Chapter Eleven
I was angry. I was tired. And I was aching like nobody’s business. There was no way in hell I was spending the night in an industrial parking lot in the back of my shitty hatchback. I still had some cash on me. I drove the bug-out vehicle to Buckhead. Parked near a liquor store. Bought a fifth of Maker’s Mark. Walked to the nearest hotel. Booked a room for the night under my old alias, John McClane. That was going to tickle some alarm bells somewhere. For a change, I didn’t actually care.
As soon as I was through the door of my suite, I dropped my go-bag, whipped the seal of the bottle, and slammed a shot. Maker’s Mark isn’t top-shelf, but it’s plenty good enough to drink straight without wanting to spit. The amber fluid burned its way down my throat, my chest, my belly.
