Saturday Special: Room 206 by Sven Walther

(Our editor recently ran a series of writing workshops, and the participants were such excellent writers that we've decided to do a Saturday Special for them, as their final products exceeded our usual word count. We hope you enjoy these longer stories as much as we do!)

Room 206

Rain slicked the streets like oil under starlight, and three police cruisers screamed past the EZ-Mart, their sirens flaring in the wet dark. Eli Mercer froze mid-bite, the hot dog turning to ash in his mouth. He checked his watch—11:06.

The tightness beneath his ribs wasn’t hunger. It was instinct. Fifteen years on the force had taught him to trust the kind of gut-feeling that left fingerprints on your bones.

The Pinecrest. Has to be.

His fingers tightened around the coffee cup, the heat branding his palm. He wasn’t due to meet Natalie for another thirty-five minutes, but something was wrong. Very wrong.

He could still hear her voice from last week’s call—stripped of its usual polished warmth: “I found something, Eli. Something big. About TechNova. About the government contracts.”

Natalie Kane. Escort, yes. But not ordinary. Anything but. She had access to men like Marcus Reeves—the tech wunderkind who’d landed three defence contracts this year. And Judge Martin Holloway, whose name alone made Mercer’s jaw tighten.

He still remembered the last time he'd crossed paths with Holloway—in a courtroom thick with tension, the judge's tone dismissive, the gavel falling like a death knell. Mercer had left that day with a bitter taste in his mouth and a lesson: power protects itself.

Now, squad cars screamed toward the motel where Natalie was supposed to meet him.

Coincidence? Mercer didn’t believe in those. Not anymore.

——————————————————

Fifteen minutes earlier, Natalie Kane parked her car at the motel. Her lipstick moved across her lower lip like a scalpel—precise, unhurried. In the rearview mirror, Natalie Kane stared back at herself. Cool. Composed. Calculating.

Outside, the neon sign of The Pinecrest buzzed and flickered, casting sickly pink shadows across the parking lot’s cracked pavement. Another seedy motel, another powerful man who liked his sins discreet. Judge Holloway had rules. Preferences. Routines she could map blindfolded.

Her dress whispered across her skin as she smoothed it, expensive enough to suggest class, restrained enough to suggest discretion. The kind of balance wealthy men paid for—beauty that knew its place.

Through the blur of glass and neon, Natalie watched the lot. Cracked pavement. Flickering overhead light.

Just another job. Just another night.

But it wasn’t.

This had started with Marcus Reeves. She’d been seeing him for six months, playing her part—the confidante, the listener, the woman who knew when to smile and when to vanish. Until his hands lingered too long, until his voice softened too much.

“It’s all about who you know,” he’d slurred one night. “And Judge Holloway knows exactly how to word a contract. You ever think about disappearing?” he’d asked, eyes unfocused, “before they decide for you?”

She’d smiled. Asked questions.

And when he stepped into the shower, she accessed his laptop. Just another gig—until she found something she couldn’t forget.

She checked her watch. Holloway first, then Mercer. Exchange evidence. Disappear. That had been the plan.

But something had shifted. Marcus’s last visit—how he’d looked at her, like he was measuring what she knew. Testing her. The casual question: “Ever meet the judge?” delivered with a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

Her pulse ticked—not with nerves, but memory.

She’d learned to deal with these situations before, but that felt like a lifetime away. Lines were getting blurred, making it easy to forget who she really was underneath all of this. Tonight she wasn’t just some call-girl. It felt like she was a target.

Her phone chimed, pulling her back to the moment at hand.

CHANGING ROOMS. 206 INSTEAD OF 108.

Natalie frowned. Holloway changing rooms? No chance. He was a man of order. Of routine. Someone else had made that call. The question was—why?

She stepped out, Louboutins clicking against the damp asphalt, a sound like small caliber gunshots in the quiet night. A sedan idled in the shadows, its headlights dark. Watching. Waiting.

She didn’t react. Didn’t pause. Just let her hips sway with practiced ease and walked toward Room 206.

The performance never stopped. Not even when no one applauded.

Her pulse ticked—not with nerves, but memory. Her body catalogued escape routes, angles, timing. Old training. Repurposed. Not for defence.

For control.

She ascended the cracked concrete steps with deliberate calm. Room 206 loomed ahead, its number dulled by time and neglect. Her heels tapped a warning on the walkway, each step measured.

