16
Laurel Ridge Apartments, Annapolis, Maryland.
John Stone grabbed a beer from the fridge, slumped onto the couch, and cracked it open. But when he picked up the television remote, he stopped himself. He didn’t want to watch TV, but the sight of the remote had produced an automatic response, like Pavlov’s dog reacting to a bell.
He tossed the remote back onto the empty coffee table and glanced around his Spartan apartment. Nothing hung on the walls; nothing lined the shelves. Stone sat and listened to the abject silence. When he caught his own reflection on the polished glass of the television, he stared a moment. His sandy blond hair had grown unkempt and heavy, and the beard as well.
As was typical of the quiet times, his thoughts drifted back to the many deadly operations he’d been
