The Pale Bonsai
The hydraulic clamp on the rear restraint bolt was stripping the thread, and you knew it before the metal shrieked, a high-pitched whine that cut through the hum of the diesel engine. You pulled your hand back, shaking out the numbness from your fingers, and looked at Marcus Vance. He was sitting in the back seat of the federal transport, hands cuffed to the partition, watching the thread spin...
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