The Botched Hit
“We’ve got a problem, Boss.”
Quickfingers glanced over at his partner and clutched the phone closer to his ear. “Everything didn’t go as smoothly as we planned. Funny Bone is dead.”
Sweat appeared on Quickfingers’ brow. “Miss Trevalaine escaped.”
Quickfingers hesitated. “It was Jericho, Sir.”
Violent curses crackled through the phone. Quickfingers flinched and tugged at his collar.
“Very well,” said the low voice, seemingly more collected. “You have until dawn to fix this, or Jericho will be the least of your problems.”
Quickfingers dropped the phone. It was going to be a long night.