North Williamsburg, Brooklyn — the Northside.
"Three fingers of Maker's, neat. Anything else, kid?"
Joe wiped a pint glass, coughed twice, and nudged his ancient Harley shades up the bridge of his nose. Gray temples, damn near bald on top—he couldn't see shit anymore, but the old Chinook driver wasn't ever taking those glasses off.
"Not too many young guys drink it straight these days. Mostly some hoppy bullshit with a side of irony. Guess that's why they gave you fellas the green beanies, huh?"
He waved a thick hand like he was shooing a fly, slid back onto his stool, and twisted toward the flat-screen running an MMA card in the corner.
"Ribs, you dumb bastard—ribs!"
He threw air punches at the TV while the bar speakers crackled with crowd noise and some generic rock track nobody knew the name of.
"I'm tellin' ya, this dude fights like a fuckin' kangaroo on crack. Just hugs the head and eats trips all night. How many times you gotta kiss the canvas before the lightbulb kicks in?"
Short fuse, catcher-mitt paw—Joe slammed the bar and scared off a couple of twenty-somethings about to park next to John. John knew it was intentional.
"You learned real fighting in the teams, right? Bet you could put that clown to sleep in thirty seconds… Christ, these cards get dumber every year."
John Hastings smiled, drained the last of the bourbon, set both elbows on the scarred wood, and rubbed his freshly shaved jaw. Still felt naked without the beard.
"You know how it goes, Joe."
He slid the empty glass forward.
"Diaphragm, cheeks, windpipe, joints… that ain't sport. Compared to what we did, a rear-naked's just good manners."
He tapped the bar once with a knuckle.
"Gin. No ice."
Joe flashed the gold tooth, slung the bar rag over his shoulder, and reached back for a white ceramic bottle of Nordés. Thunked it down like it owed him money.
"Figured you might wanna rinse the cordite off your tongue. You ever had this Spanish stuff?"
John nodded. Joe grabbed a tulip glass, twisted the cork, and poured a fat measure while the juniper rolled out thick.
"Got a buddy who'd hump this bottle like a leg. Guy loves strong smells—gets half a chub off hot brass. Total freak."
John lifted the glass, inhaled, and the crease between his eyes disappeared like someone just cut the gravity.
He looked up at Joe, almost startled.
"Drink it, Johnny. Logan tried to order this exact bottle last time he was in. We were sixty-nine'd out."
John took a sip, voice low.
"You remember him?"
Joe scratched the side of his nose, went back to polishing a glass that didn't need it.
"Course I remember the bastard. Ran a tab longer than my dick, showed up in those shiny-ass suits trying to pull girls—actually pulled one. Tattoo chick. Hasn't come around lately. Kinda miss the sonofabitch."
John sat quiet, sipping, white shirt open enough to show the two dog tags nested together. He buttoned one more button, leaned back.
"Yeah… I miss him too."
Knocked the gin back in one pull. Botanicals hit like OC spray, then the fire rolled down and lit his gut.
"Good man."
He stared into the empty glass, light catching like liquid gold. Fragile shit. Only gets talked about once they're gone.
Joe read the room. Green-Wood ran a full-honors send-off a couple weeks back. Logan wasn't walking through that door again.
"Hey, kid."
He cracked the Nordés again, filled John's glass to the rim, poured himself a short one.
"To good ol' Logan."
John raised his careful, clinked it soft.
"To Sergeant Logan Lehrman."
Threw it back. Set the empty down hard. Cheeks flushed, wordless.
"To Logan."
Joe coughed on the gin bite, killed the fight on the TV, took off the shades, rubbed his pink old eyes, and leaned in.
"Where you headed next, soldier?"
John rolled the glass between his palms, watching the fog bloom.
"Not sure, Joe. Something's goin' on with me. I feel it clear as day, but I can't stop it."
Joe waited.
"Talk to me."
"VA up in Manhattan says I got the bad kind of PTSD."
"That's rough, brother. It actin' up?"
"Nightmares so far. Seeing people in broad daylight that ain't there."
"You'll ride it out, John. Go easy on yourself."
Joe reached over, patted the arm. Felt like slapping rebar.
"No… Joe, I ain't sick. Something else is fuckin' with me. Hard to put words to it."
"Everybody goes through this part, kid. Ain't your fault. From jump it's been pawn for king—we're the ones gettin' fucked."
"My gut says something's off. Way off. Like we got played hard."
"Alright, John… you're freakin' me out a little."
"Need a place to crash first. Then I'll figure the rest."
John rubbed his temple. High-pitched ringing sliced through bone. Here we go.
Joe poured another. John drank it like water.
"Know a good spot, John."
He swept some glasses aside, tore a leaf off the notepad, started writing.
"You know the Catskills? I was eyeballin' a little place up there for when I hang it up, but I'm short. Still on the block."
Slid the note across.
John glanced at the second number.
"Who's the other one?"
Joe folded his arms, lips thin.
"First you're gonna need wheels, Johnny. Guy's solid. You'll like him."
John cracked half a smile, waved the scrap of paper.
"Thanks, Joe."
Stood, straightened the shirt, pulled a roll of hundreds from his pocket, peeled off more than he owed, set it down. Slid the green beret back on.
"One last thing."
He paused, then asked slow:
"Pawn ever gets tired of being thrown away… can he still take the king?"
Joe lifted an eyebrow.
"Only if he's got friends to call checkmate."
Joe squinted. Same face he'd known for years suddenly looked like someone else's.
"I ain't alone, Joe."
John tapped his temple with a scarred knuckle and smiled like a man who finally remembered the joke was on everybody else.
"They're all right here. Never left."
He turned, pushed through the door.
Sunlight poured in, wrapped around the dress blues for one bright second, then let go.
He walked the crosswalk with the commuters, brushing shoulders with civilians.
The city blurred, afterimage burned away—
Tan-painted M4 slung tight, plates hanging heavy, Kevlar low over the eyes. Cammies bloused into boots, war belt sagging with mags and a drop-leg rig.
He kept walking like nothing was wrong.
Just another ghost fresh off the bird, wandering the concrete jungle with nowhere to be buried.