Lilian evacuated the site hours later, but she didn't return to Washington. Not only did she feel like an outsider amongst her team but she was scared to report back to her Director Caldridge.
Also, her head hurt.
She decided to deal with this the old fashion way. By drinking.
So, Lilian pushed through the scarred oak door of a bar by the street and almost stumbled inside. The air was marginally cooler, thick with the tang of stale beer, cheap disinfectant, and the low thrum of indifferent conversation.
It was a place for the worn-down and the anonymous. Perfect.
As throbbing thoughts of the failed Nevarro mission filled her head, she slid onto a cracked vinyl stool at the far end of the bar, the blazer she shrugged off looking incongruously expensive against the grimy wood.
