Marx Girl

Tears fill my eyes. Is that the last time I’m going to see him?

My leg bounces as I try to control my nerves.

I look around again in a panic and cars are everywhere. How the hell am I supposed to know if someone is following me?

Oh, man.

Ben’s words run through my head. Spit in the policeman’s face to get yourself arrested. I feel faint. I don’t even know if I could physically spit on someone. It’s not like it’s something that I have ever practiced. I shake my head in disbelief. Honestly, I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. I turn and look out through the back window again and just see different cars this time. No single car is standing out, not that I can really see much. I put my hands in a praying position in front of my lips as I think. When we get to the hotel I’ll be able to see if anyone is following us. What do I do if there is? Do I jump back in the car and demand to go to the police station?

Yes.

I nod, as if psyching myself up.

Spit in a face, that’s all you have to do.

Jail is safe. I frown as I realise what a ridiculous notion that is. What the fuck? Jail isn’t safe; someone else could murder me in there.

Holy crap, this is a fucking disaster.

The cab pulls into the large, circular driveway of a fancy hotel, and I sit in the backseat, peering through the window while the driver retrieves my bags.

I look around and can’t see anyone suspicious.

Shit. Do I get out?

I look left, and then look right. No cars pulled in behind us, and the main road is too busy to stop. I think the coast is clear.

I get out and pay the driver, then make my way into the foyer and up to reception. My eyes are darting around like a crazy person, searching for anything out of the ordinary. I glance at my watch. It’s 7:50 p.m.

Oh no, ten minutes before they know their plan isn’t going to go to plan.

“Good evening.” The receptionist smiles.

“Hello.” I retrieve the credit card Ben has given me and slide it over the desk. “I have a booking in the name of Jones.”

“Sure.” She smiles and starts to type in her computer, and I glance around at the swanky surroundings. How much does this place cost per night?

She prints off a key and hands it to me. “You are in room 246 on level four.”

“Thank you, my husband will be picking up another key later tonight when he arrives.”

“Okay, thank you. I will note that down.”

I make my way over to the lift and up to level four, then down the wide corridor. It’s so luxurious; this place is something else.

I get to my room, swipe the card, and close the door behind me, locking it swiftly.

Thank God, I made it.

For a few moments I stand with my back to the door, so relieved that I made it here. I try to catch my breath. It feels like I have been holding it in for hours. I pull myself together and look around.

The room is big, white, and classy. Navy velvet drapes hang to the floor and they match the bedspread, along with two high wing chairs and ottomans that sit near the fireplace.

I walk around to find the bathroom is completely white with brass fittings, and a triple showerhead in the walk-in shower. The left wall has a floor-to-ceiling mirror.

There is a large, fresh flower arrangement that sits on the round mahogany table.

Wow. This is swanky.

I walk over to the window and pull back the drapes to stare down at the bustling traffic.

Darkness is all I see.

What’s going on at the other hotel?

I get an image of Ben fighting with the two men, and I shake my head to chase away the vision.

Stop it. He’ll be fine.

I walk over and recheck the lock on the door, and then I go into the bathroom.

I need a shower so badly. In fact, I need sleep more than anything at the moment, but I can already tell that’s not in my immediate future.

A hot shower, a hot meal, and I’ll be as good as new.

* * *

BEN

I stand at the window at exactly 8:00 p.m. and look down at the street as I wait for Jason Steele to surface.

Why do they want you dead?

They want to kill me to cover up that they had anything to do with it.

This was not an approved hit. Who is he and why do they want him dead?

I take out my phone and Google Jason Steele, U.S. Diplomat, and I wait for the page to load.

An image comes up and I study it. Dark hair, in his mid-thirties, good-looking as far as dudes go.