The Pale Protocol
The rain in Seattle did not fall so much as it settled, a persistent, grey mist that clung to the skin like a second, damp layer of self. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the Puget Sound, his boots sinking slightly into the wet gravel, watching the water churn against the pilings of the old pier. He was a man constructed of right angles and silence, a federal agent whose life had been reduced...
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