Manila Heat The Mi6 Sandwich

I

I never thought I'd liked threesomes. Too much eye contact. Too many elbows. Too much potential for things to go wrong. But this one came with MI6 clearance.

It started on my last day in Manila. I saw her through a swarm of sweating tourists and brown-skinned locals.

She sliced through the crowd like a wire through clay. Local, no doubt. Almond eyes, slightly slanted. Long, dark, wavy hair that looked styled but probably wasn't. Her purple dress popped against the market's dull browns and greys.

And she was staring straight at me.

She moved fast. Not quite running--more like precision gliding.

I was leaning against a table in the shade of a bar, trying not to look like a target. Luggage beside me. Camera around my neck. Phone in one hand, beer in the other. Basically a walking ransom note.

She didn't break eye contact. Not once. I saw something in her hand as she closed in.

This is it, I thought. This is how I get stabbed.

I'd already been stressed. Could've just gone straight to the airport. But no. Had to spend a few pesos on one last beer.

She reached me. No hesitation. On her toes, lips at my ear. Goosebumps rolled down my neck. She pressed something between my palm and my phone.

"Room 301 at the Maynard Inn," she whispered--and vanished back into the crowd.

I watched her go. That little plump ass bounced beneath the purple fabric like punctuation.

I didn't even register her words at first. Too busy watching her leave.

We'll think about what she said later, I told myself. Probably a scam. I go to some hotel room. Get mugged. Or worse.

But still... that ass.

I would've watched her until she disappeared completely, but something tugged at my peripheral. A bald man was staring at me. Another man--stockier, meaner--smacked his arm and nodded down the market, toward where Purple Dress had gone.

The bald one looked back at me. I dropped my eyes to my phone. When I glanced up again, they were already jogging away, heading in her direction. Same trajectory, way less grace.

I stared at my phone, but the screen had gone black. All I could see was my own reflection--camera strap, sweaty shoulders, and a face still tingling from her breath.

Room 301 at the Maynard Inn.

I checked my palm. She'd given me a key card.

I put the beer down and switched phone hands.

Definitely a scam, I thought. But then--who were those two guys chasing her? Part of it, probably.

That's the play: she looks panicked, hands off a key card to a white tourist--me, obviously--and bolts. Then two goons show up, sell the scene, chase after her. Nobody has to say anything. The whole thing is implied.

I'm honestly surprised they didn't stop and ask, "Did you see a woman in a purple dress?" That might've been too on-the-nose. Just making eye contact was enough.

Yeah. Scam.

I slipped the key card into my back pocket and picked up my beer. I had no real plans except the airport. Already shot every beach my editor wanted. Uploaded all the blurbs. He'd hand it off to some SEO copy monkeys to spin into "Top 10" listicles or whatever.

Now I had three days to kill. No obligations. Just me, the heat, and a shrinking budget. Airport back Stateside seemed prudent.

Right on cue, the editor pinged me. Thumbs up on the shots. "Payment en route," he wrote.

I cleared the notification and started typing: Mayn--

Autocorrect handled the rest.

The phone knew I was in the Philippines. Maynard Inn. Thirteen-minute walk.

I finished my beer and slipped the phone into my front pocket. The key card stayed in the back, close enough to forget--or remember, depending on the next beer.

I'd check the place out. Just see what it looked like. Maybe book a room. Maybe not. Ask for 300 or 302. Pretend it's sentimental. See what happens.

If it's a scam, fine. Maybe the hotel staff's in on it too.

But if it's not...

Well. I didn't have to fly home just yet

II

It was a scam -- just not the kind I expected.

The Maynard Inn was modern and clean. Three stories, air-conditioned lobby, automatic doors. Not some seedy dive lit by a flickering sign. Families checked in, tourists checked out. Luggage wheels clicked over tile. A laminated sign listed breakfast hours in three languages.

Whatever this was, it had polish.

The front desk clerk didn't blink when I asked for Room 302.

"Of course, sir," he said -- thick Filipino accent, smile trained by TikTok or corporate onboarding.

I took the elevator with my bags. Camera slung over my shoulder. Ten seconds to the top floor. Swiped into 302, stepped inside like I belonged, and slid the bolt behind me.

I dropped my gear on the bed and pressed an ear to the wall shared with 301.

Nothing.

I sat. Waited. Thought about room service -- whiskey, maybe just a glass. My hands were shaking.

This is stupid.

Trying to be useful, I grabbed the empty ice bucket and stepped out. Found the machine a floor above, filled it. Passed only one person in the hallway -- a cleaner with headphones in.

