I’ve had a long time to think about what he said and what he’d done, and he was right; desperation makes people vulnerable. The person without a job, roused into hatred of minorities. The person without money or opportunity, tempted to escape into drugs or, in my case, crime. Earlier in my story, I asked whether you’d kill to make a better life for you or your family, but the truth is we’d all kill if we were sufficiently desperate. We all have a price.
If I’d told Persico’s story from his perspective, would you be rooting for him? The wronged, vengeful father rather than the manipulated, murderous deadbeat? Maybe you are rooting for him, a man traumatized by grief, who’d hatched a plan of vengeance. Loss had made him desperate in his own way, and he’d become vulnerable to the extremes of action that so entice those without hope. I’d started him on this path when I drove into his daughter’s car.
I’d made him a killer, just as he’d made me one.
If I’d been alone in the world, I would have accepted whatever judgment he had for me. I would have taken torture and death as a just punishment for the suffering I’d caused, but I wasn’t alone. I had Skye, and she needed me. She was counting on me to keep her safe, to provide for her, and there was no way I could let this twisted man succeed in his terrible plan to ruin her and make her suffer.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Persico a couple of feet away, gun pointed at my back. The three robots were a short distance behind him.
“Get on your knees,” he said.
“You don’t have to do this,” I responded.
I knew he wouldn’t be fast or strong, he couldn’t be, not in his condition, but he had a gun, which always altered the natural balance.
“Down!” he said, and I heard him take a step forward.
I crouched as the pistol whipped through the air where my head had been a split second before, and he toppled into me as the force of the attempted blow threw him off-balance. I punched him, and he lashed out instinctively as he fell back. He caught me on the temple with the gun, and my world swam.
The robots clattered around us, trying to get a line on me, and I staggered forward, my head spinning, aware I was finished if Persico could get his gun up. I swung for him, but my aim was off, and it was my turn to swipe air. He hit me with the pistol again, and this time he knocked me down. Darkness tore at the edges of my vision, and I was on the verge of passing out. One more blow and I’d be done.
But there was no further blow. Persico composed himself and stepped toward me, and I saw the muzzle of his gun rise toward my head as if in slow motion.
I thought of Skye and my love for her. I thought of all the things she’d lose if I died here. Desperation swept over me and gave me the strength to fight for my life.
As Persico brought the pistol level with my head, I leaped at him, covering the short distance between us before he had the chance to react. The robots reared onto their hind legs, clearly programmed to protect their principal, but Persico shielded me from any attack.
I grabbed the pistol as he fired instinctively, and the three robots, reacting to the danger, shot their Tasers but missed me and hit Persico in the back. He grimaced and looked at me in horror as three high-voltage devices discharged a surge of electricity into his body.
His cry was despairing and final, and he fell to the floor, surrounded by his expensive machines. They dropped to their fours and lowered what passed for their heads.
They didn’t react as he convulsed at my feet, and when he finally stopped shaking, I stepped forward and checked his pulse. His glassy eyes stared up at me as lifeless as his body.
Persico. Joseph Persico, the man whose daughter I’d killed in a car crash. The man who’d wreaked havoc in so many lives. The man who’d made a murderer of me was dead.