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“I need you to do a run on a ’69 Chevy Camaro SS, registration HEL 427.”

“Nice ride.” Fingers tapped on a keyboard. “Vehicle is registered to Cameron McKenzie, 159 Scottsdale Road, Upper Darby. Registration was transferred from Colin McKenzie about ten years ago. Wait, this is odd.” His mouse clicked. “The owner has the cleanest record I’ve ever seen. Not a single infringement, or even a parking ticket. That’s rare.”

Didn’t sound like Franky’s usual target, but I was at the right house, and Cameron McKenzie was the name Franky had given me. The woman was driving my mark’s car, but where was McKenzie?

“Can you pull up McKenzie’s license?”

“I’m already looking at it.” He let out a whistle. “Jesus, good-looking woman.”

I sat up fast. “What?”

“Yeah. No one looks decent in their license mug shot, but this one’s incredible.”

“Send it to me.”

More clicking. “Anything else?”

“Nah, we’re good.”

“Okay. Later.” He hung up the phone.

I opened the screen shot from Davis, my eyes widening as I studied McKenzie’s license.

What the fuck? The woman driving the SSwasCameron.

I stared at the photo. Upturned green eyes framed by long lashes, petite nose and natural bow-shaped lips.Damn.

I deleted the image and shook my head in a futile attempt to clear it from there as well.

This… this could be a problem.

Why did Franky want her killed? So far, nothing about the woman made me believe she’d be involved with the Mob. Looked to me like she lived a quiet life in the ’burbs. And her squeaky-clean record? Unheard of. What could she have done to piss Franky off so much that he’d order a hit on her?

Maybe there was a simple explanation. Maybe Franky had directed me to the wrong Cameron McKenzie?

Time for another call.

Franky answered on the fourth ring.

“Yes?” He didn’t give his direct contact details to many, but sometimes Franky liked to have a brief chat over the phone with the target before I completed the job. A quick reminder of who’d paid for them to meet their maker.

I cleared my throat. “It’s Shep.”

“Mr. Shepherd.” Franky’s cool tone told me today I dealt with the professional business person. That could change in a heartbeat. “I assume you’re calling to tell me you’ve completed the job?”

“No, not yet. I think maybe there’s been some kind of… miscommunication.” I chose my words with caution, hoping to keep the conversation civil. Franky didn’t like being questioned. He’d once shot a guy in the knee for suggesting he’d been underpaid.

“I doubt that, but I’m listening.”

“Cameron McKenzie. She’s a woman.”

A pause.Shit. “I am aware of this. Her insolent brother stole from me. I asked him to return the goods or his beloved sister would pay the consequences. Although it seems he doesn’t care for her at all because he continues to ignore my request.”

I dragged a hand through my hair. He’d never asked to have a woman, or anyone remotely innocent, executed before.

Franky continued. “I don’t appreciate having to explain myself and I’m only doing so because I respect you, Mr. Shepherd. However, this level of unprofessionalism is tiresome. If you’re unable to do your job, I’ll get Mr. Tucci to do it.”

Fuck. Joe Tucci, aka The Butcher. No one deserved that kind of death. His targets ended up in pieces, mutilated beyond recognition. Forensic reports detailed how his victims sustained their injuries before death. When Franky wanted someone to disappear without fanfare, he called me. When he wanted to make a statement, he called The Butcher. Acid coated my throat at the thought of what that sadist might do to the McKenzie woman.