Natalie knocked, voice warm and intimate, the way Holloway liked. "Judge? It's me."

Silence.

She knocked again. Nothing.

Her hand hesitated at the keycard, a flicker of something cold brushing her spine. Holloway never missed details, never left her waiting.

She slid the card through. The lock clicked open.

The room smelled faintly of mildew and lemon cleaner, like every other Pinecrest room. A single lamp burned beside the bed, throwing long shadows across faded wallpaper. She stepped inside, her senses scanning without appearing to.

Movement—barely perceptible—in the mirror.

A shadow slipped through the connecting door into the next room.

But her gaze locked on what anchored the stillness: Judge Holloway, seated at the desk. Motionless. Eyes vacant. Head tilted too far to one side.

"Judge?" she whispered, though she already knew.

She moved toward the jacket neatly folded over the armchair. Her fingers had just brushed the fabric when a figure burst from the shadows.

A man in a dark suit. No words, just force.

He lunged, grabbing her arm. She twisted, training kicking in—use his momentum, shift her weight. He stumbled. She broke free.

Something fell to the floor.

A wallet.

She scooped it up as she bolted out the door, his groan trailing behind her like smoke.

Once outside, she ducked behind the motel’s corner. Her breath came in tight bursts, fogging in the cool night.

She rifled through the wallet. Credit cards. Cash. A worn photo of a younger Holloway with a woman—his wife, likely. Behind his bar association card, a slim USB drive.

Jackpot.

She slid it into her bra, heart still racing as the first wail of sirens split the air.

Someone had set her up.

The only question now—was it to kill her, or to keep her quiet?

——————————————————

The Pinecrest reeked of desperation buried beneath layers of lemon-scented cleaner. Eli Mercer stepped through the lobby doors, the tension in his jaw spreading through his shoulders.

Six officers lingered with staged nonchalance, their silence loud. A crime scene wrapped in bureaucracy.

He spotted Officer Sanders near the hallway, shifting his weight like a kid caught sneaking in after curfew.

"Can’t let you in, Mercer," Sanders said, voice too high. "Captain says it’s delicate."

“No worries.” Mercer kept his tone flat. “Have you got the time?”

Sanders flicked his wrist, the time glowing in the flickering lights of the lot, “I’ve got 11:11.”

“Looks like we’re killing time until the Captain gets here… What’ve we got?"

Sanders glanced toward the hallway like it might swallow him. "Judge Holloway. Found in Room 206. Natural causes."

Mercer raised a brow. "Strange place for natural causes."

He was already moving before Sanders could answer.

Room 206 was quiet, the kind of silence that followed violence. The AC hummed an electric funeral dirge.

Mercer scanned the room, eyes narrowing. A last-minute room switch. An isolated corner of the building. No security cameras on this side of the motel. The perfect trap. Someone planned this trap, and Natalie walked right into it.

Judge Martin Holloway sat in the desk chair, eyes wide, head at an angle nature didn’t intend. His eyes stared into infinity. A tableau of power undone.

The bed remained untouched. A glass of water half-empty. Shoes aligned neatly. Suit jacket crumpled on the floor.

That’s off.

Mercer crouched. Something glinted beneath the dresser. A silver-embossed TechNova business card.

Mercer turned the card in his fingers. “TechNova just secured defence contracts worth billions. Holloway was set to finalize cybersecurity approvals next week. Convenient time for a natural death, don’t you think?”

Sanders shifted uneasily. “You saying TechNova wanted Holloway gone?”

“Or complaint,” Mercer said, slipping the card into his pocket. “Either way, this isn’t coincidence. Who found him?" he asked without turning.

"Woman," Sanders said behind him. "Front desk called it in."

"Wallet?"

"Gone."

Mercer stood. "Natural causes, but the judge’s wallet walks off. And that doesn’t strike you as odd?"

The silence answered for him.

Captain Martinez filled the doorway like a threat. His face hard as granite.

"This isn’t your case, Mercer."

Mercer didn’t blink. "No case, right? Just a dead federal judge with a bent neck and no ID."

"Exactly. So why are you here?"

"Heard the call. Curious coincidence. Holloway was reviewing bids for the Defence Department’s cybersecurity platform."

A flicker in Martinez’s eyes. His right hand twitched.

