True Conviction by James P. Sumner

ago.”
    “Very true. Right, I’m gonna go do my thing. Ring you when it’s done.”
    “Take it easy, Boss.”
    I hang up and use the phone next to the bed to ring down to the front desk and order some room service. Then I move round to the other side, get on my hands and knees, and look underneath the bed. Sure enough, there’s a small, industrial drill lying there. I smile to myself.
    “Josh, you’re a good man,” I mutter.
    The drill bit in the end is a quarter-inch wide and close to a foot and a half long. I pick it up, pressing the trigger quickly to check it works. It does and it’s surprisingly quiet, which is perfect. I stand up and drag the chair from under the desk near the TV over against the wall nearest the windows. I climb on it and reach up, steadying myself for a moment before drilling a hole right through the ceiling. This is likely to be the riskiest part of the job, but the quiet drill coupled with the loud music on my TV should mask most of the noise in the room above. Unless I’m desperately unlucky and Jackson’s standing directly on or near where I’m drilling, he shouldn’t notice anything.
    I break through the ceiling and the floor above. I retract it quickly and wait a moment to see if there’s any reaction. I hear nothing. Satisfied I’ve remained undiscovered, I step back down and retrieve a surveillance camera and monitoring unit from my briefcase. The camera is a long, thin, flexible cord about three feet long. Attached to it is a small notebook-style computer. The seven-inch monitor showed the live feed from the camera. Where the keyboard would’ve been normally are two joysticks, which control both the camera cord and the lens. I fire it up and step back on the chair, feeding the camera slowly through the hole I’ve just drilled. The feed transmits to the computer in my left hand. I work the joysticks with my right to look around with the camera.
    His suite is huge, which poses a slight issue for me. Jackson is sitting at a desk, resting his head in his right hand as he concentrates on whatever it is he’s looking at. To his left are the double doors that lead out to the hall and three doors leading off from the main room which are all closed.
    He certainly looks alone…
    There’s a knock on my door which distracts me. A voice outside announces itself as room service. I quickly retract the camera and climb down off the chair. I pack the equipment back inside my briefcase and take out one of my guns instead. The weight of my Beretta is always a welcome comfort in my hand. I know that I have complete control of any situation when I have a gun in my hand.
    I move over to the door and quickly glance through the peep hole. It’s room service. I open it, stepping behind it as I do. A guy walks into the room holding a tray with both hands. I push the door shut and step toward him. He turns his head, caught by surprise, and before he can say anything, I slam the butt of my gun into his right temple. He slumps to the floor, unconscious before the tray crashes down next to him.
    Goodnight sweetheart.

7.
16:49
    I KNOCK ON the door of the Summer suite on the sixteenth floor, directly above my room. The uniform I’ve borrowed fits reasonably well. I've tucked my gun, which I've equipped with its silencer, inside the waistband at the back of my pants, covering it with the bottom of my jacket. I’m carrying the tray that the waiter dropped in my room. I hope Jackson isn’t genuinely hungry, because I wasn’t able to salvage much of the Caesar salad that fell on my floor and it looks awful.
    “Who is it?” asks a frustrated voice from inside the room.
    “Room service,” I reply.
    There’s a brief pause.
    “I didn’t order anything and I don't want to be disturbed.”
    Luckily, I’ve prepared for this reaction.
    “Ah, dammit! Listen, I’m sorry for the mix-up, sir,” I say. “The thing is, I need you to sign to say that you refused the delivery before I can return