The rain in Los Angeles does not cleanse. It merely rearranges the grime.
Marcus Cole woke up in a motel off the 101 with a head wound that felt like someone had driven a railroad spike through his left temple and a Federal Bureau of Investigation warrant on his phone that said he was a murderer. The phone was not his. It belonged to a dead man named Derek Walsh, and Marcus had taken it from Walsh's desk in a classified raid in Helmand Province forty-seven days ago....
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