Tick tock. Time passed, sluggishly slow, probably because he remained all too aware of it. Calvin hated waiting. However, some things just couldn’t be rushed. Who’d coined the phrase, kill it once, kill it right?

Didn’t matter. It still remained the motto he lived by. It wouldn’t be much longer now. He knew the habits of his target. Every night, Theodore Robinson paid a visit to his office before going to bed. Mr. Robinson enjoyed smoking a fat stogie while browsing porn. The information came courtesy of the maid Calvin had bribed. A peek around the office confirmed it. The lingering smoky scent and the history on the laptop gave Mr. Robinson’s vice away.

Tonight, Calvin’s target hosted a small party, just a few guests sharing conversation along with food and wine. So much wine. When Calvin arrived—slipping in through the back garden, the stone wall easy to scale and the guards dogs repelled by the aerosol-sprayed scent of a bear—the staff had begun to dim the lights in the house, bathing it in shadows.

I like shadows.

Some music still played in the main entertaining area, soft and slow strains, the kind meant to lull people. The kind to put a man to sleep. Calvin remained awake by eating from a tray he’d filched from the kitchen when backs were turned. The canapés being served were superb, some sort of crab cake with cheese. The wine, though, was a rather cheap offering. Not that it mattered. Calvin never drank on the job.

While he chewed, Calvin catalogued the rather boring space in which he chose to wait. Mr. Robinson had old-style views on what an office should look like. Decorated in dark wood paneling, the room held bookcases full of pretentious leather-bound titles. A carpet of dark colors and thick weave hid the gleaming wood floor. Stuffy and overbearing, the room seemed a pompous attempt to appear wealthy. Personally, Calvin preferred a light and airy space for when he worked at home.

At a creak outside the door, Calvin straightened from his slouch and readied himself. The door opened, and a rather corpulent man crossed the threshold. The long-awaited target flicked the light switch before shutting the door, sealing his fate.

“About time you got here,” Calvin muttered even as he struck. The sharp blow to the man’s temple dropped him. The large man didn’t rise, which meant Calvin had to wait again.

While the fellow napped, Calvin set the stage, propping his target in a chair. “Would it have killed you to hit the gym a little more?” he grumbled as he handled the largesse of the man. Body propped in a chair, Calvin placed the gun he’d found in the desk drawer just out of reach. He would note he wore gloves, special gloves that wouldn’t leave behind trace evidence of his presence.

When the fellow stirred, Calvin was ready. He tapped his target on the cheek. “Rise and shine, you tubby-assed buttercup.”

“What the f-f-fuck,” the guy slurred. “Who the hell are you?”

One of these days, for shits and giggles, Calvin would totally reply and call himself Death. But this was business, not playtime. “I see someone doesn’t wake in a pleasant mood. No wonder you’re being divorced again.” Four wives now and counting. The guy really didn’t learn. Most men would have stopped getting married by now. The alimony alone would have killed them. Except, funny thing, Theodore Robinson’s exes always seemed to suffer fatal accidents a few months after the final papers had been signed. Foul play was suspected but never proven.

Someone’s rich daddy didn’t care about proof. His little girl was dead, and he wanted vengeance.

I am that vengeance. Calvin almost smiled.

He slapped the cheeks of the guy whose eyes drooped again. “No more sleeping for you. We have things to discuss.”

The fellow stirred and batted feebly at Calvin’s hands. “Fuck you. I’m not talking to you. You’ll regret this.”

Misplaced bravado. Why did guys always attempt it even when the odds were stacked against them?

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Robinson. Or should I call you Teddy? You don’t look very cuddly to me.”

Lifting his head, Teddy glared at him. “If you’re here to rob me, then take the money in my desk and go.”

“Rob?” Calvin chuckled. “I’m not a simple thief. You wish I was here to steal. Alas, dear Teddy, I am here on other matters. You’ve been a bad boy. Killing people to save a few dollars.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? Do the names Chloe, Marina, Jennifer, and Henrietta ring a bell? They should because you were once married to them—and later killed them.”

“I didn—”

In a flash of motion, Calvin held the gun in front of Teddy’s face. “Wrong answer. I guess I should have warned you I really hate lying. And for the sake of full disclosure, I should mention that, while I am being paid to kill you, I probably would have done it for free because I don’t think I like you, Teddy.” Calvin followed only a few rules in life. One of them was he didn’t kill women or children. Not because he was a hero, but because, oftentimes, those people were innocents. It was the person hiring the hit who often needed to go.

