Mauricio was used to complications. In fact, he reveled in them. Which was why he excelled at his craft.
Tonight was different. An unusual obstacle. One he himself had created.
Was he slipping? Mistakes weren’t tolerated in this line of work. They meant prison. Or death. Or worse.
Mauricio scanned the bedroom. Hot, cramped, dirty. Not much to work with, but this ceiling fan should do.
He aimed his Beretta at his sleeping target.
He tugged the chain. The fan roared to life. Just loud enough.
Next time he won’t be so careless.
Next time Mauricio won’t forget his silencer.
The Weekday One Hundred 