Back at 301, I paused.

The keycard from Purple Dress still burned in my back pocket. I pulled it out. My hand trembled slightly.

The door in front of me was glossy, fake wood maybe. A little peephole glared like a dead eye. Under it, the blocky white numbers: 301.

Was someone staring back?

I told myself I could still bail. Say, "Oops, wrong room," and vanish.

But my curiosity had already made its move.

I slid in the keycard. The lock clicked. Flashing green.

I cracked the door.

Didn't step in.

If someone lunged, I'd hurl the ice bucket and run. That was the plan.

But the room was empty.

Same layout as mine. Bed made. TV off. Bathroom door open. Shadows in all the right places, but nothing moved.

Unless someone was hiding.

I shut the door gently behind me, listening for the latch. Turned to head back.

Didn't make it.

Something pressed into the center of my back -- hard and deliberate.

A voice whispered near my ear: close, low, female.

"Walk into your room. Slowly. No sudden movements."

British. Raspy. Stern. A voice like gravel over silk.

I obeyed.

She moved with me, keeping pressure on my spine. I put the ice bucket down and unlocked the door. I stepped in. She followed, nudging it closed with her foot.

"Turn around. Slowly. Hands up."

I turned. Raised them. Slowly.

And got my first look.

She was short -- I had at least a foot on her -- but she'd planted herself just beyond arm's reach. Smart.

Blonde. Green eyes. A stare you didn't look away from. Tank top, blue jean shorts. Athletic build. Compact but dangerous.

And in her hands: a small black pistol with a suppressor the size of a cigar. She held it like she'd held it a thousand times.

"Sit on the bed," she said. "Hands where I can see them. Away from the bags."

I sat.

Arms up. Mind racing.

She didn't move. Stayed near the bathroom. Gun steady.

"What's a photographer doing with the key to Room 301?"

I wet my lips. "It was a mistake, I--"

"Don't lie to me, Liam."

She stepped forward. The gun hovered in the air between us like a question mark.

"How--"

"I'm MI6. You're Liam Carmichael. I know your date of birth, where you studied photo journalism, your mother's maiden name, and where your brother Eric is buried."

I flinched.

Eric died of leukemia when we were kids. Hearing it from her mouth made me want to punch something.

"The only thing I don't know," she continued, "is why you're holding a keycard to 301. Hand it over. Now."

I hesitated. Not because I had a plan -- because something in me rebelled at being ordered around. Or maybe I was just done playing passive photo tourist.

"I don't think MI6 has jurisdiction in the Philippines."

She let out a dry laugh -- the kind that says you're adorable when you're dumb. Then she showed her teeth. They didn't fit the stereotype. Somehow that made things worse.

"My jurisdiction," she said, "is the suppressed 9mm you won't hear until it's too late. You'll be face down on this bed for days before anyone finds you. Maid knocks when checkout's overdue. By then? I'll be a different name, in a different country."

"That simple?"

"That simple."

​​"But silencers aren't that silent," I said. "Someone'll hear. And what'll your report say? That an MI6 agent dumped a dead American in a hotel room with a bullet in his head?"

"No one will care."

"I think they might."

She tilted her head slightly. "You want to take that chance?"

Then she cocked the gun -- softly, but loud enough to shut me up.

I didn't blink. Just stared into those green eyes. She wasn't bluffing.

Slowly, I moved for my back pocket -- eyes up, hands deliberate.

"Other side," she said. "Right pocket."

I froze. Smiled, thin and nervous. Switched hands, repeated the gesture.

"You were watching me," I said.

"I have the room across the hall," she replied. The edge had softened, just slightly.

I pulled out the keycard and held it up between my fingers like a poker chip. When I looked at her, something had changed. Her stare was still fixed, but it wasn't on me. It was past me -- somewhere behind her forehead.

She raised a hand to her ear. We both listened to the elevator ding. It was the maid getting off.

The MI6 agent stepped forward, took the card without a word, and holstered her weapon like she'd just finished filing paperwork.

I stood there, arms still raised. My shoulders burned.

"Don't try anything funny," she said. "I will hurt you."

"I believe you."

"Stand up."

I did.

She stepped in -- fast and clinical. Hands under my arms, down my ribs, across my chest, my back. Legs. Thighs. A security check with muscle memory. She stepped back, gave me the full once-over.

"Probably easier if you just strip," she said.

I stared. "Seriously?"

"Strip," she snapped.

I obeyed.

Unbuckled. Dropped my pants. Peeled off my shirt. Now I stood in socks and boxer briefs, feeling less like James Bond and more like a guy being processed at Heathrow.

