Buch lesen: «Tennessee Takedown»
“You’re cold.” He shoved his gun in the holster and started to unstrap his Kevlar vest as if to wrap it around her.
She placed her hand on his, stopping him. “No. That’s all you have to keep yourself warm. You already gave up your shirt for me. I’ll not have you freeze to death by giving me your vest.”
He nodded. “At least this cave is dry. I’d start a fire but it would be a beacon to the gunmen. Come on. Sit and we’ll huddle together to get warm.”
The images that conjured in her mind had her feeling warm all over.
“I promise I’ll behave,” he added, as if he thought she might be worried about his intentions.
Ashley snorted. “Don’t expect me to make the same promise.”
He chuckled and pulled her closer. “Are you always this shy, or am I special for some reason?”
Oh, he was definitely special, but no way was she saying that.
Tennessee Takedown
Lena Diaz
LENA DIAZ was born in Kentucky and has also lived in California, Louisiana and Florida, where she now resides with her husband and two children. Before becoming a romantic suspense author, she was a computer programmer. A former Romance Writers of America Golden Heart® finalist, she has won a prestigious Daphne du Maurier award for excellence in mystery and suspense. She loves to watch action movies, garden and hike in the beautiful Tennessee Smoky Mountains. To get the latest news about Lena, please visit her website, www.lenadiaz.com.
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Thank you, Allison Lyons and Nalini Akolekar.
This one is for Sean and Jennifer, and the fun memories of horseback riding and white-water rafting in Tennessee. Exploring the Smoky Mountains with you was a true joy. Looking forward to many more years of happy memories to look back on.
Am so very proud of both of you. Love you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Excerpt
Chapter One
Ashley edged farther under the desktop in the cubicle, her fingers clutching the phone to her ear, her knees scraping against the coarse commercial carpet. Breathe...in, out, in, out. Focus, listen. Where is he?
Her breaths wheezed between her teeth, making a sharp whistling sound.
Calm down. He’ll hear you if you don’t calm down.
“Why don’t I hear any sirens yet?” she whispered to the nine-one-one operator.
“They’re on the way, ma’am. Is the shooter still in the building?”
“I’m not sure. I think so.”
“Stay where you are. Stay on the line. The police will be there soon.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone. That’s the same thing the operator had told her ten minutes ago—after the shooter killed Stanley Gibson.
They’d both been standing by the copier, chatting about nothing in particular while the machine spit out reports for their next meeting. A soft pfft sound whooshed through the air. A bright red circle bloomed on Stanley’s forehead. His eyes rolled up and he crumpled to the floor.
Ashley had stood frozen, too horrified to acknowledge what her subconscious already knew—someone had just shot one of her coworkers.
That’s when the screams began.
She’d whirled around. The shooter stood in the main aisle, his silver hair forming spikes across his head like porcupine quills. His dark gaze locked on her.
And then he smiled.
Ashley’s fight-or-flight instincts had kicked in. She ran. Around the corner, past the glass-enclosed offices the managers used. Empty. Thank God. At least half the company was out to lunch. But the rest were here, like her, trapped between the shooter and the only exit.
She kept running, to the other side of the building, to another maze of cubicles. She dove into the nearest one and grabbed the phone from the top of the desk. That was when she’d called nine-one-one.
A terrified scream echoed through the room.
Ashley’s pulse sputtered. “He’s still here,” she whispered.
“Help is on the way.”
The operator’s calm, matter-of-fact tone had Ashley clenching her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Didn’t the operator realize people were dying? Had the woman even called the police?
Leaning as far out of the cubicle as she dared, she risked a glance down the main aisle. The shooter’s progress through the offices of Gibson and Gibson Financial Services was marked by screams and shouts coming from the other side of the building.
The mournful wail of police sirens erupted outside the windows.
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
“I hear sirens,” she whispered. “They’re close.”
“Yes, ma’am. Are you still in the same location?”
“I haven’t moved.”
“I’ve notified the police where you are. They’ll be there soon.”
Ashley was really starting to hate the word soon. And she also sorely regretted taking the auditing contract in Destiny, Tennessee. If she were in her home office in Nashville right now, she wouldn’t be cowering in a cubicle with a crazed shooter on the loose.
