Only his mom and his sister called him Oliver, his father didn’t call him anything. He liked what everyone called him now better—Whistler. With that name, he enjoyed being both feared and admired by those in the profession. He even called himself Whistler when he finished a job and always smiled into a mirror and whispered, “Well done, Whistler.”

But he couldn’t say that this time. He sat on the side of the crappy bed, his hands clasped between his knees, an empty pizza box beside him. For the first time in his professional life, he’d failed. Not once, but twice. It burned, burned deep.

He hadn’t wanted to run down that damned woman reporter, it was too uncertain, like shoving rich Aunt Mildred down the stairs, no broken neck guaranteed. It was his agent who’d told Whistler the person he worked for wanted it done that way. He could have finished it if not for that idiot kid shouting at him, even with the reporter scooting behind those overstuffed garbage cans. How was he to know garbage was picked up the next morning in that neighborhood?

And the second job, the second failure. Two clean shots center mass that should have dumped the target right into his grave. How was he to know an FBI agent was right there on the street to call an ambulance? Obviously the principal hiring him hadn’t known that either.

His agent had told him the principal had called, screamed at him for incompetence. Well, it was true it was his fault, and Whistler had acknowledged it, what could he say? There were always circumstances, but he was fast on his feet, and he’d never failed before. Now he’d have to make it right. Not the reporter—the principal took her off the table for the moment—but Harper had to die. There was still a good possibility he would, everyone said so. If he did live, Whistler would have to find a way into the hospital and pull his plug once and for all. Without getting caught. Well, he’d managed harder jobs.