"Better take those off too," she said.

Her tone had changed. Not flirty -- but not cold either. Her eyes flicked over me. Professional curiosity, maybe. Maybe not.

I hesitated -- then slipped off the socks, then the briefs. Just me now. Bare-assed in a hotel room. No shield. No charm. Just tan lines and regrets about drinking too much beer and not working out.

She smiled -- that same thin-lipped grin that somehow made me feel more naked.

Who says the British have bad teeth?

"Spin around," she said.

I turned. Half expected to be bent over.

"Alright, alright." She clapped her hands once, lightly. "You're clean. Get dressed. I need you to do something."

iii

We slid into her room like nothing had happened. I didn't even see her unlock the door. Inside, she let go of me and pointed at the bed. I sat. She paced -- tight little loops between the foot of the bed and the TV stand.

Somewhere down the hall, a vacuum hummed. Mid-afternoon. My stomach growled.

She didn't say anything. Just walked. Faster now. Tighter circles. Something had changed.

"Room 301's been cleaned," she muttered. Mostly to herself.
"Cleaned?"
"Wiped. Whoever was in there -- gone. No trace."

She stopped. Eyes sharp on mine.

"Can I go?" I asked.
 Her stare narrowed.

"Who gave you that card?"
 "I told you -- woman in a purple dress."
 "You said she was local. How do you know?"
 "I said she looked local. Just... beautiful."
 "And the two guys?"

I described them again. Bald. Stocky. Something organized crime about them. But memory's a bitch -- after a few rewinds, it starts turning fiction.

Scar? Gold chain? I wasn't sure anymore. And Purple Dress? I remembered her curves. Confidence in the voice but fear in the eyes. That was it.

She stopped pacing. But something inside her started to move.

"I don't know your name," I said.

"You don't need to," she replied.

"Then I'll call you Stacy."

She froze like I'd insulted her mother. "Why Stacy?"

I shrugged. "You look like one."

"Don't call me that."

"Then what is your name?"

A pause. Not long, but enough to clock it.

"There's no harm in telling you I'm a double-O."

I grinned. "No way. That's not real. Just give me a name -- I'll call you Agent Whatever."

She gave a tight smile. No teeth. No warmth.

"Double-O Nine. Agent Maris."

"So it's true -- secret agents just casually drop their identities to random tourists?"

"It's more complicated than that. And I need you, for now. Once this is over, you'll be back in America or wherever your next budget flight takes you.

"No one will believe you spent an afternoon with MI6 in the Philippines. And if we cross paths again -- which we won't -- I'll pretend you're just another crank.

"So I don't care what you believe, Carmichael. I'm Double-O Nine. Agent Maris. And I need to know who gave you this keycard."

She held it up like it might detonate.

I opened my mouth to repeat myself -- then heard the elevator ding.

Maris snapped to the door. Fluid. Quiet. Focused.

I stood up, but she cut me a look and motioned: stay put.

A man's voice echoed down the hallway -- nervous, fast. I recognized it. The front desk guy.

Not English. But unmistakably pleading.

Then came the knock. Not his. Heavy. Loud. Room 301.

More desperate chattering. Then a second voice. Deep. Cold. A keycard swiped. Lock clicked.

The desk guy gibbered something. Then: smack. Silence.

Next came chaos. Beds dragged. Drawers yanked. Furniture broken like it owed someone money. The unmistakable sound of a TV dying a brutal death.

I looked at Maris.

She was frozen against the peephole. Tense. Focused. A loaded spring.

I should've watched her stance. Her posture. Looked for her weapon.

But instead, my eyes ran down her golden legs. Those jean shorts were practically sculpted on.

I remembered the silencer. The way it had hung from her hand. And for a second, I imagined easing up behind her, slipping the shorts down, and--

She turned around.

My eyes scrambled up to her face -- a second too late. She'd caught me staring.

She didn't call it out. Just walked over, grabbed something small from a duffel bag on the floor and tucked it into her side pocket.

"Stay here," she said. "Don't touch anything. I mean it."

A pause at the door.

"I'll be right back."

She vanished like a ghost.

I waited two seconds, flipped the bolt so I wouldn't get locked out, and slipped into my room.

It looked like a robbery and a hurricane had double-booked it. They hadn't ransacked the mysterious 301. They'd destroyed my room.

And my stuff.

Clothes were everywhere. My camera was in shattered pieces. Tripod bent like a pretzel. Laptop gone. Passport and wallet gone. Even the camera memory card -- snapped like a dry twig.

