A Darker Justice by Sallie Bissell

Dunbar had any cold hard cash to back up his hot air.
    Smiling, Dunbar handed Wurth the small leather legal case he’d been carrying since they first met. Wurth glanced at him, then unzipped it. For an instant he thought his heart would stop. Inside was the deed to a property he knew well—an old abandoned sanitarium not far from where he grew up. Beneath that lay a thick, bank-bound stack of thousand-dollar bills. Both the deed and the paper band around the money had his name on them. This Richard Dunbar had just given him ninety-seven acres of pristine mountain property and a hundred thousand dollars in cash!
    “We’ll give you the money to turn this old sanitarium into a private training facility for the boys we send you,” said Dunbar. “As a cover, you’ll run a legitimate recreational camp in the summer, but the rest of the year you’ll be training operatives for us. We’ve already got the faculty lined up. You’ll have no more than two dozen boys, from age fourteen to eighteen. By the time they finish your curriculum, they should be well versed in the same skills Uncle Sam taught you.”
    “Is this for real?” Wurth flipped through the bills, listening to the soft
thrish
of the money. No more worrying about his lost pension now.
    “Absolutely, Sergeant Wurth,” said Dunbar. “Every July you’ll get at least this much money from us, in cash. There are only two things you have to remember.”
    “What?”
    “First, that not a wisp of this must ever, ever touch Gerald LeClaire. He must never suspect a thing.”
    “I understand.”
    “Second, don’t ever forget that I’m the one in charge. You take orders from me, and me alone.”
    Wurth looked back out over the ocean, where two surfers bobbed beyond the break line, their skin tawny in the setting sun. Right now, at this table, his life had just been resuscitated. Where the Army had tried to drown him like an unwanted cat, this Dunbar had pulled him back up into the bright, life-giving air.
    “Not a problem, Mr. Dunbar.” Wurth looked back at the strange little man and smiled. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re the number one guy.”
    A horn blasted behind him. Wurth blinked, jarred back to the present. The diversity-celebrating minivan had pulled away, leaving the gas pump free. Inching up, he got out of his car and lifted the nozzle from the pump, glaring at the old man who’d honked so loudly behind him.
    You’re not reliable anymore.
Again Dunbar’s words echoed as gas fumes shimmered up into his face.
Fuck that,
thought Wurth. He’d show them precisely how reliable he was. Reliable like they’d never dreamed of.
    The old man behind him revved his engine as the gas bubbled up in the neck of the tank. Wurth topped it off, then glared at the guy as he walked into the gas station to pay. Inside, a tall Latino boy stood behind the cash register. He looked about eighteen. His dark hair curled around his face like David’s. Wurth handed the boy a twenty-dollar bill and again felt the rage rise inside him.
He would teach them. He would show Dunbar that it was never wise to fuck with a Feather Man.
    The Latino boy gave him two dollars and three cents back. He crammed the bills in his wallet and left the three pennies on the counter. As he walked back to his car, he noticed the geezer hadn’t moved to another pump, but still waited behind him, his mud-covered Ford grinding like a barrel full of bolts.
    “Get a move on, mister,” the old man brayed out the window. “Some of us got jobs to get to.”
    Indeed we do, you old bastard,
Wurth thought.
I’ve got a real fine job to get to.
He looked at the man and smiled. “Sorry to keep you waiting, buddy. I’m leaving right now.”
    He hopped in the car, started the motor. Grinning at the old man’s agitated expression in the rearview mirror, he pulled the gearshift into reverse, then floored the accelerator. As his Chevy’s bumper crashed into the rusted Ford, he watched the old man’s face