For fans of Michael Connelly and CJ Box, from New York Times bestseller and Edgar-award winner T. Jefferson Parker, author of The Room of White Fire , comes the explosive finale in his Charlie Hood series, which will bring together the destinies of three men caught between light and darkness.... Los Angeles County sheriff’s deputy Charlie Hood is attached to the ATF, working undercover on the illegal arms trade that flows across the U.S.-Mexico border. The sparkle of the diamond fillings he wears in his left canine distracts his task force targets and is often the first step toward a long stay behind bars. Meanwhile, Bradley Jones—sheriff’s deputy, employee of the Baja Cartel, and son of the love of Charlie’s life—is expecting a son of his own. Bradley, supposedly descended from the famed Mexican outlaw Joaquin Murrieta, has reaped the rewards of his treachery, keeping a hoard of cash and jewelry in a secret lair on his property. Charlie knows Bradley’s secrets, all of them; the question is what he’ll do with the information. But he still has to contend with the devilish Mike Finnegan, who flits in and out of the lives of his friends, knows things he should not know, is seemingly immortal, and delights in the havoc he wreaks in the orbits of everyone he touches.... All three are about to meet. But all will not survive.... “T. Jefferson Parker has burgled the crumbling palace of Edgar Allan Poe for inspiration in The Famous and the Dead .” — The Wall Street Journal “Parker, the winner of three Edgar awards for crime fiction, again delivers a tale that is not only well plotted and suspenseful, but subtle, surprising and endearingly perverse.” — The Washington Post “Parker has always chaffed at the boundaries of the crime fiction genre, creating wildly inventive characters and surprising storylines. His risk-taking alone makes all of his work, including the Charlie Hood series, well worth reading.” —The Associated Press “Parker’s sparse, melodic prose is as simple as it is haunting. His writing is a wonder to behold…a riveting read.” — Providence Journal "T. Jefferson Parker has burgled the crumbling palace of Edgar Allan Poe for inspiration."  —The Wall Street Journal “Parker, the winner of three Edgar awards for crime fiction, again delivers a tale that is not only well-plotted and suspenseful, but subtle, surprising and endearingly perverse.”   —Washington Post “A spectacular close a crime series that obliterated the boundaries of the genre.”  —BookReporter   "If you're interested in the best of today's crime fiction, [Parker's] someone you should read."  —The Washington Post "Parker could well be the best crime writer working out of Southern Caifornia."  —Chicago Tribune "The Charlie Hood novels are nothing less than addictive."  —Tucson Citizen "The most groundbreaking crime series in decades."  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch "This is gripping literary entertainment with a point."  —Los Angeles Times "Some of the finest writing you'll ever read."  —Chicago Sun-Times T. Jefferson Parker  is the author of numerous novels and short stories, the winner of three Edgar Awards, and the recipient of a  Los Angeles Times  Book Prize for mysteries. Before becoming a full-time novelist, he was an award-winning reporter. He lives in Fallbrook, California. 1 Rovanna strode into the convenience store by the dawn’s early light. As usual he carried his Louisville Slugger, the barrel of it cupped in his right palm and the handle resting on his shoulder like a rifle. His back was straight and his gait purposeful. He wore cargo shorts, a black T-shirt, slip-on sneakers in a red-and-black-checked pattern. His hair was a white thatch and he could have easily been mistaken for a surfer, though he had never learned to swim. He bought his coffee and the Iraqi clerk handed him his change with a soft thank-you, “ Shukran .” “ Shukran jazeelan ,” Rovanna said. He walked a different route home, noting the Granite Hills emerging into the morning around him and the light poles of the high school stadium growing staunch against the sky. More closely he watched the windows and doors around him because Anbar teaches you to watch windows and doors. It was a weekday in El Cajon, east of bustling San Diego, and the neighborhood had that just-getting started hum. He came to his street, a narrow avenue of older homes, spiked fences, and grated windows. Some of the trees had grown large. The pit bull that lived in the yellow ranch house growled murderously at him and Rovanna took a dog biscuit from his pocket. He cocked his elbow and flicked it as he might a dart, the biscuit arching over the wrought-iron lances of the fence. The dog fell heavily upon it. Rovanna lived in a small guesthouse behind a sagging larger home. He walked along the gravel driveway that led to his house, passing his small blue Ford, which was dirty and plastered with large sycamore leaves. He stopped and studied the front door and t