tomorrow. So far, the prosecution had done a good job. The evidence was overwhelming. Privately, he’d been briefed about a turf war between the defendant and several of his Mexican competitors—the trial apparently an excellent way for some of the reef sharks to eliminate a deep-water predator .
From some nearby belfry came the fiendish clamor of bells, barely discernible over Mexico City’s daily drone. Around the grassy plaza, people sat in the shade of bushy trees, whose vibrant color tempered the severity of the nearby sooty buildings. A blue marble fountain shot slender columns of foamy water high into the warm air .
He heard a pop. Then another .
A black-skirted nun fifty yards away dropped to the ground .
Two more pops .
Another person, a woman, fell flat .
Screams pierced the air .
People fled in every direction, as if an air-raid warning had been issued .
He noticed little girls in sober, gray uniforms. More nuns. Women in bright-colored skirts. Men in somber business suits .
All fleeing .
His gaze raked the mayhem as bodies kept dropping. Finally, he spotted two men fifty yards away with guns—one kneeling, the other standing, both firing .
Three more people tumbled to the ground .
He reached beneath his suit jacket for his Beretta. The Mexicans had allowed him to keep it while in the country. He leveled the gun and ticked off two rounds, taking down both shooters .
He spotted more bodies. Nobody was helping anyone .
Everybody simply ran .
He lowered the gun .
Another crack rang loud and he felt something pierce his left shoulder. At first there was no sensation, then an electric charge surged through him and exploded into his brain with a painful agony he’d felt before .
He’d been shot .
From a row of hedges a man emerged. Malone noticed little about him save for black hair that curled from under the rakish slant of a battered hat .
The pain intensified. Blood poured from his shoulder, soaking his shirt. This was supposed to be a low-risk courtroom assignment. Anger rushed through him, which steeled his resolve. His attacker’s eyes grew impudent, the mouth chiseled into a sardonic smile, seemingly deciding whether to stay and finish what he started or flee .
The gunman turned to leave .
Malone’s balance was failing, but he summoned all his strength and fired .
He still did not recall actually pulling the trigger. He was told later that he fired three times, and two of the rounds found the target, killing the third assailant.
The final tally? Seven dead, nine injured.
Cai Thorvaldsen, a young diplomat assigned to the Danish mission, and a Mexican prosecutor, Elena Ramirez Rico, were two of the dead. They’d been enjoying their lunch beneath one of the trees.
Ten weeks later a man with a crooked spine came to see him in Atlanta. They’d sat in Malone’s den, and he hadn’t bothered to ask how Henrik Thorvaldsen had found him.
“I came to meet the man who shot my son’s killer,” Thorvaldsen said .
“Why?”
“To thank you.”
“You could have called.”
“I understand you were nearly killed.”
He shrugged .
“And you are quitting your government job. Resigning your commission. Retiring from the military.”
“You know an awful lot.”
“Knowledge is the greatest of luxuries.”
He wasn’t impressed. “Thanks for the pat on the back. I have a hole in my shoulder that’s throbbing. So since you’ve said your peace, could you leave?”
Thorvaldsen never moved from the sofa, he simply stared around at the den and the surrounding rooms visible through an archway. Every wall was sheathed in books. The house seemed nothing but a backdrop for the shelves .
“I love them, too,” his guest said. “I’ve collected books all my life.”
“What do you want?”
“Have you considered your future?”
He motioned around the room. “Thought I’d open an old-book shop. Got plenty to sell.”
“Excellent idea. I have one for sale, if you’d like
From some nearby belfry came the fiendish clamor of bells, barely discernible over Mexico City’s daily drone. Around the grassy plaza, people sat in the shade of bushy trees, whose vibrant color tempered the severity of the nearby sooty buildings. A blue marble fountain shot slender columns of foamy water high into the warm air .
He heard a pop. Then another .
A black-skirted nun fifty yards away dropped to the ground .
Two more pops .
Another person, a woman, fell flat .
Screams pierced the air .
People fled in every direction, as if an air-raid warning had been issued .
He noticed little girls in sober, gray uniforms. More nuns. Women in bright-colored skirts. Men in somber business suits .
All fleeing .
His gaze raked the mayhem as bodies kept dropping. Finally, he spotted two men fifty yards away with guns—one kneeling, the other standing, both firing .
Three more people tumbled to the ground .
He reached beneath his suit jacket for his Beretta. The Mexicans had allowed him to keep it while in the country. He leveled the gun and ticked off two rounds, taking down both shooters .
He spotted more bodies. Nobody was helping anyone .
Everybody simply ran .
He lowered the gun .
Another crack rang loud and he felt something pierce his left shoulder. At first there was no sensation, then an electric charge surged through him and exploded into his brain with a painful agony he’d felt before .
He’d been shot .
From a row of hedges a man emerged. Malone noticed little about him save for black hair that curled from under the rakish slant of a battered hat .
The pain intensified. Blood poured from his shoulder, soaking his shirt. This was supposed to be a low-risk courtroom assignment. Anger rushed through him, which steeled his resolve. His attacker’s eyes grew impudent, the mouth chiseled into a sardonic smile, seemingly deciding whether to stay and finish what he started or flee .
The gunman turned to leave .
Malone’s balance was failing, but he summoned all his strength and fired .
He still did not recall actually pulling the trigger. He was told later that he fired three times, and two of the rounds found the target, killing the third assailant.
The final tally? Seven dead, nine injured.
Cai Thorvaldsen, a young diplomat assigned to the Danish mission, and a Mexican prosecutor, Elena Ramirez Rico, were two of the dead. They’d been enjoying their lunch beneath one of the trees.
Ten weeks later a man with a crooked spine came to see him in Atlanta. They’d sat in Malone’s den, and he hadn’t bothered to ask how Henrik Thorvaldsen had found him.
“I came to meet the man who shot my son’s killer,” Thorvaldsen said .
“Why?”
“To thank you.”
“You could have called.”
“I understand you were nearly killed.”
He shrugged .
“And you are quitting your government job. Resigning your commission. Retiring from the military.”
“You know an awful lot.”
“Knowledge is the greatest of luxuries.”
He wasn’t impressed. “Thanks for the pat on the back. I have a hole in my shoulder that’s throbbing. So since you’ve said your peace, could you leave?”
Thorvaldsen never moved from the sofa, he simply stared around at the den and the surrounding rooms visible through an archway. Every wall was sheathed in books. The house seemed nothing but a backdrop for the shelves .
“I love them, too,” his guest said. “I’ve collected books all my life.”
“What do you want?”
“Have you considered your future?”
He motioned around the room. “Thought I’d open an old-book shop. Got plenty to sell.”
“Excellent idea. I have one for sale, if you’d like
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