Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

dressed.”
    Petrovic crawled to the edge of the bed and started putting on his underwear. “Tell me this is a joke. You haven’t got anything on me.”
    “Oh, I’ve got plenty. I have all your departure and arrival times. You were late because you made unscheduled stops to pick up guns. I also know you stored them in refrigerated units because every time you brought an extra one, it had rotten food in it. I’ve put all the pieces together.”
    Petrovic pulled on his jeans, a sneer on his face. “That won’t do you any good. You’ll never make it stick. What court will hear your charges? I’ll just walk away from this and fly somewhere else. No big deal. Africa always needs guns.”
    A rage Vermeulen hadn’t known before erupted. It ruptured the dam that held back a sea of frustration accumulated over a decade. No need to think anymore. The flood swept away any hesitation. He saw everything — the room, Petrovic, Lily — with unearthly clarity. There was only one thing he could do.
    “You’re wrong again,” he snarled, and stepped toward the bed.
    Petrovic realized something had changed.
    “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice suddenly uncertain.
    Vermeulen grabbed Petrovic by the shirt, pressed the Beretta’s muzzle against his temple, and pulled the trigger. The side of Petrovic’s head exploded. Lily screamed. A sick spatter of blood and tissue marbled the wall. Petrovic went limp. Vermeulen let the body slide onto the bed.
    Briefly deafened by the gunshot, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the gun. Then he opened Petrovic’s right hand, placed the Beretta in it, stuck the index finger through the trigger guard, and closed the hand again.
    Mama Tusani waited in the hallway.
    He opened his mouth, grasping for an explanation. She put her finger on his lips.
    “I’ll take care of Lily. Go out the rear. The driver will take you back to the hotel.”
    He nodded and strode to the back door. A strange lightness took hold of his body. Tomorrow, he’d call his daughter.

THE UNREMARKABLE HEART
    BY KARIN SLAUGHTER
    J une Connor knew that she was going to die today.
    The thought seemed like the sort of pathetic declaration that a ninth-grader would use to begin a short-story assignment — one that would have immediately elicited a groan and failing grade from June — but it was true. Today was the day that she was going to die.
    The doctors, who had been so wrong about so many things, were right about this at least: She would know when it was time. This morning when June woke, she was conscious of not just the pain, the smell of her spent body, the odor of sweat and various fluids that had saturated the bed during the night, but of the fact that it was time to go. The knowledge came to her as an accepted truth. The sun would rise. The Earth would turn. She would die today.
    June had at first been startled by the revelation, then had lain in bed considering the implications. No more pain. No more sickness. No more headaches, seizures, fatigue, confusion, anger.
    No more Richard.
    No more guilt.
    Until now, the notion of her death had been abstract, an impending doom. Each day brought it closer, but closer was never too close. Always around the corner. Always the next week. Always sometime in the future. And now it was here, a taxi at the foot of the driveway. Meter ticking. Waiting to whisk her away.
    Her legs twitched as if she could walk again. She became antsy, keenly aware of her pending departure. Now she was a businesswoman standing at an airport gate, ticket in hand, waiting to board the plane. Baggage packed. Luggage checked. Not a trip she wanted to make, but let’s just get it over with. Call my row. Let me onto the plane. Let me put back my seat, rest my eyes, and wait for the captain to take over, the plane to lift, the trail of condensation against the blue sky the only indication that I have departed.
    How long had it been since the first doctor, the first test, predicted this day? Five and a half months, she calculated. Not much time, but in the end, perhaps too much to bear. She was an educator, a high school principal with almost a thousand kids in her charge. She had work, responsibilities. She hadn’t the time or inclination for a drawn-out death.
    June could still remember going back to work that day, flipping through her calendar — standardized testing the following month, then the master schedule, which no one but June understood. Then the