Jordan Sandor had no reason to expect this quiet autumn morning to erupt with the familiar sounds of his violent past.
It was nearly ten. The air felt crisp and cool, the calm sky bright and clear and blue. The two-lane blacktop in upstate New York was deserted, except for Dan Peters’ old station wagon where Sandor slouched in the passenger seat, a casual observer of the passing countryside. He and Peters had been riding in silence when a pickup truck came into view then turned across their path.
“That’s practically a traffic jam around here.”
Sandor nodded. “Doesn’t seem to...