The rain in Kuala Lumpur did not fall so much as it descended, a thick warm curtain that turned the jungle into a green cathedral of dripping leaves and shadow. Arthur Blackwood woke to the sound of it and the taste of mud in his mouth.
He did not remember falling. He remembered the ambush—the Japanese officers emerging from the tree line like ghosts, Eleanor standing at their side in her field uniform, her face turned away from him as though she were reading something written in the rain. Then the shot, sharp and close, and the world tilting backward into the black water of the swamp. Now he was alive. That was the first...
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