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24/01/2003
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The King of the Dead CityThe Ark was a masterpiece of subterranean engineering—a city of chrome and neon buried five miles beneath the irradiated crust of the Earth. It was the last bastion of humanity, a place where every calorie was tracked and every breath was taxed. I was Kaufman, the Chief Administrator. I didn't care about the survival of the species; I cared about the survival of my authority. The crisis hit on...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 0 Visualizações 0 AnteriorFaça Login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
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THE DEEP LEDGERACT I: THE WOMAN IN FUR (20%) The office smelled like old paper, old whiskey, and old mistakes. Frank Callahan liked it that way. It reminded him that everything in this city had a history, and most of those histories involved someone doing something they couldn't take back. The door opened without a knock. Frank looked up from his desk. The woman standing in the doorway was dressed in black...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 0 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Life-Line TraderIn the glass canyons of Wall Street, life was not measured in years, but in "Tics." Dr. Adrian lived in a penthouse that overlooked the exchange, a space he shared with three ambitious analysts who viewed him as the ultimate insider. Adrian didn't trade stocks; he traded time. Adrian had developed a technology called "Chronos-Suture," which allowed him to precisely extend a human life by...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Dorian OrbI. Lord Sebastian Cross painted in a studio above a bookshop in Bloomsbury, where the light was best in the late afternoon and the world below sounded like a conversation he was not part of. His portraits were famous—famous in the way that famous people who don't want to be famous are famous. They appeared in galleries and private collections and salons, and everyone who saw them said the same...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 13 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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sample-TheReturn-V-03-EdmundsConfession-202606030947.txtEdmund's Confession I am writing this because I owe Thomas Whitaker an apology, and he is dead and will never read it, and that is the point. If he were alive, I would say it to his face. But he is not alive, so I write it on paper, and the paper will probably be thrown away, and that is also the point. My name is Edmund Blackwell. I am Thomas Whitaker's eldest nephew. Or I was. That connection...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 10 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The jazz of fading starsThe music was dying, and nobody wanted to admit it. Not in New York, where the music was everything. Not in Chicago, where the music was the only thing. And certainly not in Julian Ashford, who had spent the last five years composing jazz that made people dance because they were afraid of what would happen when the music stopped. It was 1925, and the city was drowning in its own prosperity....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 14 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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Burn the FireJack Morane didn't believe in the afterlife until the woman hired him to find a dead man who was still very much alive. She was beautiful in the way that California women are beautiful—carefully constructed, meticulously maintained, and ultimately untouchable. Her name was Diane. She had dark eyes and a voice like cigarette smoke and a checkbook that didn't seem to notice how fast it emptied....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 16 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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THE QUIET ENDFrank O'Malley woke at six in the morning. It was not an alarm clock that woke him. It was the habit of waking at six, established twelve years ago in a base camp in the Ho Chi Minh Trail and never broken, even after he broke everything else. He lay in the dark. The apartment was small—one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen that was really just a corner with a stove and a refrigerator the size of...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 14 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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Venom ProtocolThe raid went wrong at 2:17 AM on a Tuesday in November 1999. Agent Marcus Cole knew it was going wrong the moment the door blew inward and the flashbang grenade turned the room white and deafening and the smell of burning sulfur filled his lungs. He was thirty-five years old, one of the most experienced agents on the DEA's Special Operations Division, and he had been in hundreds of raids. This...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 15 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Cotton Club smelled of gin and desperation and something sweeter underneath, like roses left too long in a vase of warm water.Julian Valentine stood at the edge of the stage and listened to the band warm up. They were good--not great, but good. The kind of good that comes from years of playing in rooms just like this one, where the audience drinks too much and talks too loud and pretends not to hear the music until it's too late.He adjusted his tie. It was too tight. He had bought it that morning from a pawnshop on...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Patient from BelowACT I: THE LISTENING The sanatorium sat on the edge of Whitechapel, where the fog never fully lifted and the gas lamps cast yellow circles on cobblestones that were perpetually damp. Julian Ashworth had been sent here by his physician after his "episode" at twenty-five—a nervous breakdown, the doctor called it, though Julian suspected the word "nervous" was a euphemism for something the doctor...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 13 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Orphan of OakhavenACT I The rain in Mississippi doesn't fall. It descends, heavy and deliberate, like a verdict. Ezekiel Thorne remembered the first time he experienced it at Oakhaven, standing in the doorway with dirt on his knees and a war in his eyes that belonged to a man twice his age. He was ten years old, and the war had already ended. He had lost. Elias Thorne found him on the road between Natchez and...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 13 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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