The Distant Crown
Thorne. The name hung in the air, sharp and cold, spoken by the young man across the table. Elias Thorne, forty-two, a border patrol agent with twenty years of service and a promotion waiting on a single clean file, leaned forward. The interrogation room was a box of white plastic and bad coffee, the air thick with the scent of stale fear and industrial cleaner. There were no windows, only a...
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