Die Twice

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He had two guns, as I expected. His service weapon, and a backup. A factory-fresh Beretta M9/92F, and an ancient, scratched Walther PPK. One under his left arm, the other strapped to his left ankle.

Both still in their holsters.

There’s a strict protocol for bringing the career of a fellow professional to a premature end. It demanded that I take out the Beretta. Place it in his right hand. Curl his index finger through the trigger guard. Release the safety. Discharge at least one round. Give him the final dignity of appearing to whoever found his body that he’d at least gone down fighting.

I’d always followed those rules before. With an Armenian. Two Iranians. A Peruvian. A Ukrainian. Even a Frenchman, on one bizarre occasion. But that evening, I left the guns where they were. I didn’t even loosen the straps that held them in place. I just left him lying facedown on the strip of coarse office carpet, picked up the green metal flask he’d been so desperate to take, and walked away.

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