The rain in New York doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the dirt slicker.
Jack Morretti woke up on a bench in Times Square with the taste of copper in his mouth and fifty years of memories crashing into a seven-year-old brain like a freight train through a glass window. He remembered everything. The FBI badge. The interrogation rooms. The twenty-five years of reading liars the way other men read newspapers. The undercover operation in '41, the deal that went bad, the...
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