Mercer locked onto the tell.

"Careful, Detective. Not everything’s a conspiracy. This has nothing to do with TechNova."

"Funny," Mercer said, stepping past him. "I never said TechNova."

The twitch deepened.

Mercer walked out with the echo of suspicion trailing him like smoke.

——————————————————

Natalie pressed her back against the damp brick wall, checking her heart rate with her watch. It was fast. She noticed the time—11:08—Mercer wasn’t due for another thirty-five minutes. She was on her own.

Through gaps in the fence, red and blue lights pulsed against the motel’s façade like a gaudy nightclub. The image of Holloway’s body burned in her mind—eyes glassy, neck wrong.

She needed out. But not without knowing what she had. Hopefully it confirmed the information in the emails she got from Reeves’ computer.

She ran until the blinking neon faded behind her, traded for the throb of wet pavement and distant sirens. Her dress tore against some forgotten shrapnel of a broken fence. She didn’t care.

Three blocks later, she ducked into a recessed entryway beside an all-night check-cashing joint. From her clutch, she pulled a prepaid burner and tapped Mercer’s number.

She stopped short of dialling.

The cops had been too fast. Too coordinated. It felt staged. Like someone knew the moment Holloway hit the floor.

Her fingers brushed the USB drive, it felt warm. Whatever was on it had tipped someone’s hand.

She needed answers before she decided who to trust.

Down the block, a neon blue sign flickered behind a dirty plate-glass window: BYTE BAR INTERNET CAFÉ. She didn’t know they still existed.

It would have to do.

——————————————————

The Pinecrest lobby looked like a place where secrets went to rot—aged plastic plants, scuffed linoleum, and the smell of cheap cologne over bleach.

Mercer stepped inside, the air immediately clinging to his skin. Behind the counter, the clerk blinked up from a magazine. His eyes flicked to the wall clock—11:15—then quickly away. The tin nameplate on the counter read “EARL.”

Mercer followed the glance. Maybe Earl was just counting the minutes to shift change. Or maybe he knew something was coming before midnight and wanted no part of it.

"Back again ‘tective?” Earl asked, trying for casual. It came out tight.

"Busy night," Mercer said. He leaned on the counter, voice calm. "You call in the body?"

Earl shrugged, flipping a page. "Lady came yellin’ ‘bout a dead guy in 206. What else wuz I ‘sposed to do?”

"Lady?" Mercer’s brow lifted. "She screamed?”

"Yeah, I guess."

"Natalie Kane doesn’t scream."

Earl’s eyes darted. "Maybe I heard wrong.”

Mercer reached into his pocket and placed his coffee down with a thud. "Holloway always booked Room 108. Third Thursday. You know that."

A beat. Then: "People switch rooms sometimes."

Mercer pulled out a folded sheet of paper. A calculated bluff. "His calendar says otherwise. So who changed the room?"

Earl’s throat moved. "Got a call. Said it was important. Said he’d pay."

"Who called?"

“Don’t know. Some guy. Real calm. Offered five large if I left the key for 206 under the mat. Said it wuz ‘bout nation’l security or somethin’.”

Mercer’s tone dropped. "Anyone else come around?"

"Maybe half hour before… Guy in a suit. Didn’t say much. Had a coffee cup like that one.”

Mercer’s grip on the cup tightened. "You get a name?"

"Nope. Just saw ‘im from here. Never saw him go in. But he was waiting, though.”

The clerk’s phone buzzed. Mercer’s eyes caught the screen:

STALL HIM.

He snatched it before Earl could.

Another message pinged: CLEANER ARRIVES IN 5. GET RID OF MERCER.

Mercer looked up, voice like ice. "Thanks for your help, Earl. You might want to be gone before that cleaner arrives. You’re a witness now, too, and they’re not coming to clean the floors.”

Earl swallowed hard and vanished into the back.

Mercer pocketed the phone and walked out. The air outside felt colder.

Natalie had been right to run.

run.

——————————————————

Natalie crouched behind the alley dumpster, coat wrapped tight around her. Her breath smoked out in shallow plumes. The USB felt heavier now. Like it was part of her. Like it wanted to burn a hole in her ribs.

She held it in her palm. One flick, and she could hurl it into the sewer drain. Gone. Forgotten. A clean escape.

