Shadow Prey (A Prey Novel, Band 2) - Softcover

Sandford, John

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593085329 ISBN 13: 9780593085325

Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2020

Inhaltsangabe

A series of ritualistic murders committed across the United States draws Lucas Davenport into an unimaginable conspiracy of revenge in this “classic”(Boston Globe) thriller in the #1 New York Times bestselling series.

A slumlord butchered in Minneapolis...A rising political star executed in Manhattan...A judge slashed to death in Oklahoma City...

Each victim has a history of bad behavior, but the only thing the killings have in common is the murder weapon—a Native American ceremonial knife—and a trail of blood that leads to an embodiment of evil known only as Shadow Love. Recruited to be the lethal hand of a terrorist campaign, Shadow Love has his own bloody agenda, one he will do anything to achieve.

Enlisted to find him are Minneapolis police lieutenant Lucas Davenport and New York City police officer Lily Rothenburg. But despite the countrywide carnage they needn’t look far. Because Shadow Love is right behind them.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

John Sandford is the pseudonym for the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of the Prey novels, the Kidd novels, the Virgil Flowers novels, and six other books, including three YA novels co-authored with his wife Michele Cook.

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In the Beginning . . .They were in a service alley, tucked between two Dumpsters.Carl Reed, a beer can in his hand, kept watch. LarryClay peeled the drunk Indian girl, tossing her clothes on thefloor of the backseat, wedging himself between her legs.

The Indian started to howl. “Christ, she sounds like afuckin’ coon- dog,” said Reed, a Kentucky boy.

“She’s tight,” Clay grunted. Reed laughed and said,“Hurry up,” and lobbed his empty beer can toward one of theDumpsters. It clattered off the side and fell into the alley.

Clay was in full gallop when the girl’s howl pitched up,reaching toward a scream. He put one big hand over her faceand said, “Shut up, bitch,” but he liked it. A minute later hefinished and crawled off.

Reed slipped off his gunbelt and dumped it on top of thecar behind the light bar. Clay was in the alley, staring downat himself. “Look at the fuckin’ blood,” he said.

“God damn,” Reed said, “you got yourself a virgin.” Heducked into the backseat and said, “Here comes Daddy. . . .”

The squad car’s only radios were police- band, so Clay andReed carried a transistor job that Reed had bought in a PXin Vietnam. Clay took it out, turned it on and hunted forsomething decent. An all- news station was babbling aboutRobert Kennedy’s challenging Lyndon Johnson. Clay keptturning and finally found a country station playing “Odeto Billy Joe.”

“You about done?” he asked, as the Bobbie Gentry songtrickled out into the alley.

“Just . . . fuckin’ . . . hold on . . .” Reed said.

The Indian girl wasn’t saying anything.

When Reed finished, Clay was back in uniform. Theytook a few seconds to get some clothes on the girl.

“Take her, or leave her?” Reed asked.

The girl was sitting in the alley, dazed, surrounded bydiscarded advertising leaflets that had blown out of theDumpster.

“Fuck it,” Clay said. “Leave her.”They were nothing but drunk Indian chicks. That’swhat everybody said. It wasn’t like you were wearing it out.It’s not like they had less than they started with. Hell, theyliked it.

And that’s why, when a call went out, squad cars respondedfrom all over Phoenix. Drunk Indian chick. Needsa ride home. Anybody?

Say “drunk Indian,” meaning a male, and you’d thinkevery squad in town had driven off a cliff. Not a peep. Buta drunk Indian chick? There was a traffic jam. A lot ofthem were fat, a lot of them were old. But some of themweren’t.

Lawrence Duberville Clay was the last son of arich man. The other Clay boys went into the family business:chemicals, plastics, aluminum. Larry came out of college andjoined the Phoenix police force. His family, except for the oldman, who made all the money, was shocked. The old mansaid, “Let him go. Let’s see what he does.”

Larry Clay started by growing his hair out, down on hisshoulders, and dragging around town in a ’56 Ford. In twomonths, he had friends all over the hippie community. Fiftylong- haired flower children went down on drugs, before theword got out about the fresh- faced narc.

