The brutal murder of a business tycoon leaves Afton Tangler and the Twin Cities reeling, but that’s just the beginning of a gruesome crime spree...   Leland Odin made his fortune launching a home shopping network, but his millions can’t save his life. On the list for a transplant, the ailing businessman sees all hope lost when the helicopter carrying his donor heart is shot out of the sky.   Now with two pilots dead and dozens injured, Afton Tangler, family liaison officer for the Minneapolis Police Department, is drawn into the case. As she and her partner investigate family members and business associates, whoever wants Leland dead strikes again—and succeeds—in a brazen hospital room attack.   The supposedly squeaky clean millionaire has crossed the wrong person—and she’s not finished exacting her revenge. The case explodes into an international conspiracy of unbridled greed and violence. And as Afton gets closer to unearthing the mastermind behind it, she gets closer to becoming collateral damage... Praise for Little Girl Gone   “Out of a swirling Minnesota snowstorm, a new hero trudges triumphantly off the pages of Gerry Schmitt’s new thriller… Little Girl Gone is taut and tense, a great tale to jump-start the Afton Tangler series. A sequel, as surely as Sandford’s Lucas Davenport lives and breathes, is already in the works. Readers of this gripping debut will find themselves hoping it’s a short wait.”— Minneapolis Star Tribune   “Schmitt fills her thriller with numerous twists and builds it to a heart-pounding conclusion...Fans of Midwest noir—think John Sandford—will revel in this nightmarish tale, admire Schmitt for her courageous departure and eagerly await Afton’s next case.”— Richmond Times-Dispatch   “Gerry Schmitt has written a propulsive thriller that will keep you reading late into the night. Do I really have to wait a year for another Afton Tangler book?”—James O. Born, author of Scent of Murder   “It’s always fun to watch a talented author stretch her wings...Schmitt gets everything right.”— St. Paul Pioneer Press   “Taut [and] eerie...Sticks with you long after you’ve finished it.”—Grant Blackwood, author of Tom Clancy Under Fire   “The Afton Tangler mysteries promise to be as tantalizing as any of the current standard police thrillers. I’m thinking Lisa Scottoline meets Lee Childs.”— The Bourne Enterprise Gerry Schmitt is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty-five mysteries, including the Afton Tangler Thrillers, as well as the Tea Shop, Scrapbooking, and the Cackleberry Club mysteries, written under the pen name Laura Childs. She is the former CEO of her own marketing firm, has won dozens of TV and radio awards, produced two reality TV shows, and invests in small businesses. She and her professor husband enjoy collecting art, traveling, and have two Shar-Peis. Copyright © 2017 Gerry Schmitt  ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Mom Chao Cherry hunched forward in a broken wicker chair and stared anxiously across the Mississippi River toward the University of Minnesota campus. Almost unrecognizable as a wealthy khunying from Bangkok, she wore a polyester blouse and baggy pants, cheap rubber flip-flops, and carried an eight ball of cocaine in her handbag. Only her red lacquered nails, edged in twenty-four karat gold, hinted at her ridiculous wealth. “Time?” Mom Chao Cherry asked in an accent that probably sounded Thai or Chinese to a Westerner, but to a linguist’s ear, clearly betrayed her American heritage. “Paed nalika,” Narong replied. Eight o’clock. The corners of Mom Chao Cherry’s mouth crinkled faintly, giving her aging face the appearance of a patient but ravenous crocodile. “Di yeiym,” she said. Most excellent. She hadn’t been back to America in more than sixty years, ever since her missionary parents had dragged her off to Asia to bring the word of Jesus to the impoverished, war-ravaged people of China. But this homecoming felt incredibly sweet. Like sweet revenge. Now, relaxing slightly, she reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette. Lit it with a hissing lighter and inhaled deeply. She would have preferred to imbibe her drug of choice, cocaine, but that would have to wait. Right now there was wild work to be done. Narong, who was old beyond his years at twenty-four, lifted the PF-89 rocket launcher onto his right shoulder and braced himself. Two years of compulsory service in the Royal Thai Armed Forces and another two years in the private employ of Mom Chao Cherry had taught him to truly love all forms of weaponry. He was in awe of their cold precision and the impersonal way in which they delivered death. Narong, whose name literally meant “to make war,” hungered for the moment when he could sight a potential target in his crosshairs, gently squeeze the trigger, and feel the pulse-pounding rush of total destruction. For close-up work, he was an expert in awud mied, or Thai knife fighting. They’d