The Toymaker

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Francesca Catanzaro drummed her fingers on the command console. Tonight’s mission should be straightforward — get in, make the kill, and get out. Yet she still couldn’t shake the first-time jitters. She looked at the two operatives sitting across from her and feigned a smile. “Picture of your wife?” she asked the eldest, a large black man who had introduced himself as an ex-Marine called Johnson.

He held up the photo for her to see. “No, my daughter. She’ll be a teenager tomorrow.” He slipped the photo inside his black jacket.

She glanced at the much younger man sitting next to him, legs bouncing with the energy of a teenager while he was putting on black face camo paint.

“Nervous?” she asked.

“Hell no, ma’am. I have no family.” He motioned with his head. “Came along to cover grandpa’s ass.”

“Shut up, Aaron,” Johnson said. “Just keep painting that crap on your face, pretty soon you'll look like me.”

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