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... or the occasional crackle of the secure communication device on Reginald Hawkins's desk. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he listened intently to the distorted voice on the other end of the line. The quality of the connection was poor, the sizzling sound of interference cutting through the words, but the information was clear enough.
The voice was soft but precise, carrying the professionalism of someone well-versed in secrecy. "...Lady Irina Emberheart and the young ...
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