The Dark Tide. Andrew Gross

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The Dark Tide - Andrew  Gross


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Chapter Fifty-Five

       Chapter Fifty-Six

       Chapter Fifty-Seven

       Chapter Fifty-Eight

       Chapter Fifty-Nine

       Chapter Sixty

       Chapter Sixty-One

       Chapter Sixty-Two

       Chapter Sixty-Three

       Chapter Sixty-Four

       Chapter Sixty-Five

       Chapter Sixty-Six

       Chapter Sixty-Seven

       Chapter Sixty-Eight

       Chapter Sixty-Nine

       Chapter Seventy

       Chapter Seventy-One

       Chapter Seventy-Two

       Chapter Seventy-Three

       Chapter Seventy-Four

       Chapter Seventy-Five

       Chapter Seventy-Six

       Chapter Seventy-Seven

       Chapter Seventy-Eight

       Part Four

       Chapter Seventy-Nine

       Chapter Eighty

       Chapter Eighty-One

       Chapter Eighty-Two

       Chapter Eighty-Three

       Chapter Eighty-Four

       Chapter Eighty-Five

       Chapter Eighty-Six

       Chapter Eighty-Seven

       Chapter Eighty-Eight

       Chapter Eighty-Nine

       Chapter Ninety

       Chapter Ninety-One

       Chapter Ninety-Two

       Chapter Ninety-Three

       Chapter Ninety-Four

       Chapter Ninety-Five

       Chapter Ninety-Six

       Chapter Ninety-Seven

       Chapter Ninety-Eight

       Chapter Ninety-Nine

       Chapter One Hundred

       Chapter One Hundred One

       Chapter One Hundred Two

       Chapter One Hundred Three

       Chapter One Hundred Four

       Chapter One Hundred Five

       Epilogue

       Acknowledgments

       About the Author

       Also by the Author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

PART ONE

       6:10 A.M.

      As the morning sun canted sharply through the bedroom window, Charles Friedman dropped the baton.

      He hadn’t had the dream in years, yet there he was, gangly, twelve years old, running the third leg of the relay in the track meet at summer camp, the battle between the Blue and the Gray squarely on the line. The sky was a brilliant blue, the crowd jumping up and down—crew-cut, red-cheeked faces he would never see again, except here. His teammate, Kyle Bregman, running the preceding leg, was bearing down on him, holding on to a slim lead, cheeks puffing with everything he had.

       Reach….

      Charles readied himself, set to take off at the touch of the baton. He felt his fingers twitch, awaiting the slap of the stick in his palm.

      There it was! Now! He took off.

      Suddenly there was a crushing groan.

      Charles stopped, looked down in horror. The baton lay on the ground. The Gray Team completed the exchange, sprinting past him to an improbable victory,


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