Angel sat cramped in a nondescript black SUV that he'd hot-wired off an impound lot. He was parked two houses down from his prey, far enough away that no casual passerby would notice or think anything of it, but close enough that his night vision binoculars could see all that he needed to see.
Angel wasn't his real name. He'd long given up the quaint notion of a real name. What was a real name anyway? The name a loving mother gives her sweet infant hardly seemed appropriate for him anymore. He doubted his mother—God rest her soul—would have imagined or hoped for this future for him.
He didn't normally take jobs this close to home. And he hated leaving a body behind. Being located near a private South Carolina beach gave him easy access to ocean disposal when the job was within driving distance. So that was nice.
Tonight was his night. Finally. Joey Callazaro would be alone. The wife had driven off in a white sports car seventeen minutes ago to catch a red-eye flight. She was en route to a work-related convention. She'd be gone two weeks; when she returned, her husband would be gone forever.
Unfortunate, but it was how these things went sometimes.
The burner phone resting on the dash screeched out the least annoying ring tone he'd found in the available menu options.
He answered on the second ring. “Angel.”
“Is it done?”
“Patience is a virtue, you know. It'll be done tonight. Don't worry.”
“I'm not worried. I'll wire the rest of the money when I have proof of death.”
The client disconnected the call.
Goddamn right you will, or you're next on my list.Angel had no trouble doing pro bono work when it came to people who didn't pay their bills.
Ideally he preferred a client who could back off and let him do his work. He couldn't wait to get this job done, get paid, and toss this fucking burner into the Atlantic. He'd disappear off this asshole's radar, get a new phone, and start the process again.
This particular job had taken more prep work than he generally liked. It wasn't only the demands of the client, but the fact that he'd had to do some computer hacking to fill in the gaps of the dossier he'd been given on the target. Angel liked to know what he might be walking into. He had the requisite nerd skills to get what he needed, but he preferred wet work to geek work.
Angel was motivated less by some primal drive to kill and more by mercenary opportunism. On the most basic level, he was simply unbothered by other people's deaths—especially when they deserved it. And the people who made it onto his list... you could bet they deserved it. He didn't take petty vendetta jobs. Crimes of passion were too messy, even when acting as an intermediary.
As far as he was concerned, some piece of shit bites the dust, he gets paid. Everybody wins. He was practically a goddamn superhero.
He wasn't sure how others worked. It wasn't as though there were some hit man handbook out there. He preferred clean kills with distance and a finely calibrated scope, but he took requests when the money was good enough.
The hovering helicopter client in question didn't want a missing body. Or a job that looked like a professional hit. He wanted it up close and personal. Knife. Make it look like a home invasion gone wrong.
Fine by Angel.
The houses were spaced far enough apart in this neighborhood that nobody could be too far up in anybody else's business. Several houses additionally had privacy fences around them. The last set of lights on the street, with the exception of Joey Callazaro's, had just gone off for the night.
Callazaro was involved in human trafficking. Prostitution mostly, but also organ harvesting. The same unfortunate victims played both roles usually. After all, when a whore was all used up, if you'd adhered to basic care and maintenance, you could still sell them for parts.
The client didn't want Callazaro dead because ofwhathe was doing but because he was moving in on someone else's territory and drawing too much attention from the authorities. This wastheircorner. So basically, it was a little bitch fight.
Callazaro was an amateur and had gotten in way over his head. Half a million to snuff out this little fucker? It hadn't been a hard sell, even with such an antsy client who clearly hadn't ordered a lot of professional hits from outside talent.
Ultimately Angel was chopping off the heads of a many-headed hydra. Two more would grow back as soon as he killed this one. But if a bunch of slimy dipshits wanted to pay him to off each other, who was he to complain? That was a pot of gold that never ran dry. He'd become quite well-off taking advantage of this state of affairs.
He glanced at the dashboard clock. Almost midnight, and this fucker was clearly not going to sleep any time soon. Probably watching porn, and that was the best case scenario. With the wife gone, he might call in one of his girls for some entertainment, which was the last thing Angel needed.
He slipped on a pair of snug black gloves and took a gleaming knife from his bag. He'd never handled it with bare hands. When it had been delivered, Angel had worn gloves to remove it from the box and put it in the bag he'd brought to the job. This was the first time he'd touched it since. This way he could ditch the knife without fear his prints would be on it.
His prints were in nobody's database, so no danger there. Still, he didn't like the idea of anyone having any of his prints or DNA in some evidence locker somewhere. Technology changed, and he didn't doubt there would come a day when everybody's DNA was in a database somewhere—guilty or innocent. Such a change to the social order would only make his work more difficult.
With the exception of Callazaro, the neighborhood was asleep now. But if someone had been awake and looking out their window, they would have seen nothing but a shock of blond hair, and then only if the light of the full moon hit Angel just right. Beyond the privacy fences, the tree cover in the neighborhood was plenty to keep him well-hidden. He could have, and maybe should have, worn a mask. But he hated them. They were uncivilized and made his face feel like it was inside an oven.
He picked the lock on the back door next to the kitchen and quietly let himself in. Joey owned two dobermans, but Angel had already dosed them with a sedative a couple of hours ago when they'd come out into the yard for their last bathroom break of the night. They were now in a heavy slumber on the kitchen floor. Even if they woke, they'd be too lethargic to be much threat.
But the fact of the dobermans meant Joey would be less jumpy. He assumed they'd bark if there was trouble. So that floor creak just now? It was nothing. Just the house settling.