“Someone paid you to kill me?” Teddy sounded much too surprised.

“Really, Teddy, think about it. I don’t work just for the hell of it.” Pro bono was for those without home renovations and retirement funds that needed padding.

The fat man licked his lips. “Whatever he’s paying, I’ll pay you more.”

“That’s not how it works.” Calvin clicked on the lamp on the desk, finally lighting the office. The gooseneck of the standing light bent so that it shone on the face of the man sitting in the large and quite expensive leather chair.

Teddy didn’t look too good. His florid face, with its thick jowls, shone with a sheen of perspiration. His eyes, bloodshot and small, blinked rapidly. His mouth didn’t have much to say, probably on account of the gun currently residing between his lips.

“Oops, how did that get there?” Calvin smiled, and then placed a pen in Teddy’s hand. “You need to start writing. I, Teddy the asswipe. No wait, forget the asswipe part. Asswipes never reveal their assholish power. So let’s go with I, Teddy, do declare myself responsible for the deaths of my—”

“Mgsgfsgd.” The pen rolled from Teddy’s fingers.

“That doesn’t sound like you writing, Teddy.” Calvin shook his head. “You really should be cooperating. The faster you do, the faster I am out of here. I know I’d rather be back at my hotel right now, enjoying a late-night glass of whiskey, perhaps reading the latest assassin thriller.” For laughs because authors did so embellish reality.

“Nmgggdsgew.”

“I thought you might see things my way.” Calvin once again placed the pen in the man’s stubby fingers. The tip of it scratched across the surface of the pad. “Good boy, Teddy. Now, one more thing. My poor client, I don’t think he deserves to bear the entire cost of this endeavor. I mean, if you weren’t such an a-hole, I wouldn’t even be here. You need to pay your fair share. Give me the number of that account you’ve got offshore. Be sure to add a tip for making me wait.” He wiggled the gun.

Scratch, scratch.

Fuck you.

Calvin read it and cocked his head. “Really, Teddy? Is that appropriate language? One way or another, you’re going to die. Whether you die with dignity or in absolute shame is up to you.”

Teddy glared. Stupid man, he didn’t think Calvin would shoot.

“Are you sure you don’t want to even try and bribe me into not splattering your brains?” No missing the stench of urine when Calvin shoved the barrel farther.

Scratch. Scratch. The writing was hesitant but clearly numbers. Enough numbers for Calvin to use a specialty app to verify. One-handed, Calvin took a picture with his phone and let the app check it out. It took but seconds for Calvin—an eternity for Teddy—to get a reply.

Money transferred, via so many layers it could not be traced. Calvin loved technology.

He tucked the phone away. “That’s a good boy. I knew you could do it, Teddy. Now you might want to close your eyes for the next bit.”

Rather than listen to Calvin’s advice, his target’s eyes widened, bulging so much from the sockets they looked as if they might fall out. Teddy’s breath expulsed in one last huge exhale, and he slumped, the weight of his head pushing on the gun. Calvin pulled the gun free, and Teddy’s face smashed against the desk.

With gloved fingertips, he felt for a pulse.

None.

Dammit. This was supposed to be a suicide. Guilt over what he’d done. Yadda. Yadda.

The gun in his gloved hand looked so disappointed. The matte black metal of it begging for use. Beautiful weapon. But he couldn’t exactly shoot a dead man.

Forensics being what they were, they’d know Teddy had been shot after dying. Being a thorough fellow, though, Calvin placed the man’s gun in his hand, closing still flexible fingers around the grip before sitting it on the desk.

Not what he’d planned, but the improvisation would work. Later this night, or in the morning, Teddy would be found, dead of a heart attack, the thought of suicide sending him over the edge. A man whose conscience had finally caught up with him.

Or so the newspapers would claim.

Calvin didn’t care one way or another. The client had paid to have the truth come out and the culprit killed.

As always, Calvin delivered.

Job done. Time to go home.

Being a cocky fellow, Calvin left via the front door, snaring a sweet dessert on the way. He borrowed a lovely red sports car. Very expensive, he’d wager, and worth every penny. He ditched it at the train station. A few blocks away, the car he’d rented got him to the airport for his flight home. Adjusting his tie, Calvin boarded a plane for home. In suburbia.

An assassin for hire, living in the ’burbs.

Someone should write a book about it.