The Pale Dance
The escape happened at 0200 hours, a Tuesday in November, and the cold that followed was not of this world. Elias Thorne stood in the mud of the border crossing, his frayed wool coat clinging to his shivering frame, watching the suspect vanish into the dark treeline. The wind picked up, a sudden, violent gust that tore a button from Elias’s lapel and sent it spinning into the black grass. He...
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