Third Floor, Radisson Hotel WC: 299

Third Floor, Radisson Hotel

WC: 299

I tossed the unopened envelope onto the bed; someone must have slipped it under my hotel room door while I was at dinner.

I pulled the curtains back a smidge. A black Lincoln idled in the parking lot, three stories below. Through my binoculars, I could see three men: the driver, one guy in the front passenger seat, one in the back. The guy riding shotgun was holding a camera, the driver had binoculars aimed at me.

“I’m watching you, too, you scumbags,” I screamed, my spittle running down the glass.

I assumed they all had guns. Mine was at the ready.

How had it come to this?

I had committed one teeny-weeny crime: moving drugs from Mexico. Well, not so teeny-weeny, I guess. Anyway, the money was good, so I did it again. It felt empowering to be able to pay my bills and have money left over for luxuries. Eventually, I quit my job at the laundromat and began moving drugs full-time. It was scary, thrilling. I felt alive for the first time in my life.

I took another look-see. The back seat was empty.

I checked the locks and secured the metal chain.

You know how they say, “Crime doesn’t pay.”? Well, it does, but there’s also a price. I’m pretty sure I’m about to pay it. Well, maybe not. They wouldn’t shoot a woman, would they?

I opened the envelope and read the letter.

You stole from the Cartel. Stupid move. Now you pay.

Well, I did, and it was stupid. And, I guess they would kill a woman.

Someone pounded on the door. “I know you’re in there!!”

So, I’m gonna hide in the closet with my Glock now; maybe he’ll go away.

If not, it’s been nice spilling my guts to you.