Three Decades of Pretending Come to an End in a Military Holding Cell

The amount printed in bold black ink was five thousand dollars.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“A down payment on making things right,” he said.

I ran my thumb over the raised printed numbers.

Five thousand dollars was enough to cover the retainer I’d just paid Arthur Vance.

It was more money than I’d seen Glenn hold in ten years.

“Where did you get this?” I asked.

“Want a cup of coffee?” Glenn asked.