The Collected

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The two lists lay on the table, side by side, black ink on white paper.

The first set of names would be the easiest. Once a man was dead, he was dead.

It was the plans David Harris’s boss had for the second set that would be more difficult.

“I want to see their faces,” Javier Romero had ordered. “I want them to know what’s happening to them. I want them to know why.”

“It’s risky,” Harris argued at the time. “These aren’t just normal people. They’re professionals. One small error could have serious consequences.”

“Then I suggest you make sure there are no errors.”

In truth, the idea of bringing the men on the second list to Romero’s hideaway excited Harris. It was a challenge, like the way things had been before the incident-as Romero referred to it-four years earlier. Back then, ridding his boss of his enemies had been an enjoyable weekly task. It was something Harris, as trusted advisor and head of security, had done very well, satisfying the occasional call of his mercenary roots.

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