The warmth brought by the liquid spread to his limbs, but he was well aware that the true heat tonight would erupt in that booth in a few hours.
He walked to the hat and coat mirror.
The man in the mirror was in his fifties, his hair meticulously styled with hair gel, gray at the temples yet neatly trimmed.
The face was typical of the American Midwest: square jaw, light blue eyes, and a nose slightly crooked from a past rugby injury.
His skin was in good condition, the result of working indoors for a long time, controlled diet, and regular checks by a private doctor.
Only the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and the expression unique to those who have stayed long in war zones—a mix of fatigue and excitement—betrayed his true situation.
Twelve years.
He had been in Illiguo for twelve years.
