Warwick Jackson hung up the phone. Finally, the go-ahead. Hanging around this dump was a kind of slow death in itself. And the risk in coming back here was borderline crazy, only weeks after the first job. Sure, he’d charged twice his usual, but no money could ever make it worth being caught.

He’d had time to consider the lie of the land over the past days, plenty of time. She had no routine, though. That made it awkward. As much as he wanted to get the thing done and get out of here, it was all in the timing—he’d have to pick his moment and take the opportunity when it came.

He had no idea what this clown in the Chrysler was up to. He’d checked him out with his contacts. Disgraced cop. If he got in the way, well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, bastard probably deserved it. In fact, it might pay to wait just a bit longer—this guy might make a move. With a bit of luck he’d do the job for him. The customer would be none the wiser. As long as the target was dead, Jackson would be paid.