She could disappear. Drop the drive in a storm grate. Let someone else play martyr.

Her thumb twitched. But she pocketed it again.

If he asks, she’ll lie.

——————————————————

Three blocks away, Mercer’s burner buzzed once more.

"She has the drive," he said. "And she knows."

Static. Then a voice like silk wrapped in iron:

"Then be sure it doesn’t see daylight."

He ended the call. Watched the rain blur the windshield.

If she ran—he’d put her down.

But part of him, the part Marcus once trusted, still hoped she’d choose right.

They both had ghosts. Only one of them still believed in resurrection.

——————————————————

Inside the café, the air smelled of old coffee and flickering screens. A single teenager hunched over a gaming console, oblivious to the world.

“We close at midnight,” the young woman behind the counter looked unimpressed with a potential new customer. “If you want coffee, get it in the next ten minutes, we don’t take orders the last half hour.”

Natalie chose the terminal in the corner, back to the wall. She sat, breathed deep, and plugged in the USB. It clicked into place with a sound like a trigger pulled.

A folder blinked onto the desktop: "INSURANCE."

She opened it.

Dozens of files spilled out. Contracts. Emails. Transaction logs. Names she recognized. Names she didn’t want to.

There were multiple folders, “Kill list,” “Backdoors,” and something worse she dared not name. She didn’t want to even think about it.

“Backdoors”--she’d start there. It contained blueprints for security flaws written into defence infrastructure. The kind of flaws no one should know about—unless they’d put them there.

Her heart skipped a beat as the door chimed open. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. A quick upload—her insurance policy. One click. Uploaded. She exhaled, the digital grenade primed. Now, at least, they couldn’t silence her without consequences. She didn’t look. Just minimized the window and hovered over the USB.

Footsteps approached. Slow. Deliberate.

She glanced into the screen’s reflection.

A man. Suit. Silver lapel pin glinting—TechNova’s star.

Her hand darted to the USB. Yanked it free.

She slid from the chair, low, fast, ducking beneath the desk as the man’s shadow stretched across the keyboard.

Too close.

Too soon.

“Ms. Kane,” he said, calm as a banker. “You’re making this worse.”

She didn’t breathe.

The game had changed.

——————————————————

Mercer killed the headlights a block from the Byte Bar and let the engine idle. He scanned the dim street, watching the sidewalk reflections ripple in broken puddles.

The motel clerk’s phone still vibrated in his pocket—three numbers, likely burners, each issuing instructions like a chain of command without names. But the message was clear: Holloway’s death had been staged.

Room 206 wasn’t a mistake. It was a kill box.

Natalie had been drawn into it. Or led.

He stepped out of the car, crossing the street fast and low. The neon buzz of the Byte Bar glowed like an insect trap, too loud in the silence.

Through the fogged glass, Mercer spotted movement. A man in a tailored suit. A silver pin glinting beneath fluorescent light.

Mercer recognized the pin instantly. TechNova. He’d spent months tracing their connections, uncovering shadow transactions buried under layers of bureaucratic protection. The deeper he dug, the dirtier it got. Now, that dirt was spilling out in front of him.

Mercer’s hand closed around the grip of his sidearm. He moved to the side entrance, slipping in through the alley. His eyes adjusted quickly—Natalie was gone from view.

He scanned. Then—under a desk. Her shape, curled tight.

The man loomed overhead.

Mercer didn’t wait.

He grabbed the nearest empty bottle from the trash can and hurled it out the front door. Glass exploded across the pavement.

The man flinched. Natalie sprang.

An elbow to the ribs. A twist. The USB still clutched in her fist.

Mercer stepped from the shadows, gun raised. "Police! Drop it!"

The man turned, calm and composed. "Detective Mercer. This is a misunderstanding. Judiciary security."

"ID. Now."

The man reached—slow, fluid. But instead of a badge, he pulled a phone. "You’ll want to take this."

The phone rang. Mercer hesitated.

"Speaker," he barked.

A woman’s voice cut through. Crisp. Confident.

"Detective Mercer. This is Senator Eleanor Vance. I believe you’re with someone who accessed highly classified material."

Mercer’s eyes flicked to Natalie, who froze at the sound.

"I’m listening."

