Читать книгу The Christmas Target - Charlotte Douglas - Страница 9

The man kicked back in the deep leather chair in front of the fireplace, propped his aching feet on the ottoman and rubbed the twinge in his shoulder. He was getting older.

But not too old to complete his mission.

Besides, he assured himself, he didn’t need brawn, only brains, to carry out his plans. Plus a ton of patience.

He had the brains. And he was a very patient man. He wouldn’t rush things. First, he’d toy with his victims. He wanted them looking over their shoulders, flinching at shadows, suspicious of every little noise, fearful of every stranger, wondering what the hell was happening to them and knowing they couldn’t do a damn thing about it. If they died suddenly, without fear, he’d miss half the fun.

Most of all, he wanted them to suffer for the trouble they’d caused. Only then would he remove them permanently from the face of the earth so they couldn’t create any more.

Satisfied that his cause was right and just, he picked up the glass from the table beside his chair, swirled the ice in the amber liquid and downed the rest of his drink. He could afford time to relax. Everything was in place. All was ready.

Death would only have to cool his heels a little longer before claiming his own.