Hollowed Out


F.B.I. agents don’t die every day.  But two had died in the last week.  Roberson wanted to know why.

“Tough to say, Rob.  So many terrorists around and other whackos.  This country breeds more sickos every year.  Just have a drink and forget it.”

Roberson gulped on a Black and Tan.  He didn’t even taste it.  Whatever would numb this feeling away.  The booming voice in his ear was Agent Butters.  Old guy from thirty years back.  Roberson had never liked him, but figured to show him respect when he had to.

“How can you ask me to forget it?”

Butters leaned in close.

“I’m not asking.”





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