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buzzed and turned.
“Booker King,” I said.
The gate swung open silently.
I parked my rusted truck beside a silver Rolls-Royce, the contrast sharp enough to make a lesser man feel small. It just made me feel focused.
Alistair Thorne met me at the door in his motorized wheelchair, eighty years old with a body withered by illness but eyes sharp as broken glass.continue reading …
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