Determine if bourbon consumption during off-duty hours affects decision-making or clarity of mission goals
CLOSING THOUGHT:
May need SA Christopherto
4 Days Until Christmas
TICK-TOCK. TICK-TOCK…
Lucas’ eyes popped open.
TICK-TOCK. TICK-TOCK.
He turned his head on the pillow and peered blearily at the small brass clock on the nightstand.
9:34
His eyes widened. He sat up, groping for the clock, held it an inch from his nose, the better to see… 9:35. Nine thirty-five. Nine. Thirty. Five. Late o’clock on Sunday morning. He turned to stare at the still neatly made other half of the bed. The smooth blank face of Riley’s pillow seemed to gaze at him in reproach. He grimaced, wiped his face.
How the hell much had he had to drink last night?
A bottle of wine minus one glass at the restaurant. He winced, trying to calculate. 750 milliliters—fuck milliliters—25.4 ounces minus 5 ounces…
Plus, the bourbon when he got home…
Plus, the bourbon when he sat down to phone Riley…
Plus, the bourbon when he lost his nerve…
The effort of trying to count so early—late—in the morning sent his guts sliding in discomfort. He dropped the clock on the nightstand, threw back the covers, and staggered into the bathroom where he recoiled in alarm at the sight of a haggard, pallid, red-eyed vagrant looming up behind him.
No. Wrong. That bedraggled specimen slumped over the his-and-his sinks washim. Supervisory Special Agent Lucas D-for-Derelict Alexander. Lucas gawked at the stubbled, sticky-haired doppelganger gaping back at him.
The Ghost of Eight Days of Christmas Passed.
Because sure as hell that goddamned (sorry, Baby Jesus) doom countdown was still in effect. If he wasluckythat god-goshdamned doom countdown was still in effect. Because, last night…
He came to a full and sudden stop, remembering last night.
Remembering that little cynical smile of Riley’s when they’d been waiting for their table—and hadn’t there been at least one raised eyebrow during dinner?—remembering his final glimpse of Riley turning away. Walking away from him.
The red eyes of the man in the mirror got redder and glisten-y.
“You’re a damned fool,” Lucas told him. “You’re wrecking the best thing that ever happened to you.”
The man in the mirror—a tall, rangy, forty-something with dark hair turning silver around the temples, neatly groomed beard, and blood-shot brown eyes—struggled with that for a moment.
But yes. It was the truth.
Far from diffusing the bomb the night before, he’d cut the red wire. Or was it the blue? Whichever it was, he’d cut the wrong one. And so of course the fucking disaster clock was winding down faster than before. A realization which had resulted in his getting plastered for the first time since…
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been that drunk.
Or drunk at all.