One of the young temps stuck her head out of another cubicle several aisles away. What was her name? Karen? Kristen? Ashley had only met her once and couldn’t remember. The girl’s face was ghostly pale, her eyes wide with terror as she silently begged Ashley for help.
Ashley’s stomach jumped as if she’d plunged down a steep drop on a roller coaster. The girl couldn’t be more than nineteen. Ashley had to help her. But how? Which cubicle was safer? Should she run to the girl, or have the girl run to her?
She sucked in a breath. Oh, no. Spiky gray hair showed above a row of cubicles down a side aisle. The shooter. And he was heading straight toward the temp.
Ashley frantically motioned for the girl to hide.
The girl’s brow furrowed and she raised her hands in the air, not understanding what Ashley was trying to tell her.
In a few more steps, the gunman would be able to see them both.
“Go back,” Ashley mouthed, desperately pointing at the approaching shooter.
He rounded the corner. Ashley ducked back behind the partitioned wall.
A high-pitched scream echoed through the room, then abruptly stopped.
She clamped her hand over her mouth. No, no, no.
A shoe scraped across the carpet. Ashley froze. A swishing sound whispered through the air, as if someone had brushed up against one of the fabric-covered cubicle walls. Close.
Too close.
“Ma’am, the police are evaluating the situation,” the operator said through the phone in her monotone voice.
Ashley quickly covered the receiver. Her pulse slammed in her ears as she waited, listened. Was the shooter the one who’d made that swishing noise? Had he heard the operator? Her hand shook as she gingerly hung up the phone. She couldn’t wait for the police anymore. If she didn’t do something, right now, she’d be as dead as Stanley Gibson.
* * *
DILLON GRAYCROUCHEDbeneaththe window, cradling his assault rifle. He and the rest of his six-man SWAT team waited for the green light to begin the rescue operation in the one-story office building of Gibson and Gibson Financial Services.
Beside him, his friend since childhood, Chris Downing, watched the screen on his wristband, showing surveillance from the tiny scope he’d raised up to the window. “Casualties at three and five o’clock,” he whispered into the tiny mic attached to his helmet. “One more at eleven o’clock. No sign of a shooter.”
Dillon’s earpiece crackled and his boss’s voice came on the line. “Witnesses indicate there could be two shooters. Descriptions inconsistent. Shooters are dressed in black body armor. Kill shot will be a headshot. They’re using handguns. No long guns or explosives reported.”
“Do we have the go ahead to move in?” Dillon asked, inching closer to the door.
“Negative. Still gathering intel. Hold your position.”
His team looked to him for direction, their faces taut with frustration. They wanted to go in as badly as he did.
“Do we have a count yet on how many civilians are inside?” Dillon asked his boss.
“Negative,” Thornton replied. “Workers are still pulling into the parking lot after lunch. Impossible to know how many escaped and how many remain.”
Meaning there could be dozens or more inside. Defenseless. Hiding under desks, in conference rooms, in closets, waiting, praying someone would help them. What chance did an unarmed office worker have against men with guns, picking them off like targets at a gun range?
The stock of his rifle dug into Dillon’s clenched fist. The Destiny, Tennessee, police department was small and more accustomed to patrolling acres of farmland and gravel roads than suiting up in flak jackets and storming buildings. His SWAT team consisted of beat cops, desk jockeys and other detectives like him, but they’d all been hunting and shooting since they could walk. And they trained regularly, and hard, for this type of situation. What was the point of that training if they cowered and did nothing? How many civilians had died in the few minutes his team had been crouching beneath the windows? How many of those civilians were their own friends and neighbors?
“The team is ready and willing to go. Strongly requesting permission to enter, sir.”
“Negative,” Thornton replied. “Stand down, Detective Gray. Await further instructions.”
Dillon cursed.
Chris tapped his shoulder. “Movement on the east corner,” he whispered. “Appears to be a civilian. Belly crawling toward the exit.” His tortured gaze shot to Dillon. “Heavy blood trail.”
Dillon closed his fist around the mic so his boss wouldn’t hear him as he addressed his team.
