The Golden Cellar
The train rattled over the iron tracks, a shuddering rhythm that matched the throb in Elias Thorne’s temple. Outside the window, the Canadian border stretched out in a grey, industrial haze, the smokestacks of the steel mills bleeding into the low clouds. Thorne sat rigid in his seat, his hands clasped tightly around a leather briefcase that contained only a single, unmarked envelope. He was...
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