The Assassin’s Heart

by Alexis Abbott

  That might make things easier on her, actually. There are pictures of him begrudgingly entering a marriage counseling office with his wife, and I somehow suspect it hasn’t been very effective.

  I look down at the details of the second man, Gerald Callahan. His profile is so similar to the first man’s that they might as well be the same person, except that Gerald is more of a socialite than the other. He also happens to be in the running for political office, hosting a party for the Fourth of July weekend. The day itself was yesterday, but tomorrow is when his party is planned. One man dies tonight, the next tomorrow.

  I’m scanning Gerald’s details when I see Gabe pull out a burner phone from his pocket. “The first half of the money is in your account now,” he says. “Do you want to check it on your end?”

  I take out my phone and scroll through a few pages until I see what I need, and I nod.

  “Five hundred grand now, the other five hundred grand after it’s done. I’ll know,” he adds.

  One million dollars is the price tag on these men’s lives. It’s almost hard to believe. But this is the kind of job I can’t pass up.

  It isn’t just my career on the line, here. There’s so much more at stake that Gabe doesn’t need to know and never will.

  “Do you need anything else from me?” he asks, glancing at the door. “I’d rather get out of here sooner rather than later. Do you think it’ll look suspicious if I leave before you?”

  “I won’t be far behind,” I say.

  “Good,” he says, wringing his hands. “Good. I uh, I’m gonna take a leak while you look that over.” He starts to make his way to the bathroom door as I peruse the files, but he pauses. My muscles start to tense. I know there’s still a chance this is a trap of some kind, or worse, a sting operation. I’m armed, and I can act fast if I need to. Gabe turns his head just enough to speak to me, and I’m poised to hear him try to put me under arrest.

  “If you can pull this off, there could be a real future for you, kid,” he says.

  And with that, he pulls the bathroom door open and leaves me alone for a few moments. I take a deep breath once he’s gone, feeling relieved. I work best alone, not with some mouth breather looking over my shoulder.

  I stand up and make my way slowly toward the window with the pictures of the men in my hands. I memorize every detail of their faces, committing them to my mind. I imagine all angles I might see them at, and I picture what might change with a haircut or a shave.

  While I stare at the photos, I realize the lighting is getting darker. Clouds are passing over the sun outside, dimming the lights in the hotel room.

  At least the weather matches my mood.

  But as I turn around and see the room in new lighting, my whole body freezes.

  My eyes are on the space under the bed. When sunlight lit the room through the thin curtains, there were dark shadows under the bed and nothing more. But now that the room is darker, I can clearly see something under the bed.

  It’s a knee, just barely in sight, its owner trying to make themselves as small as possible near the center of the bed.

  My heart races, and a thousand possibilities flit through my head.

  Maybe this is a sting. It could be an arresting officer waiting to trap me as soon as I try to leave the room. My hand twitches, wanting to go to my gun. But I know if it is a cop, it’s already over. I’d be better off not putting up a fight. But I don’t know that it’s a cop at all. It could be anyone, truthfully.

  I carefully move back to the briefcase and put the papers inside it, shutting it and locking it tight before I hear the toilet flushing and the sound of the bathroom door unlocking.

  There’s only one way to find out the truth.

  Charity

  I’ve never been so terrified in my whole life.

  Not even the time I accidentally got separated from my mom at the farmer’s market when I was seven.

  Not even when I secretly checked out that horror novel from the library and read it in bed and gave myself nightmares when I was twelve.

  I wish I could go back to those more wholesome concerns. I’d rather anything besides hiding under a bed, too frightened to move or even breathe too deeply for fear of being discovered by a potential murderer. I fight the urge to pinch myself, wondering if maybe this is just some bizarre, hyper-realistic nightmare I’m having. But no. I can tell by the way my chest aches from holding my breath and from the musty scent of the mattress I’m hiding under that this is incredibly, totally, painfully real.

  How did this happen? It feels like I must have fallen out of the boring story of my life thus far into a scary story some kids might tell around a campfire in the woods. My lungs are burning. I am desperate for a deep breath. I know it’s a huge risk—if these guys hear me breathing they will find me.

  What will they do to me if they find me?

  Hurt me?

  Maybe even kill me?

  But I know for a fact that I can’t hold my breath much longer. My eyes are watering, tears streaming down my face as I plead with God to save me.

  Finally, I can’t hold it in any longer. I open my mouth to suck in a long, slow breath, trying to stay as quiet as possible. Thankfully, just as I take a deep breath, there’s the sound of the toilet flushing from inside the bathroom, which helps mask the sound of my inhale. A rush of relief passes over me as my lungs expand with air at last.

  My vision clears enough to realize that in my breathlessness, my leg had twitched forward slightly, and I quickly pull my limbs back towards myself once more, shrinking as much as I can and praying that little screw up won’t cost me my life.

  One of the men is at the window, his shoes pointed towards me.

  Did he see? He doesn’t bend down to look under the bed, but my knee was so far out...

  How did I end up in this topsy-turvy world where even taking a breath is dangerous? Where having my leg just slightly out of bounds could mean my life? What did I do to deserve this?

