“Mr. Sheldon isn’t happy,” he says. His voice is as dry as dead leaves.
“You were supposed to be gone before Monday,” he shrugs, “It’s Monday.”
His strike is viper-quick. The edge of the blade briefly glistens with flashes of light then turns crimson as it completes its arc. He deftly steps aside to avoid getting blood on his Bruno Magli loafers. Then he stoops over and wipes the knife on the dying man’s shirt.
When they mean business, they send Frank.