Room 204

She lay on the hotel bed peering out the window at the square below; the city’s populous going about their daily business oblivious to each other and their surroundings. She had chosen this room with great care. Second floor – not so high that she was looking at the tops of people’s heads and but not so low that the passing throng would obscure the view across the square. Also importantly the hotel was on the south side of the square looking north so that the sun didn’t shine through the window and no glare or reflection would obscure her view.

She had picked out this spot several months ago after the call had come through giving the time and location of their next job. She hoped that this would be their last for this particular client. He was very demanding but he did pay well and the first instalment was already in the bank account in Belize. A glance at the digital clock on the bedside table told her she had plenty of time to prepare.

She had arrived at the nondescript city centre hotel the day before.  She was just another weary traveler eager for bath, a bite to eat and a bed. Or at least that was the impression the hotel receptionist would have got. An anonymous business woman with scuffed luggage and careworn look on her face, already old beyond her years, her dyed blonde hair in need of the roots done, the chipped nail varnish and bitten fingers testament to the stress she was under.

The hotel receptionist was good at summing up people as they approached the desk. It gave him a clue as to their needs and whether or not he could expect a good tip or, if lucky, a night of alcohol fuelled anonymous sex. He was handsome and he knew it; his voice, mellow and warm, had often enticed customers to offer him a bed for the night. Male, female or both it didn’t matter to him. As she approached the desk he replayed in his mind last Friday’s encounter with the lady from London and the shy gay man from Aldershot. A self satisfied smirk on his face as the frump arrived at the desk.

The frosty look on her face made him wonder if she could read his mind. “No luck here” he thought. He glanced down, no rings on her fingers and no tell-tale dent where a wedding ring usually resided.  On a second look he thought he could see beneath the frumpy business attire and heavy coat quite a fit looking figure. Slim well proportioned, and despite the chipped and broken nails her hands were smooth skinned and delicate. He could imagine them wrapped round his cock.

After a routine exchange of pleasantries, credit card and key, he watched her back as she headed for the lift. He didn’t notice that the lift stopped at the second floor before ascending to the fifth. He forgot about the tired woman the moment he saw the next client come in; he inwardly wolf whistled. This was more like it; about his height in killer stilettos, short skirt revealing tanned, naked legs, silky brown hair, expensively cut; the ample cleavage clearly on display and the glazed eyes of someone already in the party mood. He put on his best smile and went to work.

She leaned both elbows on the reception desk and folded her forearms under her breasts lifting them higher as she leaned forward. She was well aware of the affect she had on men.

“204” she breathed alcoholically into his face.

“Red wine”, he thought and looked at her face for the first time, the makeup was hastily applied and had streaked, the lipstick extending beyond the edges of her lips. Her eyes that from a distance had seemed glazed and ill focussed now had a dark green sharpness in them that made him reassess the situation rapidly. This was no mere drunken good time girl – a slight chill appeared to run down his spine, this was one scary woman he thought, hoping she wouldn’t notice the bulge in his trousers.

She took the proffered electronic key, patted him playfully on the cheek, “Thank you darling” she drawled like some fifties film star and waltzed off to the lifts apparently teetering on the stilettos. The male customers following behind watched her go, each probably wondering who she was and developing fantasies of their own on the strength of her long legs and swaying buttocks.

The 4pm rush was now on and he was occupied booking in the customers for the next half an hour and he forgot his encounter with the beautiful brunette. The hotel was fully booked; tomorrow would be a big day for both the city and the hotel. Royal visitors no less and the city was putting on its best bib and tucker for the event. The massed media were already there; ensconced in hotels and B&B’s throughout the city and beyond. The streets had been cleaned up and graffiti removed, roads around the square were to be closed off at midnight to allow security checks. Councillors and dignitaries from far and wide had converged on the city, businessmen and politicians squeezed into any spare room they could find. This was a “must be seen at” event, the first in the city for a long time and they were going to make the best of it.

The brunette who walked out of the lift on the second floor didn’t seem in the least drunk. She was carrying her shoes and her bare feet made no sound on the carpet as she walked over to 204 and through the door.

“My feet are killing me – how do women wear these shoes?!”

