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Zusatztext Praise for John Sandford’s Prey Novels “Relentlessly swift...genuinely suspenseful...excellent.”— Los Angeles Times “Sandford is a writer in control of his craft.”— Chicago Sun-Times “Excellent...compelling...everything works.”— USA Today “Grip-you-by-the-throat thrills...a hell of a ride.”— Houston Chronicle “Crackling! page-turning tension...great scary fun.”— The New York Daily News “Enough pulse-pounding! page-turning excitement to keep you up way past bedtime.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune “One of the most engaging characters in contemporary fiction.”— Detroit News “Positively chilling.”— St. Petersburg Times “Just right for fans of The Silence of the Lambs .”— Booklist “One of the most horrible villains this side of Hannibal.” —Richmond Times-Dispatch “Ice-pick chills...excruciatingly tense...a double-pumped roundhouse of a thriller.” —Kirkus Reviews Informationen zum Autor John Sandford is the pseudonym of Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of the Prey novels, the Kidd novels, the Virgil Flowers novels, The Night Crew , and Dead Watch. He lives in New Mexico. Klappentext When a simple robbery turns deadly, the thieves close in on the only witness: Lucas Davenport's wife...Three of them, hard men carrying nylon bags, wearing workjackets, Carhartts and Levi’s, all of them with facial hair. Theywalked across the parking structure to the steel security door,heads swiveling, checking the corners and the overheads, steamflowing from their mouths, into the icy air, one of the men on acell phone. As they got to the door, it popped open, and a fourth man,who’d been on the other end of the cell-phone call, let themthrough. The fourth man was tall and thin, dark-complected,with a black brush mustache. He wore a knee-length black raincoatthat he’d bought at a Goodwill store two days earlier, andblack pants. He scanned the parking structure, saw nothing moving,pulled the door shut, made sure of the lock. “This way,” he snapped. Inside, they moved fast, reducing their exposure, should someoneunexpectedly come along. No one should, at the ass-end ofthe hospital, at fifteen minutes after five o’clock on a bitterly coldwinter morning. They threaded through a maze of service corridorsuntil the tall man said, “Here.” Here was a storage closet. He opened it with a key. Inside, a pileof blue, double-extra-large orderly uniforms sat on a medical cart. The hard men dumped their coats on the floor and pulled theuniforms over their street clothes. Not a big disguise, but theyweren’t meant to be seen close-up—just enough to slip past avideo camera. One of them, the biggest one, hopped up on thecart, lay down and said, “Look, I’m dead,” and laughed at his joke.The tall man could smell the bourbon on the joker’s breath. “Shut the fuck up,” said one of the others, but not in an unkindlyway. The tall man said, “Don’t be stupid,” and there was nothingkind in his voice. When they were ready, they looked at eachother and the tall man pulled a white cotton blanket over the manon the cart, and one of the men said, “Let’s do it.” “Check yourself . . .” “We don’t hurt anyone,” the tall man said. The sentiment reflectednot compassion, but calculation: robbery got X amount ofattention, injuries got X-cubed. “Yeah, yeah . . .” One of the men pulled a semiautomatic pistolfrom his belt, a heavy, blued, no-bullshit Beretta, stolen fromthe Army National Guard in Milwaukee, checked it, stuck it backin his belt. He said, “Okay? Everybody got his mask? Okay.Let’s go.” They stuffed the ski masks into their belts and two hard menpushed the cart into the corridor. The tal...
