I remember the first one clearly: the oppressive, powdery smell of rain-wet concrete, a click when the car door opened, the silenced, .22 Browning twitching in my hand. The little slugs ricocheted wetly inside Kenny's skull, literally scrambling his brain, but he'd still look good at the funeral.

It had taken almost a month of my remaining time to convince Carver that I really would kill someone for money, and I needed a lot of money. The cancer was going to rot me within two years, and because the insurance company deemed it a "pre-existing condition", Beth and the kids wouldn't see a dime. A friend who occasionally sold me coke had introduced me to Carver. Soft-spoken, perfectly tailored, steady, friendly gaze; he was like a charmingly psychopathic big brother. Of course, when he had me checked out, I was perfect'average citizen, no record, desperately needed money, and nothing to lose.

Although Carver never provided personal details about the men I would kill, a little digging told me they were mid-level thugs whose transgressions usually involved money or someone else's woman. As time went by, I stopped digging. I began to feel better. The toxic residue of corporate servitude slowly seeped from me, and the headaches were going away. Beth and I were making love again.

On an icy November day, Carver invited me for a drink at his club, and as I sank into the big leather chair, he leaned forward and with the warmest of smiles, said, "It's been almost two years, and you're looking good, Bobby. I thought you'd be dead by now."

"So did I," I said. The doctors can't figure it out. Apparently, The cancer's in remission. One in a million." The glow from the fireplace and the taste of the fine scotch were soothing until Carver mentioned another job. Now was the time to say it. "This has to be the last one, my friend. Thanks to you, I can start over somewhere new, maybe Colorado. Good schools for the kids."

His smile broadened, but that steady gaze didn't change. "How are the kids and that beautiful wife of yours, Bobby?" That was all he said, but I knew what he meant. Later that night as I started planning the job, I finally acknowledged that cold little twisting in my gut for what it was: not fear, but anticipation. The headaches are all but gone, now.

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