She threw the stilettos onto the floor and flopped down on the bed, pulled the wig from her head and shook out her hair revealing a short blonde bob. Her companion, looking much less the frump threw her a damp towel which she used to remove most of the make-up.

“You’re late” she said.

“Yeah sorry, security was a nightmare at the station.”

Cleaned and refreshed the two began to unpack the battered suitcase; their movements fluid and long rehearsed. It was like watching a complex ballet, the two women flowing through and around each other as they set up their equipment, checked and rechecked, making sure nothing was missing or out of place; each confirming the other’s work by nods and murmured Okays.

“Okay that’s it, all set. Back into character.”

They donned their separate personas for the evening. Jane, remade as the boozy brunette, spent the evening in the hotel restaurant then the bar apparently getting plastered and flirting with all and sundry. She eventually returned unsteadily to her room around 1030. Jean brought the frump to life and ate in a small local cafe before returning to her room in the mid evening.

The police checked through the hotel around eleven. Apologising profusely to the clientele for the disturbance they went through every room in the hotel. Jane looking suitably disheveled, missing one false eyelash greeted the policemen in her frilly bra and pants, feigning drunkenness. The two policemen spent more time inspecting her cleavage than the room. Jane leaned back on the wardrobe arms crossed under her breasts further distracting the policemen from their appointed task.

“I love men in uniform” she slurred, adding a hiccup for good measure. The two men beat a hasty retreat and went on searching through the hotel.

In 504 Jean greeted the policemen in dowdy flannelette pyjamas looking sleepy but sober. The policemen gave a cursory glance around the room, opening and closing the wardrobe doors and the desk drawers. She showed them her driving licence for identification. They checked her name off on a list they had.

“Thank you Ma’am sorry for the intrusion”.

Jean just grunted and closed the door behind them.

By the morning the hotel was looking its best, brasses polished, floors scrubbed, windows sparkling and the staff primed for action. In 204 Jean and Jane were also prepared.

Jean watched the square as the police herded the spectators behind the newly erected crowd barriers. Flags and bunting adorned the buildings around the square, the newly scrubbed steps leading to the imposing Victorian city chambers split by a glowing red carpet. Jane was running through her exercises, stretching muscles and tendons, loosening lingering tension in her body and mind; building the necessary focus. All that had gone before was forgotten as the moment of action approached. She rolled her head around lifting and lowering her shoulders shaking out her hands. Jane lay face down on the bed and pulled the handmade rifle’s stock to her shoulder and put her eye to the telescopic sight. The red carpet expanded into view. A few minor adjustments to the sight and she was ready.

“273 metres as we thought, wind 3 metres per second from the left” said Jean glancing at her palm top computer, “Cavalcade one minute away.” Jane made a slight correction to her aim

A Rolls Royce made stately progress round the square followed by the worlds TV cameras, flanked front and back by Range Rovers with blacked out windows. The cavalcade glided to a halt, the rear door of the Rolls exactly level with the red carpet. A uniformed flunky opened the rear door and the Prince stepped out resplendent in his army uniform to cheers and flag waving from the crowd. He mounted the four steps and as expected turned to wave to the assembled people.

In room 204 a finger squeezed the trigger and through the sight Jane saw his head explode; the silenced shot perfect once again. A moments silence in the square then the first scream was joined by hundreds of others, security men rushing to the fallen prince, others surrounding the assembled dignitaries and hustling them into the building, guns held high scanning the surrounding buildings.

Jean and Jane rapidly broke down the rifle and stowed it in specially made compartments in two rucksacks.  They walked unhurriedly down the emergency stairs and out the back of the hotel into a narrow, rubbish strewn lane; the route carefully chosen to avoid all CCTV cameras. The swelling panic in the square behind them provided an additional level of cover. They separated; one heading left and other right. Two pretty women exited either end of the lane at different times and disappeared into the fleeing crowd.

By the time the security forces found the hole in the window in room 204, Jane was boarding a flight to Spain and Jean was in their flat 100 miles away confirming that they were a million pounds richer. The TV news delivered the tragic news of the death of a prince, shot by person or persons unknown.

In room 204 Chief Superintendent Martin Strange, picked up a monogrammed linen handkerchief.

“J.J. – Fuck! – Him again!”

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