"That USB contains national security secrets,” the senator continued smoothly. “If those documents leak before TechNova’s bid approval, the damage won’t just be political—it’ll be catastrophic. We’re talking defence infrastructure vulnerabilities. Imagine what our adversaries could do with that. The man you’re pointing a gun at is retrieving it for containment. A defence leak right before bid approval?” Her voice iced over. “That’s not coincidence. That’s a bloodbath.”

"Containment?" Mercer echoed. "That what we’re calling murder now?"

"It was a heart attack," the senator replied smoothly. "The medical examiner will confirm."

"He hasn’t even arrived."

Pause. Then: "You think they let someone like me reach the Senate without making trade-offs? Detective, you’re a smart man. Don’t make this political."

Now Mercer’s voice turned to ice. "I think it already is."

He cut the call and tossed the phone back to the man.

"You’ve got ten seconds to walk away."

The man hesitated. Then backed out.

Mercer and Natalie stood in silence as the SUV disappeared.

"We need to move," he said.

Natalie nodded, clutching the USB like a grenade, the pin already pulled.

——————————————————

Natalie emerged from the alley just as Mercer approached. Their eyes locked. Something passed between them—caution, calculation. She moved first.

“Drive,” she said.

They didn’t speak again until the city lights had faded behind them and the car sliced through wet black roads like a scalpel.

Rain sheeted the windshield. Mercer gripped the wheel tighter than necessary.

"They’ll be watching highways," Natalie said, her voice too calm. "They always do."

"I know a way through the hills."

“Of course you do.”

A beat of silence stretched. The wipers thumped.

Then headlights appeared behind them—too close. No sirens. Just presence.

Natalie turned in her seat. "That’s not a cop."

Mercer floored the accelerator.

The road narrowed. Trees blurred by. The car behind them kept pace, unwavering.

Natalie pulled her seatbelt tighter. "How long have they been on us?"

"Since the café. Maybe longer."

She didn’t ask how he knew.

Mercer swerved hard onto a gravel cutoff, tires spitting mud. The pursuing car fishtailed on the turn but followed.

"There’s a service trail," he said. "Old fire road. Half a mile."

The car jolted violently as they took it, headlights bouncing.

“You’re really good at this,” she said.

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.”

Branches scraped the sides. The windshield fractured from a stray rock.

The car behind them was gone.

Mercer slowed. Not stopped—never stopped.

Natalie exhaled slowly. "They’ll find us again."

"Probably."

"Then what’s the plan?"

"Buy time. Figure out who else is playing this game."

She looked at him. "You already know."

He didn’t answer.

Rain slashed through the trees as they pulled up outside the cabin. It hunched at the edge of the woods, a silhouette against a sky smeared in storm.

"End of the line," Mercer said, killing the engine.

They sat for a long moment. The only sound was rain on the roof, like a barrage of ticking clocks.

Natalie didn’t move.

Mercer turned toward her, gun in hand, already steady. "Don’t move."

She didn’t flinch. "You won’t shoot me. You need what I have."

"If I shoot you," he replied, cold and flat, "what you have becomes mine."

"It’s already uploaded. Dead man’s switch. If I go dark, it all goes live."

Mercer studied her. He looked like a man trying to remember which version of himself brought him here.

"That scare tactic doesn’t work on them. They’ll spin it. Say it was treason. Or prostitution gone wrong. That’s what they do. Narratives are cheaper than facts."

Natalie moved her hand slowly toward her coat. He didn’t stop her.

"Who are you working for, Mercer? It’s not just you out here."

He laughed—just once. "You still think this is about sides. There are no sides. Just survivors."

For half a breath, her chest tightened, grief flickering behind her eyes—Marcus’s casual warmth, his laugh. A fleeting memory she couldn’t afford now.

The rain sounded louder now. Like breathing.

"You killed Reeves," she said. He’d trusted Mercer. She hadn’t. One of them was dead. The other… might be wrong.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

She reached into her coat—not for the USB, but for the badge.

“Agent Kane,” she said, voice like a loaded gun.

He raised his weapon a half-inch higher. “I figured.”

“You’re not going to shoot a federal agent."

Mercer smiled. "Everyone thinks they’re holding the final card."

Behind them, a distant siren wailed—miles off but growing.

Natalie’s grip tightened. So did his.

Lightning split the sky.

Then another flash.

Not from above.

From inside the car.

A breath.

A gasp.

Silence.

And then--only rain.