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- KurzbeschreibungA New York Times bestselling "suspenseful, action-filled ride" ( The Denver Post ) from the author of the Joe Pickett novels...
Everything about the rich stranger is a mystery: the massive, isolated ranch in the remote Black Hills of Wyoming, the women who live with him, the secret philanthropies, the private airstrip, the sudden disappearances. And especially the persistent rumors that the man's wealth comes from killing people.
Joe Pickett, still officially a game warden but now mostly a troubleshooter for the governor, is assigned to find out the truth. But he finds out a lot more than he bargained for. There are two other men living up at that ranch. One is a stone-cold killer who takes an instant dislike to Joe. He doesn't frighten Joe at all.
The other man is another story...
- AutorC. J. Box
- VerlagBerkley Books
- Seiten416 Seiten
- Gewicht227 g
Fort Smith, Montana
Nate Romanowski pushed the drift boat onto the Bighorn River at three-thirty in the morning on a Sunday in early October and let the silent muscle of the current pull him away from the grassy bank. Eight miles downriver was the fortified and opulent vacation home of the notorious man he was going to kill.
It was twenty-four degrees and steam rose from the surface of the black water in thick tendrils, and he was soon enveloped in it. The craft floated quietly and he manned the long oars to keep the upswept bow pointing forward. Gnarled walls of river cottonwoods closed him in, their bare branches reaching overhead from both banks as if to try and join hands. For ten minutes between Third Island and Dag's Run, he couldn't see a damned thing and operated exclusively on feel and sound and experience. He kept to the main channel and avoided the shallows so he wouldn't scrape bottom and could float as swiftly as possible.
He'd made the run before in preparation-so many times, in fact, that the rhythm, mood, and temperament of the river was as familiar to him as his falcons, his weapons, and his code. Or what was left of his code, anyway, he thought, and grinned bitterly to himself in the dark.
While doing night reconnaissance, he'd worn the narrow compression pack on his back that he wore now, and he was so used to the dead weight of the gear inside that he almost forgot it was there. His .500 Wyoming Express five-shot revolver, the most powerful handgun on earth, hung grip-out from its shoulder holster below his left ribs, its security tether unsnapped.
Over his shoulder, the massive concrete spillway of the Yellowtail Dam glowed light blue in the muted light of the stars and the scythelike slice of moon. A single cumulus cloud, its rounded edges highlighted by starlight, moved from north to south, blotting out the continuity of the brilliant Milky Way. It would be hours before fly-fishing guides and anglers-men, women, but mostly men-arrived at the launch near the dam and started their half-day or daylong drift floats down the legendary Bighorn. Nate slipped a cell phone from his breast pocket and powered it on. When he had a signal and the screen glowed, he called up the only number stored in it and texted: It's a go. And sent the message.
Within a minute, there was a response: Go do some good.
Nate turned off the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.
- - -
NATE WAS TALL, angular, and rangy. He didn't row with the oars but used them to steer the boat by lowering one or the other into the current to bring the bow around. He had worked on his technique so it was smooth and he wouldn't splash
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