“The package—”
“Consider your services terminated. Goodbye.”
“Wait—”
He looked at his phone.
Disconnected.
Dialing back, he heard a single ring before the call ended. He tried again with the same result.
Blocked.
Dread dumped into Tyler’s veins. He dropped the towel and strode naked into his bedroom.
“Where’s my laptop?”
A girl with a nose too large for even her cherub face looked up from where she lay sprawled like an abandoned off-brand Barbie. Her thumb twitched, swiping across the screen of her own phone.
“Huh?” she asked, eyelids at half-mast, mascara smeared on her cheeks.
Tyler’s lip curled.
I should maybe try harder.
He had a nasty habit of picking girls in the bar who didn’t turn heads. They were more responsive to his charms, rarely inspired competition, and in the end, provided what he needed the same as prettier girls. Often, more enthusiastically and with less chatter about themselves and their boring, ridiculous lives.
Still. There was something to be said for pretty.
He sighed.
No time for soul-searching now.
Jerking open the door to leave his bedroom, he moved into the main section of his tiny apartment. Contract-killing was lucrative, but he didn’t spend enough time in Miami to rent a more expensive place. He preferred seeing the numbers in his bank account and stock portfolio.
His ancient laptop sat perched on the kitchen counter, plugged into the same loose socket powering his coffee maker. Flipping it open, he typed in his password and navigated to his offshore online banking account to type in yet another.
He’d been expecting payment for killing the old dude for weeks. He scanned to his totals.
Nothing new.
Shit.
Tyler grabbed his cell and dialed his handler.
“Casey Plumbing Supply,” answered a gruff-voiced man, though no plumbing supply in the world kept hours after midnight.
“It’s Deathshot.”
Tyler winced. He’d chosen his codename during a different time in his life—the cheesy ramblings of an over-enthusiastic baby assassin.
Brett sighed. “It ain’t here yet.”
“No, I know. Someone just called to tell me the job wasn’t finished.”
“Called you?”
“Yes. Me. Directly.”
“Well, was it?”
Tyler scowled. “Was what?”
“Was the job finished?”
“Of course it was.” Creeping doubt crawled around the base of Tyler’s skull.
I didn’t check.
The guy accompanying his target was so big. He’d seen the old man drop. Knew he’d scored the headshot. Hadn’t been paid for two dead old men. He’d packed up his stuff and headed home.
Dammit. Rookie mistake.
“You want me to check on it?” asked Brett.
“Yes, I want you to check on it.” Tyler tried to mask his misgivings with anger, as much for himself as his handler. “And tell me how the hell the client got my number.”
Brett’s voice lowered to a growl. “Not from me. And you better watch your tone, Deathshot. This means I’m out a piece, too, y’know.”
Tyler huffed. “I know.”
“I’ll call you back.”
Brett hung up.
Tyler raised his hand, preparing to dash his phone to the ground. He thought better of it and instead shook it in his fist, as if trying to choke the life out it, before collapsing into a kitchen chair.
“Whachu screamin’ about?”
Tyler looked up. The girl stood in the bedroom doorway, squinting at him, scratching her beak.
“Get out of here,” he muttered.
She laughed. “Yer naked.”
He tried again, this time with an expression he hoped would convey just how serious he was.
“Get. Out. Now.”
Her dopey grin dropped.
The cell in his hand rang and before she could protest, he put his finger over his lips and pointed to the exit with as much venom as he could muster.
Her eyes flashed with anger. She whirled on her heel, lost her balance and smacked the side of her face against the wall.
Tyler rolled his eyes.
Great. Just what that face needed.
He would have laughed if he hadn’t been so pissed.
Using the door frame for support, the girl righted herself and stormed into the bedroom.
Tyler answered the phone. “Yeah?”
“Sink’s still leaking.”
“What? They’re lying.”
“They’re not. Not the type of client who lies to save a couple bucks. You missed.”
“I didn’t miss.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. The sink’s still leaking.”
Tyler ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I’ll handle it.”
“Nope. They’re getting a new plumber. And you’re not gonna see any jobs from me for a while.”
“What? Wait—”
The line went dead.
No second thoughts this time. Tyler hurled his phone at the far wall, chasing it with a string of profanities. The cell shattered, peppering the girl with bits of plastic as she returned to the bedroom doorway.
She yelped and covered her head with her purse.
The largest chunk of the phone clattered to the ground. The girl glared at him.
“You’re an asshole.”
Tyler sniffed. “Really? And I had such promise.”
She huffed and left the apartment without another word.
Tyler dropped back into his kitchen chair.
Well, thank God for little favors.
Alone again, he had nothing left to do but obsess, Brett’s words echoing in his skull.
You missed.
How was that possible?
He couldn’t leave this black mark on his resume, but he didn’t even know the name of his target. The client had provided Brett with the old man’s location and description. Nothing more.
How could he find the target before the new shooter?
He straightened.
The big guy.
Certainly, the old man had been at his buddy’s house before heading out to lunch? They’d arrived in the big man’s truck. The target’s friend was local.
Tyler smiled.
Last minute airplane tickets back to Minneapolis wouldn’t be hard to score in March.
&&&
Chapter Three
Monday is red.
Wednesday is green and it sits in the center of
