Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

sidewalk to the street corner, his back to Valiant. He could hear the car — the sort of whiny rumble that came from overpriced, overpowered Italian engines — and paced himself accordingly. When the Lamborghini was still a block behind him, Joe hit the pedestrian-crosswalk button, and the light turned red just in time to halt Valiant at the intersection.
    Two feet away.
    Joe turned, leaned over, and put his hand through the open passenger window to unclick the lock latch. In one smooth motion, he opened the door, slid in, and slammed it shut behind him.
    “Hey, Prince,” he said. “Light’s green, you can go.”
    Valiant recovered, snarled, and twisted in his seat, reaching across in a lunge that was half punch, half grab. Joe pulled out his .45 and pointed it at Valiant’s face.
    “Settle down or I’ll shoot you,” Joe said.
    Valiant froze.
    “My service weapon.” Joe held the Model 1911 comfortably, with his elbow against the door, keeping as far from Valiant as possible. “I wasn’t supposed to take it, but no one was paying attention on those MAC flights forty years ago. New ammunition, of course.”
    “You’re over the line.”
    “Yeah, I’m afraid so.” Joe considered the handgun. “I suppose I really could go to prison for this.”
    “You will!”
    “Maybe.” Joe looked back at Valiant. “See, that’s the difference between you and me — I own up to my responsibilities.”
    “What do you want from me?”
    “I told you — the light’s green. Start driving.”
    Valiant glared another moment, then put the car into gear and started up the road.
    “Turn up here,” said Joe. “Yes, there, on Valley Road. No need to bother anyone behind us.”
    They followed the winding road up a hill, soon leaving the scattering of houses that marked the edge of Old Ridgefork proper. Fall foliage had just started to turn, and the trees glowed in the setting sun. As they ascended, Joe could see a lake sparkling in the distance. “Slow down,” he said. “Around this bend . . . yup, there it is. Pull in.”
    They stopped at a roadside historic marker — a faded metal sign standing on a wide verge so cars could pull over. The road was deserted. Valiant killed the engine at Joe’s direction, and in the quiet they could hear birds and crickets.
    “You rich assholes,” said Joe. “Playing Wall Street games. Hundreds of us, you ruined our lives, and that was just at Fulmont. I figure you have thousands and thousands to answer for, all the deals you’ve done.”
    “I told you, we followed every single law, every single regulation.” Valiant didn’t look at the pistol.
    “That’s kind of not the point, which you still don’t seem to understand.”
    “We kept that business alive.”
    “By screwing every single guy who worked there.”
    “At least they’re working.”
    “Is that why you did it?”
    “What?”
    “To put us all on minimum wage? Take away our retirement? Force us to work until we die?”
    Valiant breathed hard. “Why are you doing this?”
    “I just want to understand.”
    “Understand?”
    “You.”
    Cool forest air drifted through the open window, bringing a smell of earth and fallen leaves. Far away, the sound of traffic on the state road was barely audible.
    “Was it just money?” Joe said. “I really want to know. You can’t possibly need another million dollars.”
    Valiant said nothing for a long moment.
    “Well?” Joe moved his pistol slightly, bringing it back into the conversation.
    “You just want me to explain myself?” Valiant seemed uncertain. “That’s all?”
    “If I wanted revenge, I’d have shot you already.” Joe shrugged. “I thought about it. But what’s the point?”
    “So put the gun away!”
    “Don’t get any ideas,” Joe said. “Self-defense cuts both ways.”
    Not actually true, but Valiant nodded.
    A minute later he was talking, talking, talking.
    “You worked at Fulmont a long time, didn’t you? The rolling line, right? Not just pressing buttons, turning cranks. You think I don’t know anything about the industry, but you’re wrong. I study every detail before I make a deal.
Everything.
So I know about your job. It takes skill. Years, maybe, to get good at it.”
    Joe raised an eyebrow.
    “That’s the reason Fulmont’s not in Mexico,” said Valiant. “Or Indonesia, or Poland. Skills. You guys know what you’re doing, and that can’t be yanked up and dumped in some cheap, overpopulated free-trade