Footsteps approach from behind …
Jay swiftly turns to the open door across the room that leads to the hallway, which is where the approaching footsteps emanate. He deftly hurdles a coffee table and smoothly advances to the door with his pistol raised.
Frank’s wife marches into the living room and immediately meets the pistol, aimed at her forehead. She is incapacitated with fear as she stares down the pistol barrel, and she doesn’t breathe.
He lowers the pistol, and she stares with absolute terror at him. He glances down, past her wet nightgown, to the pool of urine expanding out from her feet. He looks into her terrified eyes; there is only one decision to be made. He raises the pistol, and she frantically opens her mouth to plead, but he drives the butt of the pistol onto the back of her head and she collapses to the ground unconscious.
He calmly walks to the back door and steps over the unconscious young officer as he exits the room.
Jay steps out of the 42nd Street – Bryant Park subway station and walks briskly along the busy street. He pulls out a small very old model mobile phone and sends a blank text to “MR SMITH”.
A moment later, he smiles politely at the doorman as he steps into a four star 12-storey hotel, and walks through the reception directly to the three lifts across the room. He pushes the call button, and suddenly, his phone begins to vibrate. He pulls it out and checks the caller ID – “Unknown”. His demeanour instantly snaps to full alert and he slots both hands into his jacket pockets; he grabs his pistol, holstered around his shoulder, through a concealed slot in his right hand pocket. He glances backwards to scan the reception – it is empty, besides the evidently very bored receptionist; threat is minimal. He takes a couple steps backwards in readiness to attack as a lift opens, but it is empty. He walks into the lift and stares intently into the reception as the doors close.
He steps out of the lift at the tenth floor and remains motionless with his hands still in his pockets as he scans the hallway. He then walks quickly but quietly through the hallway, paying particular attention to the room doors, and abruptly stops at a room door near the end of the hallway. He uses his left hand to strongly knock the door twice, and closes his eyes as he keenly listens for any sounds beyond the door; there is none. He pulls out the room key card with his left hand and opens the door.
He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. He switches the light on and immediately back off, and in that moment he’d taken a mental picture of the room; the room is empty and everything inside is as he’d left it. He walks quickly to a small travelling bag on the neatly made bed, but as he unzips it his phone begins to vibrate. He pulls out his phone; caller ID – “MR SMITH”. He answers the call.
‘Captain,’ Mr Smith says, with a soothing elderly Texas accent. ‘They are coming for you.’
A writer. A 27 years old Nigerian born Londoner. And also a foodie.