  I know what my parents’ answer would be: that I earned this unpleasant fate by racking up some serious sins. First of all, I betrayed my mother and father’s trust by applying to and attending college behind their backs and against their wishes. Second of all, I’m keeping another big secret from them right now: that I’m planning to save up, move out, and go to vet school.

  Suddenly, I feel guilt trickling in alongside my fear. Did I really bring this down upon myself by being a bad daughter?

  I shake the thought out of my head. My more pressing question is how do I get out of this room alive? I need to get past that first step before I can go back to my boring, quiet, modest life and try to right my wrongs.

  Alright, alright, I get it, I think to myself bitterly, I’ve learned my lesson. Honor thy father and thy mother or there will be terrifying consequences. Point made.

  If I end up dying in this crappy hotel while wearing a hideous maid’s uniform, I am definitely going to haunt the place. My heart starts pounding as I slowly, cautiously turn my head a fraction of an inch so I can flick my glance out into the room.

  A jolt of fear passes through my body. I notice that one of the men is still standing there, his toes pointing toward me.

  Did he see me? There’s no way he didn’t see me. In fact, he’s probably just biding his time, waiting for the best moment to attack me. He could be toying with me, like a game of cat and mouse. He’s the one with the claws. I’m the squeaky, helpless mouse trembling under the bed.

  I stifle a gasp as the bathroom door clicks open and the second, heavier man comes trudging out. I hear him zip up his pants and I can’t help but wrinkle my nose in disgust. The man heaves a sigh.

  “This is an important mission,” he says quietly. “I trust that you understand the gravity of the situation, yes?”

  “Of course,” murmurs the first man, the one who is next to the bed.

  I can sense the tension between the two of them, and I get the feeling they don’t particularly like each other or kn
ow one another very well. Like perhaps they are meeting for the first time. But why now, then? And why here? Am I really just so unlucky that the one time I accidentally misplace my beloved locket, I fall directly into a den of vipers?

  “You’re a man of few words, eh?” the heavier man goads, trying to get a rise out of the first man. My eyes widen and the breath catches in my throat again as I listen.

  “My mother has a saying, ‘The less you speak, the more you hear.’ I try to live by that quote. Hasn’t steered me wrong yet,” comes the smooth reply. I find myself a little intrigued now. What kind of mercenary murderer guy loves his mom enough to quote her like that?

  “Your mama sounds like a smart lady. What do you think she’d say if she knew what kind of risky business you’re gettin’ yourself into?” chides the other man. My heart beats faster. Both men are speaking with relatively calm tones, but I can tell the tension is ramping up. They clearly do not like each other.

  There’s a painfully long pause before the first man answers somberly, “You’re right. My mother is a smart woman. Smart enough to know when to stay out of my business. You could take a leaf from her book.”

  I grimace, feeling my stomach twisting into knots. Is this about to be a fight? Right here? In the hotel room? Perhaps that might be a good thing. If they start fighting with each other then maybe I could finally get a chance to make a break for it. Except that my stupid hair is still tangled in the coil. I roll my eyes up to look at it, swearing internally. The men continue talking, so I gradually move my arm up, careful not to make any noise, to pull my hair free of the loop.

  “No need for hostility, friend. We’re on the same side here, are we not?” says the heavier man, clearly backtracking. They may hate each other, and he may be the one with the money, but I can tell that he’s afraid of the first man. Which does not bode well for me.

  The first man starts moving and I freeze up, terrified that he might move closer to the bed and kneel down to look at me or something. But to my mild relief, he walks around to the other side of the hotel room, closer to the other man. As if he hasn’t seen me. As if he doesn’t know I’m still hiding under the bed.

  Is he toying with me, or is there some small miraculous chance that he truly didn’t notice me?

  “I’m on nobody’s side,” growls the first man. “That’s why I work alone.”

  “Sure, sure. Got it. Secrecy and all that. You’re a lone wolf.”

  “If that’s what you want to call me, then sure.”

  “Truth be told, man, I would rather not call you anything at all. I don’t want anybody to know I know you, understand? I hired you so I could keep my hands clean. So the less I know about you, the better.”

  “Good. We’re on the same page.”

  The heavier man chuckles grimly. “Right. Well, for a five-hundred-thousand-dollar contract, I should sincerely hope so.”

  “You mean a million,” corrects the first man bluntly. The heavier guy groans, and I can just feel him rolling his eyes.

  “Right, right. Yeah. Of course. Semantics,” comes the flippant reply.

  The first man takes an aggressive step closer and the heavier guy stumbles back a little, leaning against the bed and making the mattress sink down slightly, pushing the springs down further on me.

  I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping in surprise. I close my eyes tightly and hold my breath again. While the men are talking, an idea occurs to me. I instinctively reach down to my pockets, searching for my cell phone, thinking maybe I can type out a quick SOS text to one of my coworkers or, hell, even my mother. But my fingers fumble around uselessly, my heart sinking as I remember that I don’t have my phone on me. Of course. My manager confiscates our phones and makes us keep them in a locker during our shifts.

  I really am alone in this situation. Just two guys talking casually about murder, and me—a sheltered, terrified girl with no self-defense training whatsoever.