I leaned on the doorframe, stunned.

"Fuck," I said aloud.

I shut the door, slid back into Maris's room. Empty. No sign of Maris other than a duffel bag on the floor.

I ran to the elevator and hit the button. Counted the seconds. Ten.

Thirty seconds later, I was on the street.

Took me five more to spot her -- Agent Maris, slicing through the crowd like a shark through reef fish. Far away.

I smiled and followed.

I moved like a dog off-leash at its first park -- awkward, eager, completely obvious. Running like an idiot.

She didn't look back. As I got closer, I stayed low, hung behind street vendors and motorbikes, keeping pace through the mid-day rush.

Two blocks in -- gone.

I stopped cold. Scanned. Heart thumping.

Then -- a shove.

"Let's go," Maris snapped, appearing behind me like she'd teleported. "I don't have time to lecture you. Just move."

I stumbled into step beside her, trying to catch my breath.

I still had no idea who we were following.

But that's why she was the secret agent -- and I was just the guy with the broken camera and a missing passport.

iv

I won't bore you with the chase. Like I said -- I couldn't even see who we were chasing. Just a sweaty hustle through some Filipino city grid.

A few quick stops, at least one U-turn, and I'm pretty sure we looped the same block twice.

Not that I was complaining.

Maris had told me: Stay back. Keep your head down. Shut up. Which translated, basically, to: Follow her ass.

I could do that forever.

It became a kind of game. Her backside -- taut and flexing beneath those fading blue jean shorts -- stopped belonging to a person and turned into a fixation. A compass made of curves.

What would I find if I caught up? White cotton briefs? Black lace? Nothing at all? Just bare British skin, smooth and devourable.

Walking with a boner is hard but I managed.

We finally stopped at a large industrial building near the edge of a block. Still people around -- this is the Philippines, after all -- but fewer. Quieter.

Maris leaned against a grey brick wall, peeking around the corner.

I approached carefully. Normally she'd wave me off. Not this time.

I came right up beside her. Close enough to smell her sweat -- lavender and hotel soap. Fresh. Sharp. Human.

And I thought: Did I really follow her this far just because I'm horny?

"He went into that building," she said.

She nodded toward the corner.

"Take a look."

We held eye contact a second longer than necessary. Then I broke it and peeked out.

Ten yards off -- plain concrete. High wall. Barbed wire. Nothing fancy.

"You're losing your erection," she said.

Every ounce of blood shot from my dick to my face. My stomach dropped. My skin flushed.

Maris smiled.

"I'm a secret agent," she said. "I notice these things."

"Uh," I said.

She laughed -- a low, real thing -- and gave me a palm-to-the-chest push. Gentle. Familiar. The Maris version of a wink.

She turned to peek around the corner again.

The way her body twisted made me picture her lying sideways on a bed -- thighs bared, tank top riding high, one cheek buried in a pillow seam.

That frustrated, sexy tangle women do when they're exposed but in control.

I felt myself harden again. I killed the thought.

Having Maris around was like having a mind reader -- one with a gun.

"So what's the plan?" I asked.

She shot me a side glance. No smile.

"Well, since you followed me when I explicitly told you not to..."

Her tone wasn't mad. Just cold.

"You're definitely staying put this time. And if you don't? You die. I die. And whoever's in there -- probably dies too."

"Hostages?" I asked.

"I don't know." She sighed. "I don't know anything yet."

She looked at me -- her green eyes softening, just a flicker.

That quiet look women give you when bad news is coming.

I hated it.

"You said you could recognize the woman who gave you the keycard?"

I nodded.

"Alright," she said.
Then, softer: "Okay."

She checked the corner again.

"You can follow me. But we need to be careful."

v

We crept around the side of the industrial building and found a fire exit blocked by razor wire.

Maris crouched and pulled a compact multi-tool from her side pocket -- slow, quiet, precise.

She didn't look at me. She knew I was watching.

I stayed behind her, because why wouldn't I? Life or death, sure -- but that ass wasn't going to admire itself.

Sweat had soaked through her t-shirt, tracing the arch of her spine. Her tan shorts clung to her hips like shrink-wrap.

The curve of her backside looked sculpted -- deliberate. Even in the shade, her golden legs glistened.

I was hot, breathless, and throbbing. In my head, I dropped to my knees and pulled those shorts down.

Face-first into heaven.

"You can stop staring at my ass now," she said, deadpan. "I've cleared the way."

I blinked back to reality. She was turned halfway toward me, smirking -- half amused, half annoyed.