Jack Halloran dumped another box of papers onto the floor. Tipping out more of the sticky syrup, he poured it over the strewn articles--shuffling his feet to crumple all the layers in-between.
Destruction of the guy's property gave him some satisfaction--and it was orders. Make it look like a burglary, they'd said. Find the CD, take the computer, but cover yourself. If there's anything else worth taking, grab it. Make it look real.
Real burglars liked to damage stuff. Especially if the take was as lousy as this one promised to be. He knew, because he used to burgle homes for a living. Now he did it from time to time--but for a salary.
Still, it had been a while. They'd had him coercing clients, doing the odd assassination, acting as a bodyguard. It had made him sloppy. Or maybe, once he'd seen how easy it was to get in, and what he'd have to dig through to find what they wanted, he just didn't care.
Besides--the victim was away for the day. He always took off on Saturdays. It was safe. Jack Halloran could let the pleasure he found in destruction absorb him to the exclusion of almost everything else.
He took a book off the shelf, ripped out some pages, and scrunched the rest. Then he threw it face down in the sticky muck.
Yes, he thought, patting his gun for reassurance, life is sweet. He grinned widely at the dark relevance of his own joke.
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