“Chief Thornton ordered us to sit tight and wait. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of if you follow orders. Some of you have families to support. I don’t. If he fires me, so be it. But I’m not waiting one more minute while people die inside. I’m going in.”
Every one of his teammates raised their thumbs, letting him know they were all in.
He glanced at the only woman on the team, Donna Waters.
“Don’t even say it,” she warned. “You’ve never been sexist before. Don’t start now. I’m not waiting outside while the guys get all the fun.”
Dillon ruefully shook his head and held his fingers in the air. “We go in five, four—”
“Gray, what are you doing?” Thornton demanded. “I told you to stand down. That’s an order.”
“—one.” Dillon waved his hand in a forward rolling motion.
Donna yanked the door open. Dillon ran inside, first as always, crouching down, swinging his rifle left to right, covering his team as they rushed in behind him.
“Clear,” Dillon whispered, thankful his boss had shut up, leaving the airway free for communication among the team. When this was over, Thornton would give him hell, or fire him. But for now, the chief knew to butt out.
Dillon pointed to the injured civilian trying to crawl to the door. The two closest men grabbed the injured man and carried him outside. Dillon gave Donna a signal to wait for the two men to return before beginning her search on the west side of the building, while he and the two men with him headed to the east side.
The building formed a rectangle, with rows of six-foot-high cubicle walls divided in the middle by a line of glassed-in offices, bathrooms and conference rooms. Solid walls acted as firebreaks every twenty feet. The two teams would have to search and clear each section in a grid pattern before moving to the next.
When he reached the first body, Dillon sucked in a quick breath. The man was only a casual acquaintance, but Dillon had shared math classes with him in high school. The shooter, or shooters, had gone for a head shot. The vic never had a chance.
They continued on, finding two more casualties. A scratching sound whispered from the next aisle. Dillon crouched down and signaled his men to approach in a flanking maneuver from each end of the aisle. When they were in position, he held up five fingers, counting down. Four. Three. He rushed into the cubicle in front of him, silently continuing the countdown, as he knew his men would do. He climbed onto the countertop that formed a desk in the cubicle. When the count reached zero, he jumped to his feet and aimed his rifle over the top of the wall.
At the same time, his men rushed into the ends of the aisle to prevent escape. The scratching stopped. A young woman lay half in and half out of a cubicle, her face an ashen-gray color, with blood running down the side of her head. Her fingernails dug into the carpet, probably the scratching sound they’d heard.
Dillon stood guard over the top of the wall. Chris hoisted the young woman in his arms while the other man covered him. Together they retreated toward the exit, with Dillon watching over them until they were safely out the door.
Two civilians rescued. How many more were still hiding? And where the hell was the shooter?
A soft pfft sound had Dillon diving to the floor and rolling into the aisle. The cubicle wall near where he’d been standing seconds ago now boasted a small round hole. A bullet hole.
“This is Gray,” he whispered into his mic. “I’ve got gunfire on the east side, fifty feet in. Shooter’s weapon is silenced.” He jumped to his feet and hurried to the end of the aisle.
“Affirmative.” Donna’s voice came through his earpiece. “West side clear so far. Do you need backup?”
“Negative.” He peeked around the wall. “Witnesses reported two shooters. Continue search and rescue on the west side. I’ve got this.”
“You sure about that, country boy?” A gun muzzle pressed against Dillon’s back.
Chapter Two
The shooter was playing a deadly game of hide-and-seek with Ashley, searching every aisle, every cubicle. So far she’d managed to stay one step ahead of him. Barely. She rounded the end of another aisle. Her breath caught in her throat. The shooter’s profile was silhouetted against the wall of windows.
And his gun was pointing at a SWAT officer’s back.
Ducking into the adjacent aisle, Ashley struggled to keep her breathing shallow, quiet, so the shooter wouldn’t hear her. Gathering her courage, she risked another quick peek around the wall. The officer said something to the shooter. The shooter shook his head and gave him a gruff command. The officer tossed his rifle to the floor.
Dang it.
The exit door was only thirty feet away now. If Ashley was quiet, she might make it. But what would happen to the SWAT guy? He’d risked his life to rescue her and the others. Could she abandon him and leave him here to die?
No, she couldn’t.
