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About John J Mitchell
I’m told I can tell a good story, something treasured by both sides of my Irish-Mexican family, or at least that’s what I want to hear. But don’t get me wrong, I have many other traits despised by the same family. I guess my filter has a few holes in it, but let’s not go into that. My wife tells me, eyes rolling, my stories grow bigger and bolder with each telling—implying my stories are embellished bullshit. Yes, but my stories, which she has heard over many years, are all based on true stories. My books, on the other hand, are the opposite. They’re completely based on bullshit, and embellished by real life. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.
It's closing time at the lobby bar, so she invites her three last customers, all Americans, to join her at the rooftop bar to enjoy the panoramic view and their signature Makati Slings. When the elevator halts on the fourteenth floor (there is no thirteenth), they're the only occupants, and they find themselves at the mercy of a man in a black beret.
Matabato, a foot soldier in the Filipino War on Drugs, barges into the elevator with his hairy-assed patrol dog and uncovers an unattended bag of shabu, the Filipino drug of choice. The war allows for the extrajudicial execution of suspected drug dealers, and Matabato has four, enough to restore the shine on his tarnished badge. But even the war has rules. If Annabelle, or just one of the Americans, steps up ... the others will live. If not, it will be the last night in Manila for all four of them.