Police captain Delia Mariola is still struggling to drive the predatory drug dealers from the rustbelt town of Baxter, before the new Nissan plant owners lose faith in this forgotten corner of America. It doesn't help that a boomtown has grown up just outside of city limits—a wild west designed to feed every unsavory desire of the workers building the plant. And like vultures homing in on the weak, criminal gangs from the big cities have also been drawn to the boomtown, knowing how freely money will flow to those willing to supply drugs and women to these workers far from home, looking for comfort and distraction. With no police actively enforcing the rule of law in the unregulated town, the criminals have turned on each other as they try to claim control. In the midst of this drug war, a young prostitute's body turns up on the streets of Baxter, well within Delia's jurisdiction to investigate. Hoping this might be the case that allows her to finally be able to crack down on Boomtown, Delia is relentless in her pursuit of the killer and the group she believes is behind the criminal enterprises plaguing her streets. But Delia isn't the only person looking for the murderer. Two strangers have arrived in town, claiming to be the family of the deceased and possibly looking for a version of justice that has more to do with back hills vigilantism than the court of law. This complicates everything for Delia, who is unfairly made the target of criticism not only for the criminals running amuck in Boomtown, but also as a woman and lesbian in a small-town police force. Once again, A.F. Carter brings a host of unforgettable characters to life in this gritty crime novel, the most memorable being the town of Baxter itself. "[A] tense and solid police procedural set in an unusual locale" ― Booklist on The Hostage "Smart, urgent, and sneakily deep" -- C.J. Box on The Hostage "Striking . . . A rich and reeking swamp full of exploitation, despair, violence, and summary justice." ― Kirkus "Efficiently attending to each of the numerous conflicts and characters, Carter drives the narrative toward a ripping climax and adds vivid new shades to Baxter and its neighboring communities. Admirers of Ace Atkins's down-and-dirty Quinn Colson books will find much to like." ― Publishers Weekly "Riveting and real." ― CrimeReads A. F. Carter lives and works in New York City and is the author of All of Us and the Delia Mariola series. I pop the trunk release and get out of the car. My weapon is in the trunk, Corey, too. She was still pliant when we folded her into a fetal position, but she’s stiff as a board now. At the moment, though, I’m focused on the leather bag next to her feet, the bag and the silenced Sig-Sauer automatic inside. Silencers are now legal in forty-two States, thanks to the NRA. Mine isn’t legal, of course, but once manufacturers began shipping suppressors to gun stores, a certain number inevitably found their way onto the black market. Like the one attached to the .22 caliber Sig-Sauer. The pistol isn’t very powerful. Or very accurate. Beyond twenty yards, in fact, it’s just about worthless. Close in, though, it’s a lot quieter than nine millimeters or forty-fives. Even silenced, guns make noise. I slide my hands into surgical gloves, also in the bag, and slip a covid mask over my mouth and nose. I’m not trying to prevent infection, only to avoid leaving my DNA at what’s sure to be a crime scene. There are no lights in the windows that I can see when I turn the corner of a half-demolished house next door. I’m facing the back of Klint’s house, but I can already hear Spike growling as I cross the space between the two homes to squat beneath a window that looks into an empty bedroom. The window’s been raised a few inches, all to the good. Out front, Spike begins to bark, softly at first, then loud enough to be heard back in New York. The din is impossible to ignore and I wait, pretty much unconcerned, until I hear Klint’s gravelly voice, instantly recognizable. “Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up.” I raise the window and slip inside, only to find a mattress on the floor to my left with someone lying on it, a woman or a small man. With the covers pulled up, it’s impossible to be sure. “Shut the fuck up, goddamn it.” The bedroom door’s open a bit and I peek through the gap to find Klint standing with his back to me. He’s still yelling and the dog’s still barking, so I’m not worrying about making noise. No, I’m imagining Klint finally closing the door, imagining the look on his face when he turns to me. Will he beg? Attack? Try to run out the door? Will he plead his case, swear eternal fidelity and an ongoing piece of his action? There was a time in my life, before I learned my lesson, when I would have surrendered to temptation. To look into Klint’s blue eyes when he realized that his empty promises wouldn’t save him, to relish the moment, the power. To hell with the possibility that he’ll a