Pitch black. That was the night I met Jimmy Brighton, a six-five-two-ninety hulk, who had just been released from prison. Leaning against a light post smoking a cigarette, he looked up as I approached. “You’re late,” he said and stamped out his cigarette. “C’mon. We have work to do.”
We crept into the alley. Silence. It was my last job then off to Mexico, but someone was there. Jimmy groaned. We pulled our guns. A shot. Blood on my face. Jimmy’s.
A voice from the darkness: “Steven Kyle Miller, you’re under arrest for attempting assassination of Congressman Banks!”
Bye Mexico.
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