A classic thriller from New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver featuring the intricate forensic detail, masterful plot twists, and harrowing breakneck pace that made A Maiden’s Grave, The Bone Collector , and The Coffin Dancer national bestsellers. It’s New Year’s Eve, December 31, 1999, and Washington, DC, is under siege. Early in the day, a grisly machine gun attack in the Dupont Circle Metro station leaves dozens dead and the city crippled with fear. A note delivered to the mayor’s office pins the massacre on the Digger, a robotlike assassin programmed to wreak havoc on the capital every four hours—until midnight. Only a ransom of $20 million delivered to the Digger’s accomplice—and mastermind—will end the death and terror. But the Digger becomes a far more sinister threat when his accomplice is killed in a freak accident while en route to the money drop. With the ransom note as the single scrap of evidence, Special Agent Margaret Lukas calls upon Parker Kincaid, a retired FBI agent and the top forensic document examiner in the country. Somehow, by midnight, they must find the Digger—before he finds them. The New York Times Dazzling. The New York Times Book Review A screaming hit. Publishers Weekly Outstanding, gripping, brilliant, spectacular. People Deaver is the master of ticking-bomb suspense. Los Angeles Times A thrill ride between covers. The Times (London) The best psychological thriller writer around. Jeffery Deaver is the #1 internationally bestselling author of forty-four novels, three collections of short stories, and a nonfiction law book. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into twenty-five languages. His first novel featuring Lincoln Rhyme, The Bone Collector , was made into a major motion picture starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie and a hit television series on NBC. He’s received or been shortlisted for a number of awards around the world, including Novel of the Year by the International Thriller Writers and the Steel Dagger from the Crime Writers’ Association in the United Kingdom. In 2014, he was the recipient of three lifetime achievement awards. He has been named a Grand Master by Mystery Writers of America. The Devil’s Teardrop 1 The Digger’s in town. The Digger looks like you, the Digger looks like me. He walks down the wintry streets the way anybody would, shoulders drawn together against the damp December air. He’s not tall and not short, he’s not heavy and not thin. His fingers in dark gloves might be pudgy but they might not. His feet seem large but maybe that’s just the size of his shoes. If you glanced at his eyes you wouldn’t notice the shape or the color but only that they don’t seem quite human, and if the Digger glanced at you while you were looking at him, his eyes might be the very last thing you ever saw. He wears a long, black coat, or a dark blue one, and not a soul on the street notices him pass by though there are many witnesses here—the streets of Washington, D.C., are crowded because it’s morning rush hour. The Digger’s in town and it’s New Year’s Eve. Carrying a Fresh Fields shopping bag, the Digger dodges around couples and singles and families and keeps on walking. Ahead, he sees the Metro station. He was told to be there at exactly 9 A.M. and he will be. The Digger is never late. The bag in his maybe-pudgy hand is heavy. It weighs eleven pounds though by the time the Digger returns to his motel room it will weigh considerably less. A man bumps into him and smiles and says, “Sorry,” but the Digger doesn’t glance at him. The Digger never looks at anybody and doesn’t want anybody to look at him. “Don’t let anybody . . .” Click. “. . . let anybody see your face. Look away. Remember?” I remember. Click. Look at the lights, he thinks, look at the . . . click . . . at the New Year’s Eve decorations. Fat babies in banners, Old Man Time. Funny decorations. Funny lights. Funny how nice they are. This is Dupont Circle, home of money, home of art, home of the young and the chic. The Digger knows this but he knows it only because the man who tells him things told him about Dupont Circle. He arrives at the mouth of the subway tunnel. The morning is overcast and, being winter, there is a dimness over the city. The Digger thinks of his wife on days like this. Pamela didn’t like the dark and the cold so she . . . click . . . she . . . What did she do? That’s right. She planted red flowers and yellow flowers. He looks at the subway and he thinks of a picture he saw once. He and Pamela were at a museum. They saw an old drawing on the wall. And Pamela said, “Scary. Let’s go.” It was a picture of the entrance to hell. The Metro tunnel disappears sixty feet underground, passengers rising, passengers descending. It looks just like that drawing. The entrance to hell. Here are young women with hair cut short and briefcases. Here are young men with their sports bags and cell phones.