How To Hide A Body

How To Hold Someone To Ransom

Before I kidnapped the French prime minister's children, I had wanted to have kids. Boy, was I wrong.

Bart and I had brought them to our hotel room, successfully tricking the receptionist into thinking that they were our niece and nephew who had flown in from California to see us and had passed out from jetlag. We had made sure to cover their faces, Bart had placed his sunglasses over Xavier and I had put my sunhat on Jacqueline, to make them more or less unrecognisable.

We threw them onto the bed in Bart's room (I was not going to have me room reek of chloroform and Dior), put on Disney channel and left them alone, after tying their feet and hands together. I had taken Xavier's phone (Jacqueline's phone had broken from when she had thrown it to the floor of the train). I locked the connecting door and slipped the Do Not Disturb sign on to the door handle outside. We heard sleepy moans from next door and some French cusses. I guessed that the kids had woken up.

When kidnapping, it is best that the victims never see your face. Or else, they could describe your features to the police and they would be on your case until you either die, kill all the investigators involved or get caught. All of them, except for the second, which was slightly enticing, were not an option. Even though you can invoke fear and say that you could kidnap them again, the second threat would be, at the most, 79% less successful. We wanted, at least, a 100% chance of success. Instead, I ordered a babysitter.

We heard a knock on our hotel door. "That must be her!" I rubbed my temples from fatigue. I lumbered to the door and opened it up. The girl was 19, wore a short black skirt and a yellow sweatshirt, her red hair framed her freckled face. I had found her via an ad on Craigslist. Crazy what you can get off Craigslist nowadays.

Her public Instagram and her food-blog had been advertised on her Craigslist advertisement. I discovered from several blogposts and a couple Instagram highlights, that she was using her ad revenue from her blog and money from baby-sitting to pay for her student loans, which she was drowning in. Pressure point found.

"Bonjour! Thank you so much for coming so soon, Josie!" I said, welcoming her in through the door. I tried my best to radiate sleep-deprived parent who needed a break energy. It wasn't too hard. Babysitting Bart had become a full-time job.

"Of course! Thank you for hiring me!" she said in perfect English.

"Champagne?" I offered, gesturing at the mini-bar.

"No, thank you. I don't drink when on duty," Josie told us, standing awkwardly by the door.

"Congratulations! You passed the first test. Although, these kids can drive you to drink," I winked and she laughed. I waved my hand at the bed, offering her to sit down, which she did.

I sat down in the small armchair opposite her and slid my hand under the pillow, grabbing the hilt of my gun. "The kids are in the other room. I just need one night off with my darling husband," I glanced at Bart, who was trying to hide his grin.

"No worries, ma'am. I'll do anything you say." She explained, her bright smile not leaving her face.

"Anything?" I raised an eyebrow and revealed the gun which I placed on my lap. This wiped the smile off her face.

Her eyes widened, "Anything, I promise. Just, please, don't hurt me!" her voice broke. She froze.

"Great! Thanks, darling. You're going to deliver this message to the brats next door," I pointed the gun at the connecting door while Bart handed her a small note.

She took it with shaking fingers. I watched her eyes flick through the text. After she had read it, she looked at me with a new found horror on her face. She looked like she still needed convincing, so I released the safety on the gun. "I have clumsy fingers. Would be a shame if-" I started.