Twenty-fourThey stumbled down sunny N Street, heading for the waterfront where the police building was located, like a love-drunk couple who’d celebrated too enthusiastically. But the iron circle of the barrel in Aristide’s ribs was a persistent reminder that this was not a journey of love but of desperation and madness.
Two thoughts penetrated his raddled mind and kept him focused.
The first was a prayer sent to heaven that none of the companions he’d left behind would attempt an ill-advised rescue. He had no wish to die in a hail of bullets, nor did he want to see the damaged butterfly at his side crushed on the sidewalk. Because that was what she was, insane with years of unrequited grief.
The second was that if there was one thing he wished to do for the young woman he’d once loved,
