The Pale Shadows
Don’t move, or I’ll put a round in your knee. The words hung in the wet air, heavy and bureaucratic, clashing with the visceral, animal thrum of Elias Thorne’s own pulse. He stood in the mud of the farmhouse yard, his rifle leveled at the man inside the open door, the rain hammering the tin roof in a rhythm that sounded less like weather and more like a demand for payment. Elias was thirty-four...
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