Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

to having your dream come true, to be chief of staff. The most powerful man in Washington, right after the president. Four, maybe eight years in the White House as chief of staff, and then millions of dollars doing consulting and lobbying work. It looked like your losing streak was finally about to break. And then the senator’s son started dating my daughter.”
    She paused, looking at his drawn face. “I could give a shit about your senator. Or any other politician. But you promised me justice, and you didn’t deliver. So I gave you a taste of what it’s like to be betrayed after so many promises. And I was the one to cast the final goddamn ballot.”
    Beth was surprised to see him wipe at his eyes. It looked like he was weeping.
    “Was it worth it, then?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. “To destroy me like this, to hurt the senator, maybe even prevent him from getting to the White House?”
    She looked over at the corner of the store, where her daughter, Janice, was quietly and dutifully sweeping up the floor, her hands holding a broom, the same hands that still hadn’t gone back to her computer.
    “Yes,” she said calmly. “It was worth it.”

AFRICA ALWAYS NEEDS GUNS
    BY MICHAEL NIEMANN
    S ome days everything works out. Valentin Vermeulen hadn’t had one of those days in a while. He brushed a damp strand of blond hair from his broad forehead, a forehead inherited from generations of Flemish farmers. Like these ancestors, he waited for his luck to change.
    There was a slim chance it might. If, that is, the Antonov An-8 cargo plane was sufficiently late.
    He looked over the shoulders of the Bangladeshi air traffic controller. The radar scope’s scan beam raced in a circle, like the hands of a clock on fast-forward. No blips. The plane was about an hour and a half behind schedule.
    The reality of his assignment stared back at him through the dirty windows of what passed for the control tower of the Bunia airport. The humid bush, a single asphalt runway, white UN helicopters parked on makeshift helipads, white armored personnel carriers at strategic positions, soldiers in blue helmets milling about, a peacekeeping operation at the edge of the world.
    The usual Congolese hangers-on — were they Hema or Lendu? He never could tell the difference — sat in the shady spots, hoping for a small job, cash, or food. A quiet day in a very unquiet part of the world.
    Vermeulen pulled a Gitane Papier Maïs from its blue pack and lit it. He was used to air-conditioned offices in New York, to pulling together evidence from files and interview transcripts. Sure, there were trips to the field — Kosovo, Bosnia, even Cambodia once — but he always had his office in New York. Until he’d stepped on some important toes during the Iraq oil-for-food investigation. Next thing he knew, the UN Office of Internal Oversight Services sent him to the eastern Congo.
    An ancient air conditioner rattled in its slot above the door, blowing humid air into the room. It wasn’t any cooler than the air outside. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and took off his jacket. It had dark spots under the arms. The Bangladeshis didn’t seem to mind the climate. Their uniforms looked crisp.
    “There is the Antonov now, sir,” the air traffic controller said with the lilt of South Asians. He pointed to a blip on the radar. The timing was just about right.
    “How far is it?”
    “About ten miles, sir.”
    “How long until it lands?”
    “Fifteen minutes, give or take. Maybe more. Depends on the approach Petrovic takes.”
    “Is he usually late?”
    “Sometimes Petrovic is on time, sometimes he isn’t. This is Africa.”
    A loud voice crackled over the radio.
    “Central Lakes Air Niner Quebec Charlie Echo Juliet requests permission to land.”
    The voice had a strong Slavic accent.
    “Niner Quebec, this is Bunia air control, Bangladeshi Air Force controller Ghosh. Permission granted for runway ten. Visual flight rules in effect. Westerly winds, about three knots.”
    “Ghosh, you dumb Paki. When’re you gonna get a decent radar to guide me in?”
    “When you fly a decent aircraft, you lazy Chetnik.”
    Ghosh smiled and scribbled something into a logbook.
    “Can I intercept the plane right after it lands?” Vermeulen asked.
    “No, sir. No vehicles allowed on the tarmac during taxiing.”
    “Where will he stop?”
    “At the cargo area over there, sir.” Ghosh pointed in the general direction.
    Vermeulen