Andrew Calloway's Miami office's glossy black marble desk showed a harsh glare off the overhead fluorescent lamps. Though he hardly recognized it, the floor-to-ceiling windows presented a stunning view of Biscayne Bay. He was fixated on the two men in front of him: sweaty, anxious, and falling short of expectations.
“You think this is funny?” Andrew snapped, sharp and intense. “I told you exactly what the client wanted, and you bring me what? Party girls and i********: wannabees?
One of the men, Raul, shifted uncomfortably. “They were clean, boss. Young, no ties. We thought-”
“You thought?” Andrew leaned forward, palms flat on the desk. “You don’t get paid to think. You get paid to deliver. I said discreet, not desperate. Blonde. Eastern European, early twenties, no traceable family. Bu