Cursing her conscience, she ducked back and grabbed one of the heavy, old-fashioned phones from a cubicle desktop. After unplugging the cord, she crept down a parallel aisle, hoping to sneak up behind the shooter. She offered up a quick prayer that he hadn’t moved or turned around as she rounded the end of the row. Yes. His back was still facing her. But the SWAT guy was now facing the shooter, and Ashley, his hands raised.
Ashley crept forward, biting her lip, holding the phone in the air. She was pretty sure SWAT guy had seen her. He hadn’t looked directly at her, but his body tensed, and the lines around his eyes tightened.
“Too bad your buddies left you by yourself,” the shooter said. “Looks like they’ll be carting one of their own out the door next.” He raised his gun toward the officer’s face just as Ashley swung the phone with both hands at the shooter’s head.
But instead of hitting him, she hit empty air, spinning in a circle then falling against the wall beside her.
It took her a moment to realize SWAT guy had lunged for the shooter right when she’d swung the phone. He’d grabbed the shooter’s gun and swept his legs out from beneath him. Now both men were rolling on the floor, wrestling for control of the gun.
“Get out of here,” SWAT guy yelled.
Ashley realized he was yelling at her.
The two men rolled into the side aisle, grappling for control.
Leaving SWAT guy’s rifle lying on the floor.
“Go, go, go,” the officer yelled again. “Get out of here, run!”
SWAT guy was heavily muscled and tall, but the shooter was on top of him and must have outweighed him by at least forty pounds. The pistol was slowly, inexorably moving up toward the officer’s face, the only part of his body not covered in armor.
Ashley made her choice. She dropped the phone and grabbed for the rifle.
The shooter twisted toward her and slammed his foot against her calf. She screamed and fell to the floor. Before she could scramble away, he grabbed her long hair and yanked her in front of him like a human shield.
SWAT guy crouched in the aisle a few feet away, glaring at Ashley before focusing on the shooter. The wicked-looking hunting knife in the officer’s hand, along with his glare, had Ashley groaning inside. Instead of helping, she’d gotten in the way and messed everything up. She hadn’t realized the policeman had a knife, and that he’d apparently been about to use it when she’d interfered.
“Let her go,” the officer ordered. “You’re surrounded.”
Ashley glanced around, stunned to see he wasn’t bluffing. She hadn’t heard or seen the other SWAT officers come in, but there were two on her left, another one on the far side of the shooter and, as she watched, a fourth officer entered the aisle behind SWAT guy, who was now crouched in front of the shooter, still holding his knife.
Surrounded was putting it mildly.
“Let her go,” SWAT guy repeated.
The shooter scooted back, pulling Ashley with him, keeping his gun trained on SWAT guy. Ashley struggled against his hold, but he squeezed hard, crushing her in a painful grip against his chest. He scooted back until he was pressed against the wall and couldn’t move any farther.
“I’ll kill her.” He yanked her hair.
Ashley sucked in a sharp breath at the fiery pain. It felt as though he was yanking half her hair out by the roots.
“Back off or she’s dead. You can’t shoot me without hitting her. Back. Off.”
Ashley struggled to draw air into her lungs. She could barely breathe with her head twisted back so hard and tight.
Swat guy clutched his knife and motioned to the two SWAT officers on Ashley’s left side. “He’s right. Lower your weapons and back away. Give him room.”
The shooter turned his head to the side, watching the officers lower their rifles.
He suddenly jerked against Ashley, a guttural moan wheezing out of his throat.
SWAT guy lunged forward, grabbing the shooter’s gun and tossing it away. He chopped his hand down on the shooter’s arm, breaking his hold on Ashley before yanking her away from him.
She twisted in the officer’s arms, looking back toward the shooter. The gunman lay on the floor, convulsing, the haft of a knife sticking out of his neck. Blood bubbled out of the wound.
She clutched the officer’s arm where it circled her waist.
“You—you threw your knife, while he was holding me?” she squeaked.
He gently grasped her chin, forcing her to turn away from the shooter.
“Look at me,” he ordered, his voice gruff but laced with concern.
She dragged her gaze up his armor-covered chest to stare into a pair of stormy blue-gray eyes.
“Are you injured? Did he hurt you?” he demanded.
