![]() According to the weatherman on the Beeb, it was one of the fiercest electrical storms in over a decade. Lightning danced across the skies in forked displays from one horizon to another. ![]() The winter storm had struck just after midnight, opening with a riotous volley of hail, followed by a deluge that threatened to wash London into the Thames. Thunder echoed through the masonry walls. He’d finish it at his next break…that is, if they got a break this night. Harry swore under his breath and pocketed the stubbed cigarette. Harry was already on probation for coming in two hours late for his shift last week. If he was caught smoking outside the guards’ break room, he would be shit-canned by that bastard Fleming, head of museum security. Instead he stamped out the fag after only three drags and waved the cloud from around his face. ![]() If he had known this, he would’ve smoked his last cigarette down to the filter. HARRY MASTERSON would be dead in thirteen minutes. To Katherine, Adrienne, and RJ, the next generation
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