CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nash and Mac sat in the bar’s office with a freshly brewed black coffee. Mac was on his third whiskey. They had talked about what they had been up to for the past year. They c hatted and laughed like old friends rather than father and son. They had always had that sort of relationship. But in addition to the friendlessness, there was respect.
Mac had understood why Nash had left; it wasn’t so much hiding as rehabilitation. Mac had hated the Bureau for what they had done to his kid. Nash had been one of their best investigators, and they’d stabbed him in the back after a case went wrong.
“So, how’s my retirement shack coming along?” Mac said before taking a sip from his whiskey glass.
“Really, you want the place now that I’ve done it up?” Nash said, raising a curious eyeb
