Johnny-Boy is a killer. He lives for the thrill of the hunt, the stalking of human prey. Fittingly, he works as a hitman but always finds time for extracurricular activity on the side. When a new assignment sends him to Baxter, a depressed Rust Belt town experiencing a chaotic upheaval at the dawn of a new economic beginning, Johnny-Boy plans to keep things professional. But when he realizes that the streets are awash with drug activity, small-time mobsters, and loads of transitory laborers in town to construct a new car plant, Johnny-Boy sees an opportunity to have a little fun while he's there. . . . The work of cleaning up a town of lowlifes and criminals is a never-ending slog for Delia Mariola, Chief of Detectives. But when a young teenager—nearly the same age as her own son—is found tortured to death, the stakes suddenly feel higher than ever. Delia brings her best detective, Blanche Weber, onto the case and together they set out to discover who the killer is and what he's doing in this town. But having two female detectives lead the case seems to rub a certain segment of the locals the wrong way, especially when one of the women is a hothead, the other is a lesbian, and both have risen to the top due to their excellent and uncompromising work as detectives. As they watch the streets in an effort to catch a killer, Delia and Blanche must also watch their own backs for attacks from within. The fourth installment in the saga of Delia Mariola and her hard-bitten town of Baxter, Johnny-Boy is a tough, gritty crime novel with an unforgettable queer heroine at its center. "A rich and reeking swamp full of exploitation, despair, violence, and summary justice." ― Kirkus on Boomtown "Brutal yet satisfying . . . thriller fans with strong stomachs will have a blast." ― Publishers Weekly "Suspenseful." ― Kirkus A. F. Carter lives and works in New York City and is the author of All of Us and the Delia Mariola series. Johnny-Boy no longer calls himself Johnny-Boy. Hasn’t in many years. Just now, as he shuts the water off and grabs a towel, he’s Paul Ochoa. Ochoa’s a Basque name, carefully chosen. It means wolf and fits Johnny-Boy’s self-image nicely. A hunting wolf never stops moving, covering mile after mile, relentless, uncompromising. Here I come, ready or not. And how many miles has Johnny-Boy covered over the years, how many states, how many cities? He’s kept no diary, no record, and for obvious reasons. But maybe later, after he’s caged or killed, which he almost surely will be. There are so many ways a project can fail. A cop happening along at the wrong time, a hidden security cam, a bit of evidence left behind. Eventually, the unforeseeable will close its jaws around the rest of his life. Which won’t be all that long if he’s nabbed in a death penalty state. Like this one. The task ahead challenges. Johnny-Boy arrived in the little city of Baxter three weeks ago, come to commit a murder, which is how he makes his living. Contract killer wasn’t a profession he sought, but over the years he’s become a thorough professional. These days, a double cutout protects his identity. The buyers contact a facilitator named Braulio Montez who contacts Johnny-Boy’s agent, a man named Sol Cohen. Neither the first cutout or the client, or even Sol Cohen, knows Johnny-Boy’s real name or the name he’s currently using. Sol’s knowledge is limited to an email address in Malaysia and an offshore account in the British Virgin Islands. Johnny-Boy accepts about half the contracts that come his way, but has few absolute rules beyond no cops, no children. And the why, the motive, doesn’t particularly interest him. He likes killing things, always has, and the pay more than keeps him in groceries. It frees him to pursue his other interests, though murder figures into both, into the business, into the pleasure. This latest job, the job that’s brought him to the little city of Baxter, included a wrinkle. Johnny-Boy has a recent photo of his target but knows only that Theo Diopolis migrated to Baxter three months ago, along with several thousand others, seeking work on a Nissan factory in the early stages of construction. If he’s to be killed, he must first be found. Johnny-Boy steps out of the shower and towels off. He dresses quickly, adding a bomber jacket to jeans and a t-shirt before leaving through the back door. Behind him, on the other side of the house, Baxter’s lights are strong enough to cast a faint, distorted shadow of the house over the soybean field before him. Johnny-Boy entered the city only days after a particularly bountiful harvest. The last harvest, apparently. Baxter’s extended its city limits to include this slice of Revere County to the north, as well as a slice of Sprague County to the east. Just as well, because most of the farmland had been purchased by developers before the agreement went through. Off to Johnny-Boy’s left, a sickle moon barely penetrates the lacy sweep of the stars,