GERALD The Cotswolds had begun slipping into twilight when I made my way to the northern pasture. The evening air was cool against my face, carrying the earthy smell of damp grass and pine. Golden leaves rustled overhead, shaking loose from the ancient oak trees that lined the northern fence. I stood beside the wooden gate with my jacket open against the chill, a steaming mug of black coffee warming my right hand. Fifty yards away, two black bay horses wandered lazily through the tall grass. For once, there was nothing urgent happening. No alarms. No emergency calls. No intelligence reports demanding my attention. Just horses, fading sunlight, and the quiet hum of a place that had finally begun to feel like home. Then I spotted Michael. He was walking along the fence line, his left arm secured in a lightweight black sling. He was moving carefully, but anyone looking at him would have assumed he had never been shot at all. I shook my head. "You're supposed to be resting,
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