Based on the prompt: “The maid ruins everything.”
“Anything special about the safe?”
Leo ‘Wolf’ Reznor studied the nebbish little man across the desk as he waited for his answer.
“My sources say it’s just a simple combination lock,” his employer said. “You can handle that, can’t you? They keep it in a panic room, but the room’s kept unlocked as far as I know.”
Wolf shrugged. “So what’s the catch?”
“A catch, sir?”
“You’re paying all this money to hire me. Why?”
“Nothing that I know of, sir,” he said. “But the Goldfields are very well-connected, so this job needs to be undertaken – if you’ll forgive my saying – with care. Nobody can know you were there.”
Wolf stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Wet work’s gonna cost extra.”
“Ah, yes. Yes, I expected as much,” the employer said as he adjusted his wire-frame glasses. “The whole family’s out of town for the week, but I believe they have a live-in maid. She might not even be home.”
“I said, wet work’s gonna cost extra.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” the employer said as he fumbled with his phone. “There. Three million. Half now and half after the job is completed.”
Wolf’s eyes widened.
No job’s worth that much. Something’s wrong.
“I’m sorry, is that not enough?” the man asked.
“Just what’s so important about this safe?” Wolf asked. “What’s in it that’s worth three million?”
“It’s hard to explain, but it’s an antique. You’ll know it when you see it. If you can retrieve it for me, I’ll pay anything.”
“‘Anything’ is a high price tag. Why’s it so important to you?”
“Make it six million. Three now, three later.”
Wolf’s phone pinged as the bank transfer went through and it turned out his concerns had a price tag.
Later that night, Wolf picked the front door of the Goldfields’ mansion and silently crept inside, his tools wrapped in cloth to keep from jingling. Marble floors, gold trim, a hundred ways of wasting money on display. Wolf looked at his map for the safe room. Easy. Go in, get the stuff, get out invest the millions. He understood that Bitcoin was doing well.
He heard singing down the hall.
Dammit. Oh well, wet work costs extra.
Wolf carefully reached into his pocket and retrieved a thick cord with a handle on one end, winding it around his hand. He slipped around the corner and into the kitchen, as silent as the night.
A plump and rosy-cheeked old lady, a walking cliche, was busy making cookies.
“Oh hello, dearie,” she smiled to Wolf. “Are you Mr. Goldfield’s guest?”
Wolf stopped, taken aback for a moment. Was this really going to be so easy?
“I’m Aggie, dearie,” the maid said as she Mrs. Doubtfired her way around the kitchen.
“Sorry, Ags,” Wolf said as he crossed the distance between them in two long strides. “Nothing personal.”
It should have been easy. Loop and twist. Nothing he hadn’t done before. But just as he began to slip the cord around the old woman’s neck, something struck him with the force of a hammer. He stumbled back, gasping for breath and crashing into the back counter. His garrote dropped, handle clattering on the tile floor.
“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I forgot my manners,” Aggie said with a warm smile. “I’m baking some cookies – would you like one?”
“What the hell?” Wolf reached for his backup weapon – a Bersa Thunder .380. It would make more of a mess, but three million was three million. He aimed and fired without another word.
Aggie dodged without effort.
“Oh dear, that’s made a mess in the walls,” Aggie said as Wolf saw – or thought he saw – a faint red gleam in her eyes. “I suppose I’ll have to clean it up.”
He shot wildly at her again before making a break for it.
Fuck this. Three million isn’t worth my life.
Wolf ran from the kitchen, dashing for the front door in a panic. He turned the corner, reached the main hail, and–
–She stood in the doorway, the crimson gleam in her eyes now undeniable.
“Already leaving, dearie?” Aggie asked. “Don’t you want a cookie?”
He changed course and barreled into the hallway toward the open safe room. Wolf slammed the door shut and locked it with finality as he was sealed inside this small room, empty except for a small old-fashioned safe against the wall.
There was a cookie on top of the safe. It hadn’t been there a moment ago.
“No. Oh no, no, no.”
“Oh yes, dearie,” Aggie whispered in his ear. Wolf scrambled away from her in a panic.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m afraid you’re out of your depth, dearie,” Aggie said as she easily opened the safe with one hand. “You see, Mr. Goldfield’s great-great grandfather was in trouble one day, and he said he’d pay any price if someone could help him. And so a little deal was struck. Is this what you were here for?”
She held up an old, worn brass oil lamp.
“What are you, some kind of Genie?”
Aggie chuckled, her voice deepening as her teeth sharpened into fangs. “I’m most certainly not something as weak as a Djinn, dearie. But I suppose I should introduce myself properly, shouldn’t I? I am Agrat bat Mahlat. Daughter of Lilith, Mother of Asmodeus. Now, if you don’t want that cookie, I’m very hungry tonight.”
Wolf Reznor screamed.
Forever.
The next morning when the Goldfield family car pulled up and their driver unloaded luggage, three children got out and ran into the arms of their waiting nanny.
“Auntie Aggie! Auntie Aggie!” the youngest said. “I won the LaCrosse tournament!”
“Of course you did, dearies,” she said. “Goldfields always win.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Goldfield as he got out of the car and nebbishly adjusted his wire-frame glasses. “We do always win, don’t we?”
“Prosperity with such a low price tag,” the demoness agreed. “Now let’s go inside, dearies. Is anybody hungry? I baked cookies!”