Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

zone.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Not my point. Look, you were good at your job, I bet. Spend years learning a craft, there’s satisfaction in performing it. Real satisfaction. Doing a job and doing it well — that’s what makes people happy.”
    Joe stared at him. “So why —”
    “Because what
I
do is, I make deals.”
    “That’s not the same thing.”
    Valiant shook his head. “I find value to unlock, synergies to realize. Ways to bring people together, so everyone comes out ahead. And I’m
good
at it, just like you’re good at the milling press.”
    “Good at destroying lives?”
    “Good at two-plus-two-equals-five. Seeing possibilities where no one else does and bringing them to life.”
    Not a single car had passed by. The sun was descending into a bank of purple.
    “But you walk away with seven figures,” said Joe. “And I have to eat day-old bread and government cheese.”
    Valiant frowned. “That’s not my fault. That’s how the world works. You make strap steel. I create billions of dollars of value. Billions! Of course I get paid more.”
    They fell silent. Valiant looked away. Time passed.
    “I should tell you,” Joe said finally. “You’re on tape.”
    “Huh?” Valiant swung back.
    Joe kept the gun steady but used his left hand to pull the camera lens from concealment in his shirt placket. He held it up, thin wires dangling.
    “All recorded, picture and sound both.”
    “So what?” Valiant grimaced. “Take it to some prosecutor, he’ll just laugh. I keep telling you, there’s nothing illegal going on here!”
    “I know.” Joe let the lens fall. “I was thinking I’d put it on the internet. YouTube? Get some attention on what you’ve done. What you
are
.”
    After a moment, Valiant’s face cleared. “Go ahead,” he said. “Sure, post it. My lawyers can get a takedown notice in an hour. And even if they don’t, who cares?”
    “The rest of the world cares.”
    “I don’t think so.” Somehow he’d recovered every last sniff of self-confidence.
    “You
want
yourself seen like this?”
    “Sure.” Valiant laughed. “All you’ll be doing, really, is proving that I know how to find a bargain — and capitalize on it.”
    “That’s . . .” Joe’s voice trailed away.
    “It’s like free advertising. Asshole.”
    They sat silent, eyeing each other.
    “So,” Valiant said. “Now what?”
    Joe wondered how he’d ended up here. He looked out the windshield, unable to hold Valiant’s smirking gaze.
    The setting sun pierced the cloud bank, and golden light dappled the trees below them. Joe sighed.
    “I’m not sure.” The 1911 was heavy in his hand.
    “Well, I don’t care. Do what you want.”
    Joe turned back. “Okay,” he said.
    He raised the pistol and shot Valiant in the heart.

    “T HE FBI TALKED to me,” said Stokey. “And the state police. Even the DA — and I voted for him last year.”
    “Me too.” Joe closed the iron firebox, adjusted its damper, and checked the thermometer poking out from the smokehouse planking. “Down in the courthouse. They took over the whole second floor, it felt like.”
    Hardwood smoke drifted from blackened vents. They were in Stokey’s backyard, where he’d built the little smokehouse twenty years before.
    “I told them you went up there.” Stokey shifted uncomfortably. It was the first time he’d brought up the subject directly. “To see Valiant. You told me you were going.”
    “You did the right thing,” Joe said. “I did tell you that, and I went to New York. Of course you had to tell them the truth.”
    “They’re convinced you did it.” Stokey looked at Joe square. “That you killed Valiant.”
    “Lots of guys wanted to.”
    The October morning was cool and overcast. Joe had shot a deer the day before — in season, permit and everything — and what hadn’t been frozen, he and Stokey were turning into sausage and jerky.
    “Did you?” Having finally asked, Stokey wasn’t letting it go.
    “They don’t seem to have any evidence,” said Joe. “Whoever did it, he probably walked away all bloody, but if he burned the clothing and got rid of the gun, there’s no connection.”
    “But eyewitnesses —”
    “Saw a man in a dark jacket and a hat. Worthless.”
    The wood smoke was sharp and clean. A couple dogs from the neighborhood had shown up and were now sitting out by the road, watching with keen attention.
    Stokey gave up. “You taking your old job back?”
    Joe studied the smoke rising,