She swallowed and shook her head. “No. No, he didn’t... I don’t think...” She shuddered. “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me.”
“How many are there? Did you see any other gunmen?”
“He’s the only one I saw.”
He lifted her away from him. “Get her out of here.”
A pair of strong arms grasped her waist and pulled her away.
Another officer hauled SWAT guy to his feet.
“Sit rep on the shooter?” he asked one of the others.
“Deceased.”
SWAT guy, obviously the leader, motioned to the man holding Ashley’s arm and another officer standing by the window. “Stay alert. Assume a second shooter is still in here. Get her out while we clear the rest of the building.”
* * *
YELLOWCRIME-SCENEtape fluttered in the early-summer breeze, bringing with it the smell of impending rain. Ashley sat on one of the folding chairs the police had set up in the parking lot. Most of her coworkers had already been interviewed and had been allowed to leave. Ashley had been interviewed, too, but the detective who’d spoken to her had asked her to wait. She wasn’t sure why.
The dead—eight in all—were still inside the building as crime scene technicians took pictures of the carnage and documented what had happened. The wounded—only three had been shot and survived—had been taken to the hospital.
The company’s owner, Ron Gibson, stood talking with a couple of detectives about twenty feet away. The grief on his face reminded Ashley that he’d lost his only son today—Stanley. But Gibson was apparently a hero. He’d dragged one of the wounded out the exit before the police arrived, and he was going to be okay. The temp, whose name Ashley still couldn’t remember, was also going to recover. The bullet had only grazed her head.
Another gust of wind blew through, swirling Ashley’s hair. She pushed it out of her face and wished she had a ponytail holder with her. A shadow fell over her and she glanced up to see the SWAT officer who’d rescued her by throwing his knife at the shooter.
He’d shed the heavy body armor and vest with the big white letters on it marking him as SWAT. In dark blue dress pants and a white dress shirt, he could have been one of her coworkers, except that none of her coworkers were quite as muscular and fit-looking as this man. Then again, if he made his living wearing all that heavy equipment, she supposed the muscles were honestly earned.
He smiled and shook his head. “You didn’t hear anything I said, did you, Miss Parrish?”
“I’m sorry, no. I was...thinking. What did you say?”
He pulled another folding chair over and sat across from her. He held out his hand and she automatically took it.
“I’m Detective Dillon Gray. I know you’ve already been interviewed, but I wanted to ask you a few more questions. Are you up to it?”
She shook his hand, but when he mentioned asking questions, all she could think about was the knife sticking out of the shooter’s throat. She clutched his hand instead of letting go.
He didn’t seem to mind. He held her hand and simply scooted his chair closer, resting his forearm across his knees.
“How long have you worked at Gibson and Gibson?”
She shook her head. “I don’t work here. I mean, not for the company. I’m an independent consultant, an auditor. I work short-term contracts. I came here three weeks ago—no, four. Tomorrow...tomorrow would have been my last day.” She shivered.
A look of interest lit his blue-gray eyes. “Were you brought in because of a problem? Did you find anything that concerned you when you performed the audit?”
“No, on both counts. Mr. Gibson—” she nodded toward the owner, who was being escorted to his car by one of the policemen “—he applied for a substantial loan to expand the business. The bank hired me to perform a routine audit before granting the loan. Everything checked out. I was going to recommend the loan move forward. I was supposed to finish the formal report today.”
A coroner’s van pulled up to the front of the building. Bile rose in Ashley’s throat.
“Ignore them. Focus on me.” Gray’s deep voice was low and soothing, but it had the bite of authority.
She looked away from the van and met his gaze.
“I’m almost done,” he said, his voice gentle. “Then you can go.”
She nodded. When she heard the squeaky wheels of the coroner’s gurney rolling toward the front door, she clutched his hand harder, using him as her anchor.
Another gust of wind, stronger than the rest, slapped the detective’s pants against his legs. He looked up at the sky, which was casting a dark pall over the parking lot. “Looks like the weatherman was right. We’re in for a heck of a storm.”
He smiled at her again, and somehow the tension squeezing her chest eased, if only a little.
“I’ll make this quick,” he said. “You said your time here was temporary. Where’s home?”
