A man stepped from the shadows into a circle of yellow light cast by a single bulb hanging from the high ceiling. He circled the rickety desk chair, the heels of his dress shoes striking the concrete floor, echoing in the chilly chamber. A predator circling his prey.
In the chair sat a large, bulky man, beads of sweat inching down his temples as he watched the other’s every move. He jumped when the figure spoke.
“You ask me to believe this situation was caused by a florist?”
His manner was low-key, his voice smooth, almost amused. Still, the sweating man knew better than to trust outward appearances. Woe to the unwary who failed to sense the danger behind those hooded eyes and that deceptively calm demeanor. “I know it sounds crazy, but you don’t understand how persistent the woman is.”
“Perhaps not, but I’m beginning to understand how incompetent you are, my friend.”
“Wait just a minute here,” the sweating man said, twisting to keep him in sight. “This isn’t my fault.”
“Ah, but it is your fault,” the predator hissed, serpentlike, in his ear, sending a shudder down his spine. “I put the matter in your hands-did I not? You failed me, and now you want to blame this mess on a florist, as if that removes your culpability.” Strong fingers gripped the large man’s shoulders. “I don’t believe you appreciate the ramifications of your actions, and to that I must take exception.”
The big man swallowed hard, hoping his trembling couldn’t be felt by the fingers digging into his flesh. How ironic that for once he was the one in the hot seat. “Let’s not do anything hasty, okay? We both want to make money on this, so give me time to make it right. I promise you, I’ll handle the problem.”
The predator released him. “The problem? Would that be the florist?”
“See, that’s the thing,” the large man said, this time afraid to turn, unwilling to meet that cold gaze again. “It’s not like she’s just a florist. She studied law. She worked for a public defender. Now she believes she’s some kind of crusader.”
A long stretch of silence followed, broken only by a dripping faucet. Finally, from a distance, as though he’d receded back into the shadows, he said softly, “Her name?”
“Abby Knight.”
Silence.
“Look, I swear I’ll take care of her,” the large man said, peering into the gloom. “Just give me a week. That’s all I ask. One week.”
Silence.
The man wiped sweat out of his eyes. Waiting.
“All right,” came the reply at last. “But if you fail this time, you, my friend, are finished, and I shall put the problem to rest myself. Permanently.”