The Pale Protocol
The letter arrived in a plain brown envelope, the paper brittle with the age of the stamp, and Elias Thorne did not open it until he had driven the rental car for three hours into the Scottish Highlands, the rain drumming a relentless, monotonous rhythm against the windshield that sounded less like water and more like the frantic tapping of insects trapped in a sealed jar. He sat at the edge of...
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