“Nashville. I’ve got an apartment there.”
“Made any enemies in Nashville that might have come here looking for you?”
She blinked in surprise. “Me? You think the shooter was after me, specifically?”
“Routine questions. Just exploring all the possibilities.”
The panic that had started inside her faded beneath his matter-of-fact tone. “The answer is no. I don’t have any enemies. Not that I know of.”
“You didn’t recognize the shooter, correct?” he asked.
“I’ve never seen him before.”
“Did he speak to you, call you by name?”
“No. He just...smiled, this really creepy, spooky smile.”
His brows lowered. “What do you mean?”
“I was at the copier, with Stanley Gibson. The shooter shot Stanley, and when I turned around, he looked directly at me and...smiled. That’s when I ran. I hid and kept going from aisle to aisle as he went through the room. I tried to stay a step ahead, but he caught up to me. He was on my aisle, but he was crouching down. I climbed over the wall to the next aisle before he reached my cubicle.” She shivered and tugged her hand out of his grasp. The wind was colder now, making her shiver. She wrapped her arms around her middle.
Detective Gray motioned to one of the uniformed policemen nearby. “Get Miss Parrish a jacket, please.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “If someone could please...get my purse...out of my cubicle inside, so I can get my car keys, I’ll just go home. If you’re finished with your questions?”
“By the time the officer retrieves your purse, I will be.”
Ashley told the policeman where her purse was. He headed back toward the building.
“Does the name Todd Dunlop mean anything to you?” he asked.
“No. Was that the shooter’s name?”
“I can’t officially confirm that at this time.”
“I understand. No, I’ve never heard that name before.”
He asked her several more questions about her routine and whether she’d seen anything out of the ordinary when she got to work this morning. He asked her about any recent firings, but she wasn’t aware of any.
“I’m sorry, Detective. But other than the officers of the company, I haven’t even spoken to most of the people who work here. I’ve been stuck in a conference room most of the time, poring over years of financial reports. I wish I had better answers for you.”
“You’re doing fine, Miss Parrish.” His white teeth flashed in a reassuring smile.
The policeman returned with her purse. She thanked him and he hurried away.
“May I go home now?” she asked the detective.
“Of course. I’ve got your address and your phone number. If I think of more questions, I’ll stop by or give you a call. When are you leaving town?”
“The end of the week.”
He walked her to her car.
She tried to unlock the car three times, but her hands were shaking so hard she couldn’t get the key in the lock.
He gently took the keys from her and unlocked the door. “The clicker’s broken, I assume?” He held up the electronic key fob attached to her key chain before handing back her keys.
“I think it’s the battery. I keep forgetting to replace it.” She slid into the driver’s seat.
“You should get that fixed as soon as possible, as a security precaution,” he said.
She nodded, in full agreement. After today, she was suddenly hyperaware of how dangerous the world could be. Fumbling for her keys when a simple click of a button could unlock her door didn’t strike her as smart.
“Detective Gray?”
He crouched down beside her door, giving her that same kind smile he’d given her earlier. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry that I interfered, back inside. I thought I was helping, but I realize now that I could have gotten you hurt—” she swallowed hard “—or killed.”
“You were very brave. You have nothing to apologize for. Everything worked out.”
She offered him a shaky smile. “You saved my life. I don’t know how to pay someone back for something like that.”
“Fix that clicker. That’s payback enough. Then I won’t have to worry about you fumbling with your keys.” He fished a business card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else you want to tell me about what happened, anything that can help us sort through this mess and figure out why this guy picked Gibson and Gibson, give me a call.”
* * *
DILLONWATCHEDTHEsurprisingly brave, pretty little auditor drive away in her aging dark blue Chevy Lumina. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen one of those cars on the road. Obviously Ashley Parrish wasn’t making a fortune in her chosen occupation, which made any obvious financial motive for the shooter to target her seem unlikely.
“Did she tell you anything useful about the shooter?”
Dillon turned at the sound of Chris Downing’s voice behind him.
“No. But she’s pretty shaken. She might think of something later.” He glanced past his friend. His boss was standing with the rest of the SWAT team, his face animated—not in a good way—as he spoke to them. “Let me guess. Thornton sent you to get me.”
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