Dirty Work

“Listen, only the chief of security has the code..”

She tittered a tinkly two-note giggle that sent chills down my spine. “Oh no, it’s not about the money,” she whispered, leaning back to stare down at the room attendant silently watching for a signal. My eyes darted between the two to catch every unspoken syllable. Her chin inclined slightly. My blood ran cold.

The man slid to the side of the bed, a shadow; his back to us, hands obscured. I saw my wife’s legs startle. I heard her silent screams.

He pressed her down to the bed. She began to kick and roll to free herself, but the man simply straddled her.

“This! This is how it’s done.” The woman was smiling. I leaped from my chair, ready to pounce, but she had pulled the hammer back on a tiny pistol. “Watch.” I had no choice.

My wife had stopped moving. “No!” Horrified, I watched the man get up with finality, but he took my wife’s hand. She stood. He led her from the room.

“What?” I turned to the woman wielding the gun for answers.

She laughed.

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