How To Hide A Body

How To; Confuse FBI Agents

"Well, this is a nice change of scenery," I said. 

"It's a prison cell," Bart answered. 

"I was being sarcastic." 

"Aha..." Bart mumbled. 

I lay with my hands on my stomach on the top bunk of our temporary prison cell. I thought it was laughable that they thought this prison cell would hold me. I felt the bed shake as Bart sat on the lower bed. I sighed, trying to design a plan to get out of here. 

"I can't believe they found us." I wondered. 

"Maybe they were tipped off?" 

"Bart, please, who would've told them? The concierge? Like she knew we were hacking into NASA-" my voice trailed off, "Unless Steve McQueen tipped us off! Why would he have done that... he wanted us to succeed!" 

"Technically we did," Bart muttered. 

"What?" I asked, turning my body its side to get a better view of Bart. 

"Well, the task was simply to pretend to be alien life. The second part -to hack into NASA and send in a virus- was simply an aspiration of yours." 

I flipped back onto my back, scoffing. 

"What?" Bart asked from down below. 

"I hate it when you're right. It interferes with my winning streak." 

I heard a lock being forcefully shoved into the lock of the prison cell. Three guards entered, armed to the teeth. They asked us to follow them, which I reluctantly agreed to. A guard followed me, another followed Bart, and the third walked in front. 

The took us down passages and passages all lined with rather excellent security. Finally, we were dropped off in front of a room with a sign lining the door which read, "Meeting in progress -highly trained criminals, so please bring a gun." 

The guard who was making sure my hands were held behind my back checked the handcuffs for the sixth time since our departure. An idea sprang into my head. 

"Pardon me, excuse me," I mumbled, "SIR!" I shrieked. 

The other two guards turned around; the other guard let go of me, confusion dancing in his eyes. 

"Cyril, what is she on about?" the leading guard asked. 

"I don't know, sir-" He started

"I'll tell you what she's on about!" I shrieked, again, "He's feeling me up!" 

"Wha- What?!" Cyril protested.

"Men these days! All the same! But we have rights now!" 

"Cyril, what is she saying-" the leading officer asked again. 

"I haven't done anything! I was just checking her handcuffs!" 

"Ha!" I scoffed, "He went much lower than that!" 

"Cyril, you are a respected officer-" the leading officer demanded. 

"Sir! I have not touched her! I have only touched her hand-" he reiterated. 

"You know exactly what you touched!" 

Bart lowered his head and coughed, the sign that I was overdoing it.

"Cyril, I demand that you leave our presence. I shall report you for this rude behaviour," the leading officer ordered, "I'll take her. Go!"

He gave up his job as the leader and positioned himself behind me. I felt the butt of the gun push into my spine. I shivered. So much for that plan. 

They walked us into the room, which reminded me a little too much of a conference room. The leader pushed me into one of the other chairs, much to my dismay. 

"Rude," I muttered. 

The guard who was assigned to Bart made Bart sit next to me, and he then stood behind the two of us, like some evil overlord. The leader made his way to the front of the room -which had a stifling aroma of coffee and teargas. 

"Name?" asked the leader of the group, holding a clipboard in his hands and a small blue pen which was attached to said clipboard. 

"I'm sorry?" I asked. It was at this time when I made a mental note to shorten down my list of aliases. Which name had I given the hotel? Which name did the hotel provide them with? Which name... 

"Ok, you don't seem to be one who likes procedure, so Mrs Evaline, I must ask you-" 

"Ah, Evaline!" I remembered, a little too loud. 

"What?" said the leader. 

"You asked me for my name, and I gave it to you," I quickly recovered. 

"I see-" he said, quickly scribbling something down on his clipboard. I don't like clipboards. Too many secrets. 

"Name?" I said, mockingly. 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"Your name?" 

"Bornstein." 

"That's a funny name." 

"Listen, big guy," Bornstein said, referring to Bart, "You haven't said a word." 

"She calls the shots," Bart explained. His tone of voice suggested that at this moment he was delighted that I was the one who was going to get into trouble. 

"Huh. Odd," Bornstein said, making another note. 

"Excuse me?! We live in the twenty-first century, Bornstein! Leave your sexist beliefs in the 1800s!" I yelled. 

Bart coughed again. I could never resist the touch of the dramatic. 

"Not what I meant. Anyways, occupation?" Bornstein asked. 

"Professional criminal," I said, a smile dancing on my lips. Which were very dry, I needed chapstick. Bastards took my purse!

"You don't strike me as a professional criminal," Bornstein responded, apparently not believing me. 

"That's what makes me so good at it." 

He opened his mouth, about to retaliate, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. 

"What is it?!" He yelled, impatiently. 

"Sir," the pervert from earlier walked in, "Boss wants to see you." 

"Can it wait?" he spat. 

"No, sorry." 

"Renard," Bornstein turned to the overlord behind us, "Wait outside the door." 

Renard growled in agreement and escorted Bornstein outside, leaving Bart and me alone. 

Once the door closed, Bart turned to me and asked, "Okay, what's our exit strategy?" 

"Our what?" I asked. 

"Oh my god, we're going to die here, aren't we?" 

"Don't be so dramatic!" 

Bart scoffed, "Any last requests?" 

"Yes, bury me with both middle fingers up! Now, help me get out of these cuffs!" 

The door flung open, and Bornstein re-entered, "Nice try. There is a message for you two," he tossed a small yellow sticky note onto the desk, "Phonecall came through asking us to deliver this to you. Doesn't make any sense, but neither do the two of you." 

I leaned over and tried to make out the scrawly handwriting. 

Number 5. Shawshank Redemption. 

"Steve McQueen," I muttered. 

"Is that your real name?" Bornstein joked, resuming his place at the front of the room with his sketchy clipboard, "Back to business."

Bart leant over and whispered, "What does it mean?" 

"Escape. That's the fifth task."