After that it was patrol, working the bars, the nightclubs,the after- hours joints; picking up the drunk Indian chicks.You could have a good time as a cop. Larry Clay did.

Until he got hurt.

He was beaten so badly that the first cops on the scenethought he was dead. They got him to a trauma center andthe docs bailed him out. Who did it? Dope dealers, he said.Hippies. Revenge. Larry Clay was a hero, and they made hima sergeant.

When he got out of the hospital, Clay stayed on the forcelong enough to prove that he wasn’t chicken, and then hequit. Working summers, he finished law school in two years.He spent two more years in the prosecutor’s office, then wentinto private practice. In 1972, he ran for the state senateand won.

His career really took off when a gambler got in troublewith the IRS. In exchange for a little sympathy, the gamblergave the tax men a list of senior cops he’d paid off over theyears. The stink wouldn’t go away. The city fathers, gettingnervous, looked around and found a boy with a head on hisshoulders. A boy from a good family. A former cop, a lawyer,a politician.

Clean up the force, they told Lawrence Duberville Clay.But don’t try too hard. . . .

He did precisely what they wanted. They were properlygrateful.

In 1976, Lawrence Duberville Clay became the youngestchief in the department’s history. He quit five years later totake an appointment as an assistant U.S. attorney generalin Washington.

A step backward, his brothers said. Just watch him, saidthe old man. And the old man was there to help: the rightpeople, the right clubs. Money, when it was needed.

When the scandal hit the FBI— kickbacks in an insider-tradinginvestigation— the administration knew where togo. The boy from Phoenix had a rep. He’d cleaned up thePhoenix force, and he’d clean up the FBI. But he wouldn’ttry too hard.

At forty- two, Lawrence Duberville Clay was named theyoungest FBI director since J. Edgar Hoover. He became theadministration’s point man for the war on crime. He tookthe FBI to the people, and to the press. During a dope raid inChicago, an AP photographer shot a portrait of a wearyLawrence Duberville Clay, his sleeves rolled above his elbows,a hollow look on his face. A huge Desert Eagle semiautomaticpistol rode in a shoulder rig under his arm. Thepicture made him a celebrity.

Not many people remembered his early days in Phoenix,the nights spent hunting drunk Indian chicks.

During those Phoenix nights, Larry Clay developed ataste for the young ones. Very young ones. And some of themmaybe weren’t so drunk. And some of them weren’t so interestedin backseat tag team. But who was going to believe anIndian chick, in Phoenix, in the mid- sixties? Civil rightswere for blacks in the South, not for Indians or Chicanos inthe Southwest. Date- rape wasn’t even a concept, and feminismhad barely come over the horizon.

But the girl in the alley . . . she was twelve and she was alittle drunk, but not so drunk that she couldn’t say no, orremember who put her in the car. She told her mother. Hermother stewed about it for a couple of days, then told twomen she’d met at the res.

The two men caught Larry Clay outside his apartmentand beat the shit out of him with a genuine Louisville Slugger.Broke one of his legs and both arms and a whole bunchof ribs. Broke his nose and some teeth.

It wasn’t dope dealers who beat Larry Clay. It was acouple of Indians, on a comeback from a rape.

Lawrence Duberville Clay never knew who they were, buthe never forgot what they did to him. He had a lot of shots atIndians over the years, as a prosecutor, a state senator, apolice chief, an assistant U.S. attorney general.

He took them all.

And he didn’t forget them when he became director of theFBI, the iron fist on every Indian reservation in the nation.

But there were Indians with long memories too.

Like the men who took him in Phoenix.

The Crows

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1

Ray Cuervo sat in his office and counted his money.He counted his money every Friday afternoon betweenfive and six o’clock. He made no secret of it.

Cuervo owned six apartment buildings scattered aroundIndian Country south of the Minneapolis Loop. Thecheapest apartment rented for thirty- nine dollars a week.The most expensive was seventy- five. When he collectedhis rent, Cuervo took neither...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2020
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593085329
• ISBN 13: 9780593085325
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 480
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar