The Short Drop



Tinsley didn't care for the kind of people it attracted-busy, nattering people who congregated like flies on the stiffening corpse of their day-but he appreciated the comprehensive selection of fine scotch.

Inside his arid, primeval brain-and Tinsley thought of himself as almost prehistoric, something unspoiled by the softening influence of progress-he could look out at the world, blink, and in the time it took for his eyes to reopen, weeks could pass.

Instead, Tinsley had crawled through the vile sewage of the Sarajevo sewer system, eventually taking a position in a storm drain that gave him an unobstructed view of a compromised safe house that had sat empty for eighteen months.

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