The Faded Chronicle
The rain in Chicago did not fall so much as it was driven horizontally into the face of the sedan, blurring the neon signs of the Loop into streaks of red and blue that smeared across Elias Thorne’s windshield. He was forty-two years old, a federal marshal with twenty years of service etched into the lines around his eyes, and he was driving with a desperation that made his hands shake on the...
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