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Zusatztext Praise for Extreme Prey “The latest Prey novel is exciting, politically astute, and ultimately terrifying. Sandford and Davenport are in top form.” — Booklist , starred review “Add a hammock under a shady tree, and you've got a quintessential summer read.” — Minneapolis Star-Tribune “Sandford, as always, sets a heart-pounding pace. He permeates his work with wit, an engaging hero readers have come to cherish and a cat-and-rat match that in this case draws on the streak of violence that for years has left a bloody stain on the nation. Timely and troubling, it’s a must-read for thriller devotees and political junkies.” — Richmond Times Dispatch “This guy Sandford is good .” — St. Louis Post-Dispatch Praise for John Sandford “It appears there is no limit to John Sandford’s ability to keep new breath and blood flowing into his Lucas Davenport series. This is a series you must be reading if you are not already.” — Bookreporter.com “If you haven’t read Sandford yet, you have been missing one of the great summer-read novelists of all time.” —Stephen King “Sandford has always been at the top of any list of great mystery writers. His writing and the appeal of his lead character are as fresh as ever.” — The Huffington Post “Sandford is consistently brilliant.” — Cleveland Plain Dealer From the Hardcover edition. Informationen zum Autor John Sandford is the pseudonym for the Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of twenty-six Prey novels; four Kidd novels; eight Virgil Flowers novels; two YA novels coauthored with his wife, Michele Cook; and three other books, most recently Saturn Run . Leseprobe CHAPTER ONE Bright-eyed Marlys Purdy carried a steel bucket around to the side of the garage to the rabbit hutches, which were stacked up on top of each other like Manhattan walkups. She paused there for a moment, considering the possibilities. A dozen New Zealand whites peered through the screened windows, their pink noses twitching and pale eyes watching the intruder, their long ears turning like radar dishes, trying to parse their immediate future: Was this dinner, or death? A car went by on the gravel road, on the far side of a ditch-line of lavender yarrow and clumps of black-eyed susans and purple cone flowers, throwing a cloud of dust into the late-afternoon sun. Marlys turned to look. Lori Schaeffer, who lived three more miles out. Didn’t bother to wave. Marlys was a sturdy woman in her fifties, white curls clinging to her scalp like vanilla frosting. She wore rimless glasses, a homemade red-checked gingham dress and low-topped Nikes. Short-nosed and pale, she had a small pink mouth that habitually pursed in thought, or disapproval. She popped the door on one of the hutches and pulled the rabbit out by its hind feet. The animal smelled of rabbit food and rabbit poop and the pine shavings used as bedding. A twelve-inch Craftsman crescent wrench, its working end rusted shut, lay on top of the hutches. Marlys stretched the rabbit over her thigh and held it tight until it stopped wriggling, then picked up the crescent wrench and whacked the rabbit on the back of the head, separating the skull from the spine. So it was death. The rabbit went limp, but a few seconds later, began twitching as its nerves fired against oxygen starvation. That went on for a bit and then the rabbit went quiet again. Some years before, Marlys had mounted a plank on the side of the garage, at he...
