by Angie West
***
Carl Galveston didn’t hate his job; he hated his boss. He told himself this as he used his index finger to silently brush each curtain aside and peer out into the dark night. Knowing that the source of his anger was misplaced didn’t help. He was still in a bad mood and had been for several months. Was it possible to stay pissed for six months? He contemplated this as he moved from room to room for his nightly check. Tonight was the last night of the stakeout. The assignment was short and simple. Wait for the scientist lady to come home and intercept her.
He and the two other men on the job had already delivered the box. For whatever reason, John wanted the woman as well. The instructions were clear. John wanted a phone call the minute she was found. They were supposed to search her and deliver any possessions they found with her to John. That was where the instruction ended, but Carl knew the routine. Take what was needed and destroy the evidence. That was simply how things worked, and Carl hated that it applied equally to women. A man he didn’t mind so much. He had been killing for so long he no longer even saw it as killing. He was just doing his job every time he pulled the trigger or wiped off a blade. It was business. It was not personal—not anymore. But killing a woman…well, that was different.
Maybe it was because he had never done it before. He hoped that one of his colleagues would finish the job. The thought made him ill. Strange, but there it was. The man with no conscience had a heart after all. Lately, he had dreamed of doing great things—things his mother would have been proud of. He wasn’t sure why.
He shut the living room curtains with a sharp flick of his wrist and headed into the kitchen. It didn’t matter. Dreams were just that…dreams. Besides, it was long past too late to walk the straight and narrow. But killing a woman, a doctor at that, was pushing it, even for him. He hoped that Claire Roberts, PhD, had been smart enough to get the hell out dodge.
“Is there anything to report?” he wearily asked the dark-haired man at the kitchen table.
“Everything’s locked tight.”
“Hah.” Carl grunted and sat down at the far end of the table. “You want coffee?”
“Yeah, there’s some left. You want fresh? Lady’s got some fancy stuff up there too. Not that I ever drank that shit, but hey.”
“Sure, whichever.”
A lot of people probably don’t think hired guns and ex-cons sit around discussing the merits of flavored coffees, Carl thought, hiding a humorless smile behind a cough as he leaned one hip against the kitchen counter, folded his arms, and crossed one ankle over the other.
“Tomorrow’s it then,” Earl remarked, more to himself than to his silent companion.
“Looks like.”
“And none too soon. I’m sick and tired of living in a tomb. It’s been two days. She’s not going to show. We aren’t getting paid to sit here all week anyway.”
“We’re paid until tomorrow,” Carl pointed out. “That doesn’t mean we relax tonight. She still might show up. No mistakes.” Even though he was pretty sure that taking this job in the first place had been a mistake.
“No mistakes,” Earl agreed with a marked lack of enthusiasm. He brightened fractionally as he pulled two small, square containers from the cupboard. “So, vanilla or…” He peeked at the tiny label on the side of one can. “Tiramisu?”
“Shut up, Earl.”
“Right. So…which one?”
“Oh, just give me those,” Carl straightened and snatched both containers, leveling a fierce scowl on each.
Since he had no idea what in the hell tiramisu was, he spooned vanilla into the coffee maker and hit the button. He turned in time to catch the faintest hint of movement out the window to the left.
Suddenly Earl was at the window, eyes narrowed as he leaned over the sill.
“See something?” Carl asked, already on full-alert.
“Maybe. I’ll check it out.”