Chapter 3
by 
Yelawolf
You...
Arrive at the compound
You arrive at the compound's gates, your heart pounding in your chest. The imposing iron bars stretch high into the sky, topped with sharp points that gleamed menacingly in the sunlight. The guard, a burly man with a thick mustache, eyes you suspiciously as you approach with your head bowed.
"Name?" he barks, barely glancing at the ID you present.
"Sara Smith. I'm the new maid, sent by the agency," you reply meekly, your voice a soft whisper that you hope sounds genuine. The guard grunts, barely looking at the ID you offer before waving you through with a bored flick of his hand. The heavy gates swing open, and you step into a world of opulence and danger.
The compound is vast, sprawling over lush, meticulously landscaped grounds. A cobblestone path leads to the main house, a sprawling mansion that seems to breathe money and power. You follow the path, the sound of your sensible shoes echoing against the stone. The air is thick with the scent of tropical flowers, and the distant sound of laughter and music carries from somewhere within the compound.
As you approach the mansion, you notice other staff members scurrying about, their faces a mix of boredom and wariness. You give them a quick smile and a nod, hoping to blend in. The uniform fits you well, cinched at the waist and revealing just enough to be alluring without being overtly sexual. It's a fine line to walk, but one you've practiced.
You are quickly told to do El Escorpión's family laundry, which means you'll be going through their most private spaces. It's a perfect opportunity to gather intel without raising suspicion. You grab the basket of dirty clothes and start your work, your mind racing with thoughts of the mission ahead.
His wife is a demanding woman, you've been told, and her wardrobe is as vast as it is expensive. You navigate through the mansion, taking in the opulent furnishings and vivid artwork that adorn the walls. Each room is a treasure trove of information, and you scrutinize every detail, committing it to memory.
As you enter the master suite, the stark contrast between El Escorpión's and his wife's tastes is immediately apparent. His side of the room is sparse, almost cold, with only a few personal effects scattered about—a gold-plated gun on the nightstand, a bottle of fine whiskey on the dresser. Her side, however, is a cocoon of luxury. Silk sheets and plush pillows adorn the king-sized bed, and a walk-in closet the size of a small apartment houses a rainbow of designer dresses and shoes. You can't help but feel a twinge of envy for the life she must lead.
You begin to sort through the laundry, separating darks from lights. As you do, your eyes catch on a small, leather-bound notebook poking out from beneath a pile of discarded lingerie. You hesitate, knowing that touching something so personal could be risky, but the potential for information is too great to resist.