“But when will they be completed?”
“Probably a week to ten days.”
“I want them concluded as soon as possible, and that means less than a week,” Tyrell snapped. “I have other assignments for you. I’m increasing the pace of the project.”
“Do you consider that an acceptable risk?”
“Are you worried you’ll be caught?” Tyrell liked his snide remark.
“I think you should be. If it ever came down to it, the police would never find me and neither would you.”
“Are you sure? You seem to be losing your touch.
You’ve missed this target once already. Have you managed to try again?”
“Yes, I have. This target is a fortunate man. I arranged for his aircraft to have some problems.”
Tyrell interrupted. “Did you get him?” He already knew the answer.
“No, I followed him to the airport and he changed his mind.”
“So? He’ll probably use the plane again.”
“No, his flying partner took it and was killed.”
“Congratulations, you killed the wrong man,” he
scolded.
“Does that bother you?”
“No,” Tyrell said bluntly. He was only bothered if the killing exposed him and his project. “Are you?”
The professional didn’t answer.
“Is he suspicious with two accidents occurring so close together? If I were him, I’d be wondering about a third.”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“That makes your task harder. And does he have any suspicions regarding Pinnacle Investments?”
“Oh yes. The wreath that someone sent from your
company did that. Was that you?”
The vice president was angrier with himself than his hit man. He’d indulged himself and it had backfired.
Every time one of the viatical clients died he sent a wreath to the family. He got special enjoyment out of knowing the client was dead before the family did.
He’d made the mistake after he’d received the phone call that Josh Michaels was dead. He’d sent a wreath, and why shouldn’t he? His hired gun had never missed before. He wouldn’t make that mistake again; no
wreath until a kill was confirmed.
“If I hadn’t been given the wrong fucking information about his apparent death, that mistake would have never been made,” Tyrell said. “What have you got planned now?”
“The woman is proceeding according to plan, and I see a conclusion to that soon. My investigations have shown that Michaels has a dubious past. He is or was involved with a woman and I think there’s a possibility for something spectacular that wouldn’t raise suspicion.
But it’ll take a little arranging.” The professional’s pride shone through.
Tyrell’s heart sank. Whatever it was the professional had planned, it didn’t inspire confidence. “Just make sure that you don’t miss this time. I don’t want these failed attempts becoming habit. It’s the wrong time for fuck- ups, for all of us.”
“I’ve never failed you before, have I?” the professional asked.
“Good night,” Tyrell said and hung up.
The vice president tossed the phone onto his desk. It bounced across the smooth surface and came to a halt at the edge of the table. His contract killer pissed him off.
He was getting too flamboyant with his staged accidents, and his arrogance made him ineffective. For some time his hit man had worried him. The last three kills had gone according to plan, but the kills were so elaborate that the outcome could have easily gone the other way.
So, what were his options? Lay the hit man off? God knew he wanted to replace him with someone who had a more straightforward approach. Somehow, Tyrell
didn’t think hired killers were canned from jobs. It wasn’t that sort of business. So what could he do with the professional? He was too much of a liability left to roam free, but he knew almost nothing about him. His thoughts were leading him to a conclusion his hit man wasn’t going to like.
But for now Tyrell needed the hit man, and he really needed the kill rate increased. The life expectancy of his clients had to be shortened for the success of the company. He would love to show the board members
who could make this company sparkle. Tyrell pocketed the discarded phone, picked up his briefcase and left his office. He hoped that tomorrow would be more
promising.
An hour later the professional sat in a restaurant bar.
The food and drink were expensive, like the clientele, which were a mix of state officials, businessmen and high-income white-collar workers. He wondered how many of these men had big life insurance policies in the hands of viatical companies like Pinnacle Investments.
Would he be making a visit to any of them one day? He smiled at the thought. The human race’s ability for creating complex problems amused him. His clean-living
lifestyle, simple and without appendages, would never have him looking down the barrel of a gun.
He had a mineral water in one hand and his eyes
fixed on the television’s baseball game. Disinterested, he watched the game, but his mind was elsewhere. He decided Dexter Tyrell was a prick. The businessman wanted everything to happen now, but this type of work needed planning. Tyrell’s problem was greed, and greed meant sloppiness, which meant errors. He mused on the notion that he might blow off this gig, close the post office box and get rid of the cellular phones. And if he discovered Tyrell was becoming a liability, then he would
take care of him. Permanently.
A hand lightly touched his shoulder and someone
spoke, tearing him away from his thoughts.
“Hi, James.” Belinda Wong was a vision in a scarlet dress that enhanced her to-die-for figure.
The professional had gotten her phone number at
Josh Michaels’s birthday party as part of a fallback plan. He’d called her after Mark Keegan had been
killed in his aircraft. With that particular avenue closed for Michaels’s demise, he turned to Josh’s ex- mistress.
He saw potential with this woman on his side. He
thought Michaels was a fool to get involved with someone like this; she had trouble written all over her.
Belinda was pleased to hear from him. The professional took her interest in him as a positive sign and
felt his luck change with the Michaels assignment.
She’d suggested this place—expensive and exclusive.
“Belinda, you look breathtaking.”
“Thank you. Call me Bell.”
“Can I get you a drink, Bell?”
“Yes, I’ll have a white wine.” Bell slid onto the stool next to him.
He asked the barman to get the lady a white wine.
The barman offered her a choice, and she selected a quality Chardonnay. The professional told her the table would be ready for them in a few minutes. She smiled, exposing teeth that could consume him in a single bite.
“Are you in a better mood than when we last met?”
he asked.
“Yes, thank you.” She smiled. “I wasn’t having a
good time at the party.”
“What were all the bad feelings about?”
“Oh, a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
