A blistering crime novel of the opioid epidemic--and its cops, villains, and victims--written by a twenty-five-year veteran of the DEA. Angel, Kentucky: Just another one of America's forgotten places, where opportunities vanished long ago, and the opioid crisis has reached a fever pitch. When this small town is rocked by the vicious killing of an entire infamous local crime family, the bloody aftermath brings together three people already struggling with Angel's drug epidemic: Trey, a young medic-in-training with secrets to hide; Special Agent Casey Alexander, a DEA agent who won't let the local law or small-town way of doing things stand in her way; and Paul Mayfield, a former police chief who's had to watch his own young wife succumb to addiction. Over the course of twenty-four hours, loyalties are tested, the corrupt are exposed, and the horrible truth of the largest drug operation in the region is revealed. And though Angel will never be the same again, a lucky few may still find hope. "Scott, a 25-year veteran of the DEA, writes with authority about the drug crisis. Don Winslow fans won’t want to miss this wrenching thriller."— Publishers Weekly “This grim, gritty novel captures the feeling of hopelessness that the opioid epidemic brings… Well-told but raw as an open wound and not for the squeamish.”— Kirkus Reviews “Scott pushes his narrative to its wild conclusion in rich, organic prose.”— Booklist J. Todd Scott has been a federal agent with the DEA for more than twenty years, working cases investigating international maritime smuggling and domestic meth labs, and led a multiagency strike force dedicated to attacking Mexican cartel smuggling routes. He has a law degree from George Mason University and is a father of three. A Kentucky native, he now resides in the Southwest, which provided the backdrop for his novels of the Big Bend. LITTLE PARIS A few hours before . . . Little Paris Glasser stares right into the dead man's eyes and tries to see himself in them. Danny, or maybe slow, stupid Ricky, once told him such a thing was possible, but this dead Mexican's eyes are flat and black, reflecting nothing at all. Truth be told, they're downright creepy, like they're painted right on the wetback's skull. A dead doll's eyes. Little Paris almost reaches out a hand to rub over one of 'em; to wipe that dead man's coal-black stare right off his skeleton smiling face, smear it on his fingers like fresh paint, like fresh blood, but thinks better of it and takes another hit instead from his little homemade pipe, a GE sixty-watt bulb, and lets that hot taste of crank and CRC Bee Blast Wasp & Hornet Killer mule-kick him hard in the chest. He flickers and flames, blood catching chemical fire. He holds a mouthful of acid smoke, and it's like he's done swallowed a whole nest of pissed-off yellowjackets, buzzing around now inside his heart and head and behind his own dark eyes. Goddamn, he finally breathes out. Goddamn. The sunÕs barely up, just peeking over Crown Hill and hardly casting any shadows yet, but last night still hangs on stubbornly beneath the shingle oaks and cockspurs like a drunk not quite ready to leave the party. Little Paris ain't sober yet either, has barely slept a wink in three days, with that crank coursing through him and Danny's ghost and all them others calling out his name and his daddy forever pissing and moaning about this and Jamie always whining about that and Hardy at his too-young-to-know-better age playing the damn fool lately and raising a ruckus. Everyone looking for a piece of him and a taste of their own, including these here damn wetbacks. Well, one less, anyway. When he was older than Hardy is now, but still just a boy all the same, he used to steal a little peace of mind at the family plot beneath Lower Wolf's black cherry trees. Lay himself down on them cool, cracked gravestones, where it was quiet and calm and still, where all them old skeletons and ghosts didn't seem intent on bothering anyone, to watch the bluing sky slow to a stop between the leaves and dream about everything and nothing at all. Not a care in the world. But it's never quiet now and the world never stops spinning and even the dead can't seem to keep their goddamn mouths shut anymore. They talk to him all the time. He hears 'em calling his name. Like the Good Book says, there just ain't no goddamn peace for the wicked. Little Paris can't even count on his fingers the last time he slept peaceful the whole night through, and though he ain't dead yet, no gravestone pillow for him, he can't help but wonder what someone might see now if they looked hard and straight into his goddamn sleepless eyes. Imagines it ain't no pretty sight anyway- Maybe a bunch of yellowjackets, big as your thumb, circling and circling and circling. Angry as hell. Trying to fly free of his goddamn skull. This wetback here sure didnÕt see much of