The Bodyguard Dies

The Bodyguard Dies
The motel sign buzzed weakly in the dark: The Lasting Sleep.

Lancelot killed the engine and stared at the faded lettering for a second, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Cheerful name,” he said. “Really sells the romance.”

Carla was already reaching for the door when her phone lit up. Carolina’s name. She answered on the second ring, voice steady.

“Is the deed done?”

“Yes. Payment has been made. I’m on my way back now. I’ll be there soon.”

“Good.” The Queen hung up without another word.

Lancelot let out a low, amused breath. “You’re so far gone for me you’re lying straight to the woman you’ve sworn your life to. Just to steal an hour in a place like this.”

Carla shot him a flat look. “Don’t push your luck. One hour of pleasure. That’s all this is. It's not the romantic getaway you've conjured in your head.”

He chuckled and they got out. The motel lot smelled of old asphalt, cheap detergent from the laundry vent, and someone’s distant cigarette. The office was a glass box with a sleepy clerk who took cash and asked no questions. Key in hand, they climbed the single flight of concrete stairs. The railing was cold and slightly sticky under Carla’s palm.

Lancelot unlocked the door, stepped inside first, and waited. She followed. The door clicked shut. He drew the thin curtains, cutting off the weak glow from the parking lot lights.

The room was small, the air already warm and close. A double bed with a faded floral cover took up most of the space. Lancelot turned to face her fully. The way he looked at her left little to interpretation. He was eager and ready to pounce.

Carla raised an eyebrow. “You going to stand there staring all night, or are we doing this?”

That was the only invitation he needed. He crossed the short distance in two strides, lifted her clean off her feet, and dropped her onto the mattress. His mouth found the line of her throat and the top of her cleavage while his hands worked at the fastening of her pants. She was already pulling at his jacket and the buttons of his shirt, fingers impatient, breath already changing.

Suddenly, his satellite phone rang from the pocket of the jacket she was trying to drag off him. The sound was sharp and out of place. Lancelot pulled the device free, glanced at the screen, and rejected the call without answering. Carla’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. They went back to undressing each other, movements growing rougher, more urgent.

The phone rang again. This time, he powered it off completely and tossed it onto the chair in the corner.

Carla couldn't take it anymore. She shoved him hard in the chest, hard enough to create real space, and stood up from the bed in one fluid motion. Her voice had lost every trace of heat.

“Why won’t you answer your calls?”

“It’s not important,” he said, still breathing evenly. “Come back here.”

“I already know what you’re hiding.” She kept her eyes on his. “I just don’t understand the endgame yet.”

Lancelot’s expression barely shifted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t insult me. Gabriella is alive. She’s been speaking to you on that phone. I’ve heard her voice with my own ears. What are the two of you planning?”

He held the denial. “You’re wrong, Carla.”

“I’m not.” Carla’s tone went colder. “You’ve been meeting with her. Coordinating. The Knights crashed a wedding that was supposed to kill her and somehow she walks away and ends up in regular contact with their leader. That isn’t coincidence. So I’ll ask again—what are you up to?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“Everything that threatens the Queen concerns me.” She took a step toward the door. “If you won’t tell me the truth, you’ll tell Carolina. She can decide what to do with a Knight who’s been speaking to her dead daughter behind her back.”

She turned towards the door, reached for the handle. It turned, but the door stayed shut. Lancelot held up the key between two fingers.

“You’re not leaving,” he said quietly.

Carla turned back to him, eyes flat. “Then I guess I’ll just kill you instead.”

Her hand went to the place where her sidearm should have been. It was already gone. Lancelot held the weapon up for her to see, removed the magazine, cleared the chamber, and broke the gun down with a few efficient motions. He set the pieces on the dresser out of reach.

“We talk and you hear me out,” he said. “That’s all. Sit down. Tell me what you think you know, and I’ll tell you what I can.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

She called him a traitor—voice low, vicious—and came at him. At first he only moved: turning aside, catching wrists, redirecting, trying not to hurt her. He kept speaking while he defended.

“Stop. Carla, stop. This isn’t what you think. Just listen to me for one minute—”

She pulled the small knife she always carried. The fight changed. He stopped giving ground, knowing that she was ready to gut him. He ducked underneath her attacks, watching carefully, waiting for the perfect opening. When he found it, he reached over, disarmed her and thrust the knife right into a heart.

He held her up and shook his head. "All we needed to do was talk."

She tried to speak, but choked on her own blood. There was no saving her, so he thrust the blade further into her heart and finished the job.

When it was over, Carla was on the floor and no longer moving. Blood spread slowly across the cheap carpet around her. Her eyes stayed open, fixed on nothing.

Lancelot stood over her for a long moment, breathing hard, the knife still in his hand. He did not look distraught—only grim, as if something inevitable and regrettable had finally arrived.

“I didn’t plan for it to go this way,” he said quietly to the empty room. “I’m sorry.”

He cleaned the blade on the edge of her clothes, picked up his jacket, and looked at her one last time.

“What a waste.”

He took the key from the dresser, unlocked the door, and walked out into the night, leaving the body and the spreading blood behind him in the silent room.