This was his signature look.In any other setting, at any other time of the year, it would’ve been off-putting or strange.However, tonight, he blended in.October was his favorite month.There weren’t many occasions when he could walk about in public as himself without drawing unwanted attention.
Smiling, he trailed his fingers along the wall beneath the generic paintings.Silver nameplates boasted the owners of each office as he passed.Mitchell Leonard Grant Jr.wouldn’t be caught dead in these piddly little workspaces.There wasn’t nearly enough square footage for his liking.
He was at the end, in the corner, with an expansive view.Cocking his head to the side as he reached his destination, Fink glanced left and then right.No one was around.The conference room was on the other side of the office, which was where most of the celebration took place.
Not only was the time after five on a Friday, but it was their holiday party.No oneshouldbe in their office.
Except Mitchell Leonard Grant Jr.
This guy made Fink’s job easy.He could be in and out, and no one would be the wiser.Especially considering he had received a package from his dealer a few minutes ago.Or, well, who he thought was his dealer.
Honestly, the job wasn’t even about Mitchell, but that wasn’t Fink’s concern.He didn’t care what motives the people who hired him had.The fact was, he was good at a particular job, and if people paid well enough, he did it.The fact Mitchell was a wretched human made it easier to do and dictated how Fink would carry out the task, but overall, he’d have no qualms doing what he was paid for even if Mitchell was a bible-thumping Cub Scout leader.
Actually.Those guys were famously known for having skeletons in their closet.Come to think of it, in his line of work, he’d yet to cross paths with anyone whom he wasn’t able to find a reason for him to meet them.They’d all done quite a bit to earn Fink.
What a conscience-clearing thought.
He snickered to himself as he turned the knob slowly and entered Mitchell Leonard Grant Jr.’s office.
With his employees mere feet from him, down the hall, Mitchell had his stereo on, playing “Unskinny Bop” by Poison while he practiced putting by himself.A celebration was going on, but this guy preferred his own company.Or was it the other way around?
Glancing toward the desk, he spotted the open bottle of scotch and the mirror with white powder covering it.He was having his own party of one.What a pathetic asshat.
The man, who about to meet his maker, wiggled his hips, shuffled his feet, and swung his putter for a few test swings.Fink quietly entered the room, shutting the door behind him.Surveying the office, he noted the accolades on the walls, degrees, pretentious artwork, and the golf trophies on the shelf beside the sports memorabilia.No photos of his wife or his children.Though there was a massive one of him on his yacht.
Shaking his head, Fink headed toward the shelving while Mitchell sang along with Brett Michaels.Tapping his finger against his chin, Fink read the plaques on the bases of the various trophies.A gaudy, cheap-looking cup with a golf ball on top wouldn’t suit his needs.The glass hexagon would probably shatter quickly.Though Fink was willing to bet it carried some heft.
Ah!
His smile grew as he reached for the heavy wooden base with three thick metal prongs holding a large golf ball.He had his winner.Lifting it, he nodded, delighted with the weight of it.
This would do just fine.
Fink turned his attention to Mitchell, who had bent over his desk for another bump.Patiently, Fink waited for him to finish.He studied the man who was so consumed with his task of tapping the mirror with his credit card.Fink cupped his elbow with one hand and held the golf trophy in the other.
Tap.Tap.Tap.
Jesus, man.Get on with it.
Grant’s laptop chimed, indicating the receipt of an email.He stood and cursed under his breath.
Fink shared his sentiment.He didn’t have all evening to fuck around.
“Who the hell is even working now?”he grumbled and waved a hand, dismissing the message.
Thank fuck.Fink wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand in plain sight and go unseen.The element of surprise was essential here.Then again, the CEO seemed quite self-absorbed and wasn’t aware of his surroundings in the least bit.
Finally, Mitchell snorted a fat line of cocaine.He let out a hoot, stood up, and sniffled several times while rubbing his nose and then teeth.
Fink lifted the award over his head with both hands and whistled.
With furrowed brows, Mitchell spun, facing him.
Wearing a wide, toothy grin, Fink swung.
Thethwackof the large dimpled ball making contact with Mitchell’s head sent a thrill zinging through Fink’s veins.
Mitchell’s eyes widened as he twisted with the strike.He let out a grunt as he fell to his knees.Uselessly, he lifted his hands to protect himself.
