Chapter 25 The First Casualty

• The room was dark except for the low glow of a single desk lamp. Alexander Whitaker leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, his gaze fixed on the man standing before him. The air in his private study reeked of old money, aged whiskey, and cold-blooded decisions.
• "You understand what I need done?" Alexander's voice was smooth, like silk draped over a blade.
• The man before him lean, sharp-eyed, and dressed in black—nodded once. His name wasn’t important. His reputation was. A professional in the art of elimination.