He Poured Beer Down My Jacket And Demanded My Call Sign Until He Realized Who I Really Was

Donnelly,” he said, his voice carrying the careful flatness of a man who has delivered bad news on worse nights than this one. “Call sign Mercy.”

He was looking at Rodriguez when he said it. Not at me.

“And if you’ve got any instinct for self-preservation at all,” he said, “tonight is the night you stop talking.”

The bar went still in a different way continue reading …