The Signal Hunter
Act I: The Case The woman found me at The Rusty Anchor, a bar that exists in the basement of a building in Lower Manhattan that most people walk past without noticing. She was maybe thirty, dressed in a coat that cost more than my car and eyes that said she hadn't slept in days. "Mr. Corvin," she said. She knew my name. I don't like it when people know my name. "I have a job for you." I was...
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