Every Fear by Rick Mofina

brought the Mercedes to a safe halt and Sinclair to his senses.
    “Everett?”
    Sinclair looked around the boardroom, at the massive mahogany table, the twenty-odd members in the high-backed chairs, the huge screen displaying his presentation, and the question in Hadley’s face.
    “The situation at our cross-border operation in Detroit, Everett?” Hadley repeated, “Your presentation touched onto our status there, which suggests a remedy.”
    “Yes.” Sinclair lowered his head to feign serious consideration, doodling with his pen on the paper in his leather-bound briefing book. He noticed a coffee splotch from the incident. “I am confident we can address Detroit effectively by using our plant across the Detroit River in Windsor, as I outlined in the memo I sent out this week. If Detroit’s on board with applying the El Paso scenario in Windsor, we can proceed.”
    Hadley’s nod contained the right measure of approval. Then, while he took the Detroit issue around the table and across the country to the executives participating on the conference call, Sinclair resumed his private battle.
    He’d abandoned chasing the jerk who’d hit his car. Kept his appointment with his accountant to hide away more assets in his numbered account in Aruba before he filed on his cheating whore wife. Parked his car, gotto his office, changed into the wrinkled navy suit he’d kept in his closet, reproduced his presentation, and got on with business. During that short time, he’d set his fury aside, like a loaded gun, which he intended to use when he had a free moment.
    There would be a reckoning. The son of a bitch would pay.
    Sinclair studied his notes in his briefing book. Knowledge is power, he thought, as he circled the information he’d captured from the battlefield.
    A red Chrysler minivan.
    “Can you hear me, Everett?” the chief of operations at the Detroit plant said. “I acted on your memo immediately. We absolutely agree with your assessment.”
    “Wonderful, Jim. We’re all on the same page.”
    A question hung in the air.
    “Everett.” The chief’s long-distance voice filled the boardroom. “Are you in a position to do it? The sooner you get to Detroit-Windsor and approve the redesign the sooner we can start production. We’ve got three full shifts ready to go 24-7 once you green-light us. We can start ahead of schedule, thanks to your assessment.”
    An advanced startup impressed the board members. They murmured and nodded.
    “I could be there the day after tomorrow,” Sinclair said.
    “How about today, after this meeting?” Hadley said.
    “Today?”
    “That’s right.”
    “I still have the Tokyo project to send off.”
    “Langston will babysit Tokyo, Everett. Detroit’s afifty-million-dollar contract. Early production positions us to triple the commitment over the next two years. We’re talking two hundred million. I think we’d do well to maintain the momentum you’ve built.”
    “Understood.”
    Hadley pressed a button on his console. “Gloria?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Get Ellen to make travel arrangements to get Everett Sinclair on the next flight to Detroit. I’m dispatching him immediately.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Okay,” Hadley said to the group. “That’s it for today. Thank you.”
    Sinclair exited the room through a flurry of backslapping and attaboys. Hadley was dead-on. His star was rising.
    While packing in his office, he glanced at his stained Italian suit and his anger bubbled. He went to the large window, looked down over Seattle, and thought for a moment before he went through his briefing book for his notes on Detroit. He stopped when he came to the page with the information he had on the asshole.
    He powered up his laptop to download files for his trip, paused, then included the material from his camera phone. Pictures he’d taken. Evidence. The stains on his suit. The damage to his Mercedes 450SL.
    The rear of the Chrysler and its license.
    You will rue the day you fucked