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Allen pulled his gun and aimed it at the asshole who was officially T minus fifty-nine seconds from being dead. He generally preferred to keep his daily body count to three, but he was willing to add a fourth under the circumstances.

"He's not worth killing," Jack said.

He didn't take his eyes off his new target, but he could still see his totaled Bentley Continental from the corner of his eye. "Yes, he is. Do you know what I had to do to get that fucking car?"

"Kill somebody?" Jack said dryly.

Allen shot him a disgusted look, then shot his attention back to the asshole who had wrecked his baby. "You will hold still or I will make certain the bullet I put in you cause a very slow and painful death. Do you understand me?"

The guy nodded hastily, and lifted his hands in a show of surrender that was so fucking stupid Allen almost rolled his eyes. He'd worked his ass off for that car, taken the shittiest job on the planet for it and all he'd wanted was to enjoy the rest of his day but no—the easy job had turned difficult, it was snowing like hell when the forecast had said clear, Christmas was the day after tomorrow and he still didn't know what to buy Jack, and now his favorite car was totaled.

His mood had officially gone from bad to worse, and somebody was going to get a bullet in the head. He kept the gun steady and jerked his chin in the direction of the ruin that had been his car. "You have ten seconds to tell me how you're going to make me feel better, or I'll do it myself by applying this entire clip to your torso region."

Jack sighed. Allen ignored him. All he'd wanted was for one thing to go right. It should have been an easy day. Wake up. Go to breakfast with Jack. Go kill Mr. Waterstone. Go home. Wait 'til Jack feel asleep, then sneak out to try and do some Christmas shopping. The only blemish on his day should have been a phone call from his mouth.

But no—the snow had knocked the power out so they'd woken up late, the roads were too much of a mess for breakfast to be worth the hassle, one simple assignment to kill a pedophilic business tycoon had turned into a three-body job, his mother hadn't bothered to call all damn day, and Jack had been in a bad mood throughout.

He should never have taken the Bentley, but goddammit, he had wanted something good in his day. Now his prize possession was junkyard material because some asshole couldn't properly operate his Dodge pick-up. Allen really wanted to shoot somebody.

"If you shoot him," Jack said with patience that he obviously did not feel, "then we'll have to hide the body and then we'll be even later getting home. Just take his fucking keys and let's get the hell out of here."

"T-t-tak'em, m-man," the guy said, eyes nearly popping out of his head at Jack's casual observation about hiding his body. He held out the keys still held in his right hand, dangling from an obnoxious John Deere key ring.

Allen sighed long and loud, but took the keys with his free hand. Pocketing them, he put his gun away—then grabbed the guy, sank a fist into his gut, then clipped the back of his head, knocking him out. Catching the idiot over his shoulder, Allen carted him across the street to a house that looked like it had plenty of activity. He left the guy on the covered porch, right against the front door, then strode back to where Jack had already climbed into the bed of the truck.

He took one last look at his poor car, and went through it to clear out the extra guns stashed in it, removed the license plates, then finally joined Jack. Starting up the largely unscathed pick up, he slowly pulled back and out, wincing as a piece fell off his car. "I really wish you had let me shoot him," he groused.

The words actually drew a smile—a real smile—from Jack. Allen occasionally hated dating—well, did they call it dating? What did they call it? He wasn't certain delivering dubious packages and the odd hit were dating but they weren't really the go to the movies kind of guys—

Anyway, whatever they were doing, it would be a hell of a lot easier if Jack was easier to read. Just when Allen thought he had Jack down, he was left guessing again. Allen was pretty certain he'd never met a better poker face. The world would never know how lucky they were that Jack had ratted out his family instead of taking over the family business. "If you'd shot him, we'd still be in the snow and probably dealing with cops. Remind me to chew out Avery later; that house was supposed to be clear and that's the second time he's given us poor information. If I wanted you to take shitty jobs, I'd get you shitty jobs. If you really want to kill someone else today, you can shoot him."

"You spoil me," Allen replied, and Jack laughed.