Alexander Kane

The Hudson stank of diesel and dead fish, a sour, oily reek that coated the back of my throat and refused to let go. I stood on the cracked pier, boots planted wide against the wind that whipped off the water, rifle slung across my chest but my hands never far from the grip. The warehouse was nothing but a heap of smoking rubble behind us now, the night sky bruised purple and starless above the city. My ears still rang from the collapse, a high-pitched whine that overlaid every ...