without thinking I raised my gun and fired twice. The first hit the shooter in the area between his shoulder and chest. The other made the Congressman duck since he’d lost his human shield.

            Wallace yelled into his walkie-talkie while we trained our guns on the two, waiting for back-up.

“I want to thank you, Cheryl,” Wallace said, looking down at a clipboard in his hands and writing on whatever was attached to it. Blue and red lights danced through the lobby’s windows. He was smiling, slightly shaking his head, but still looking at the clipboard as he said, “I never did get your last name. We could—”

            But that’s all I heard because I’d already walked out. I guess I could get an honest, safe job…but I did have those two car payments coming up. I smiled, flagging down a cab. I got out my cell and dialed an old friend, wondering if she still worked for that underground casino in Maine.