The piece of paper on the table contained a list of ten names. Two had died of natural causes. One man’s cancer traced to his work at Ground Zero. Sad, yes, but only because he’d gotten off easy. Three names had already been crossed out this year. Each death had been deemed natural or accidental, including Van Stamos, whose suicide had been perfectly staged and made gratifyingly ugly.
A thick green marker was dragged over the name “Calvin Mortimer” with a sense of grim satisfaction. It had been a tossup, who to shoot. Only three names remained on the list, the most important being Dominic Sheridan. It had been tempting to put a bullet in him today, but like the man who’d succumbed to cancer, that would be letting him off easy. Sheridan deserved to suffer the most. The prospect of the slowly dawning horror he’d feel once he realized he was being hunted was extremely satisfying.
Carefully, the green marker was capped, the piece of paper folded and slipped into a desk drawer. Then the drawer was locked.
A phone rang in the distance. Revenge needed to be total, complete. A veritable masterclass in murder. Peter would be so proud.