Marta (Det. Mia)

The neon hum of the motel sign flickered through the rain, washing the cracked pavement in a pulse of red and blue. The rain had stopped and she was waiting outside for a new customer. Detective Mia Vargas adjusted the hem of her short skirt, forcing herself into the swagger her cover, Marta the working girl demanded. Weeks of posing as bait had yielded nothing but bruised pride and cold stares—until tonight. Dispatch had tipped her off about a new john in the area, someone who fit the profile too well: methodical, charming, and always vanishing without a trace after his victims were found. Her heart ticked in time with the rain as she glanced at the mirror, rehearsing the smirk that hid the Glock strapped in a very awkward spot but well hidden without a search and it would never get that far. She heard the splashing footsteps and there he stood clean-cut, polite, the kind of man who might hold doors and send flowers. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. Mia returned it anyway, her pulse sharp as wire. The air was thick with cologne and something metallic beneath it. The plan was simple: play the role, get him talking in a room in sleazy hotel, signal her backup.