  “Let’s get one thing clear from the jump: this paycheck isn’t just semantics to me,” hisses the aggressor, and I can just tell he’s leaning in, glaring into the other guy’s face. I feel sick to my stomach. This dude definitely isn’t playing around. If he’s willing to intimidate the guy who’s paying him, then I can only imagine what fate he has in store for me if and when he catches me under here. I don’t represent a paycheck. I just represent a nuisance, and I assume he’ll deal with me the same way one might deal with an infestation of raccoons in an attic. I send a silent wish to the heavens, asking for protection, although I have a sinking feeling that nobody can help me here. I’m well and truly on my own.

  Meanwhile, the heavier man is trying to scoff and play off the intimidating like it doesn’t bother him one bit, but his tone betrays the true fear in his voice. “Lighten up, will you? Sheesh. A million dollars. Whatever!” he says hastily.

  “Do you want me to lighten up or do you want me to kill a man? Can’t do both,” says the first man, as if it’s the most casual statement in the world. His cadence tells me it’s meant to be kind of a joke, but neither of them are laughing.

  “Alright, you can stop bustin’ my balls. I get it. I’ll leave you to it, alright? Just—don’t forget who you’re answering to,” surrenders the second man. I let out my held breath as he stands up straight again, the mattress bouncing back up.

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Right. I’m out then. Good luck,” says the second man. I can see his feet carrying him over to the door. It swings open with a creak of the hinges.

  As the second man lingers in the doorway, the first man says solemnly, “I don’t need luck.” And with that, the heavier guy leaves. The door clicks closed and now it’s just the mercenary and me. I was hoping he’d leave as well, that I’d get some break, some chance to run.

  Are they looking for me yet? I left my cleaning cart outside the last room I was cleaning, further down the hall. But they’d never assume I was in a guest’s room, especially not an occupied one. And I know for a fact almost all the cameras in the hotel are for show. The others are just live feeds of the bar area and lobby. Not even a recording to review.

  I swallow the lump in my throat as my heart starts to race. I just know that at any second now, that man is going to kneel down and grab me out from under the bed. But to my surprise, he merely walks into the bathroom, flipping on the light. He closes the door, but not all the way.

  Still, I realize, this might be my best and only shot at escaping.

  I take a deep breath and summon every ounce of strength and courage in my body, then quickly shimmy out from underneath the bed, still clutching my locket in my hand. I clumsily get to my hands and knees and start crawling toward the door, my heart pounding so painfully in my chest that it’s difficult to even breathe properly. I’m only a few feet away—I’m so close to freedom, to yanking open the door, hopping to my feet, and making a break for the elevator. I can get to the hallway and start screaming for help. I can grab hold of whoever comes walking by, hide behind a guest or a busboy or something, anything to put some distance between my body and the killer in the bathroom.

  But my bid for freedom is cut short just as I reach up for the shiny golden doorknob. Two large hands grab hold of my shoulders and yank me back, hooking under my arms to pull me up to my feet and drag me backwards.

  I open my mouth to scream, but a hand hastily shoves between my lips. I instinctively bite down, but the hand doesn’t budge. This guy has a pretty damn high tolerance for pain, totally unruffled by my weak attempt to fight back.

  He is way, way stronger than I am. I realize with a jolt that not only is he much taller and broader than I expected, he’s also startlingly, bizarrely good-looking. All this time I’ve been picturing some brutish, middle-aged caveman. But instead, the face of the man looking down at me with fierce green eyes looks more like that of a menswear model in a magazine. Sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, sleek nose, intense dark eyebrows, and again, those bright green eyes.

  I’m
so startled by his looks that I forget to fight back as he shoves me down onto the bed. I scoot back against the pillows, pulling my knees to my chest and making myself as small as possible. He rounds on me, looming over the bed and glaring down at me. He’s not in a rush. His movements are measured, controlled, like a jaguar stalking his prey.

  This is it, I think to myself, this is the last thing I’m going to see before I die.

  But although his hands are curled into tight fists, he doesn’t take a swing at me. He doesn’t lunge for my neck or pull out a baseball bat or anything like the bad guys in movies. In fact, nothing about him looks villainous at all. If not for the angry look on his face, he would actually look like one of those handsome actors on billboards around town. He looks… like some kind of dark and dangerous Prince Charming.

  “You and I need to have a little talk,” he says softly. “But you have to promise not to scream. Got it?”

  I can only tremble and nod, too terrified and in shock to respond just yet.

  He comes around to the side of the bed, sitting on the edge and leaning over me to brace both hands against the headboard. His face is only a few inches from mine. I can scarcely remember to breathe as those green eyes pierce into my very soul. I get the sense that this man will know if I lie to him. He can tell.

  “What is your name?” he asks calmly.

  “Ch-Charity,” I choke out breathlessly. He nods.

  “That is a lovely name. Okay, Charity. I’m sure you had a very good reason for being under this bed, and from the looks of you I assume you weren’t there intentionally to eavesdrop on my conversation with my business partner. That’s some seriously rotten luck on your part,” he says. “You heard everything, didn’t you?”