The Faded Shield
Thorne. The name hit him like a slap across the wet windshield. Not a shout, but a crackle from the radio, the dispatcher’s voice thin and tinny in the cab. Elias Thorne, forty-two, Sergeant of the night shift, gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned the color of old bone. The truck groaned, tires screaming against the slick asphalt of the industrial district. Rain lashed the...
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