From New York Times  bestselling author Ace Atkins comes a rollicking crime novel of brazen thieves, good ole boy politicians, truck stop women—and one decent man crazy enough to fight them all...   The bank robbers wreaking havoc across the South are carrying out their heists with such skill and precision that they remind Tibbehah County Sheriff Quinn Colson of the raids he once led as an Army Ranger. In fact, their techniques are so like the ones in the  Ranger Handbook  that he can’t help wondering if the outlaws are former Rangers themselves. And that’s definitely going to be a problem. If Colson stands any chance of catching them, he’s going to need the help of old allies, new enemies, and a lot of luck. The enemies, he has plenty of. It’s the allies and the luck that are in woefully short supply... Ace Atkins  is the  New York Times  bestselling author of the Quinn Colson novels, the first two of which— The Ranger  and  The Lost Ones —were nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel (he also has a third Edgar nomination for his short story, “Last Fair Deal Gone Down”). In addition, he is the author of several  New York Times  bestselling novels in the continuation of Robert B. Parker’s Spenser series. Before turning to fiction, he was a correspondent for the  St. Petersburg Times , a crime reporter for the  Tampa Tribune , and, in college, played defensive end for the undefeated Auburn University football team (for which he was featured on the cover of  Sports Illustrated ). He lives in Oxford, Mississippi. The Fallen By Ace Atkins Penguin Publishing Group Copyright © 2017 Ace Atkins All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-399-57671-3 ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2017 Ace Atkins 1 “I guess I got the idea about the time I got fired from the Ford dealership,” Rick Wilcox said. “Some big-money swinging dick had hired me to motivate the sales staff, pep talks and all that bullshit, and do a bunch of commercials. To be honest, I didn’t like the whole thing. He wanted me to dress up in combat gear and read this corny-as-hell line while I saluted the viewer. It made me want to puke.”             “What was the line?” Opie asked.             “Christ, Ope,” Wilcox said. “Why do you want to know all of this? I mean, right now? At this very moment? I find it highly inappropriate.” Wilcox looked at his watch. Nearly five minutes to the Wal-Mart delivery, the mission, and the action. He and Opie sat up front in the white Ford van, smoking Marlboro reds just like they had back in all those mud-slapped Zamindawar compounds. Cord was in back loading the AR-15s they’d modified, duct-taping the magazines back-to-back for easy loading. The guns were untraceable. The van stolen. They’d picked it off that morning at the Oak Court Mall in Memphis, switching the plates taken off a similar model.             “You got me into this, least you can tell me how it all happened,” Ope said. “If you hadn’t noticed, we’re knee-deep in Shit City.”             “Well, what if I don’t want to talk about it?”             “You brought it up,” Opie said. “You said it was the reason you and Crissley got into it. Since she has no fucking clue what we’re doing, she wanted you to go back and beg for your old job.”             “She was pissed,” Wilcox said. “She thought she was going to get a cherry-red Mustang out of the deal.”             “So what’s the line?”             “Come on, buddy.”             “Why the hell not?” “OK, OK,” Wilcox said. “You really want to know? So, I’m dressed in my battle fatigues and salute the camera and say, ‘At Big T Southaven Ford, we never leave a customer behind.’ The fat-ass sales guys look to me and salute back. Then a flag unfurls out of my ass and the band strikes up, ‘God Bless America.’”             “Damn,” Opie said. “You’re right. That fucking sucks. Humiliating. Are you even allowed to wear your uniform? I mean, isn’t that against regulations?”             “I didn’t wear my dress blues,” Wilcox said. “Just some utilities. And a helmet. They made me wear a fucking helmet. It was something from Word War II.”             “What about your medals?”             “They wanted me to wear them, but I told them hell no. I mean, I do have a speck of dignity somewhere I forgot. I’d run out of money. It’s not like winning a Silver Star led to some financial reward. I figured if anything, it might help jumpstart my country music career, but you know how that turned out.”             “I thought you sounded great,” Opie said. “Kind of like a more hard-edged Kenny Chesney.”             “That hurts, Ope,” Wilcox said. “You know how much I hate that bald-ass pussy. If I hear that song ‘Me and Tequila’ one more time, I’m going to blow my fucking brains out.”             Opie, freckle faced and jug-eared, grinned. That was the one thing about Ope, he could drive you crazy with his diarrhea mouth, but damn if he wasn’t game for walking into hell itself with a posi