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... io wing, until La Turbie's turf opened up in front of him again. Same wind off the coast. Same sky hanging low like it knew something. Demien slowed only when he reached the chalkboard already set beside the cones.
The eleven were written down.
Alonso. D'Alessandro. Plašil.
No hesitation.
He stood in front of it but didn't speak. Not yet.
Michel came up behind him, holding the squad sheets in one hand and a thermos cup he hadn't touched in the other.
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