New York Times bestselling author Stephen Hunter returns with his most riveting Bob Lee Swagger volume to date. The stakes are high – and personal because this time, Swagger's daughter's life is at stake. Forced off the road and into a crash that leaves her clinging to life in a coma, Nikki Swagger had begun to peel back the onion of a Southern Fried scandal. Corrupt constabulary, meth lab crackers, and deranged evangelicals rear their ugly heads and when Swagger picks up where Nikki left off, his swift sword of justice is let loose. All of it is set against the backdrop of the excitement and insanity that only a weeklong NASCAR event can bring to the backwoods of a town as seemingly sleepy as Bristol, VA. A master at the top of his game, Hunter provides a host of riveting new reasons to read as fast as we can. Stephen Hunter is the bestselling author of THE 47TH SAMURAI, HAVANA and PALE HORSE COMING, among other titles.
The fifth book in the Bob Lee Swagger series, 2008
For my daughter, Amy, as the wonderful person she is,
Speed is of the essence
– ANONYMOUS
Brother Richard liked it loud. He punched the iPod up all the way until the music hammered his brain, its force beating away like some banshee howl from the high, dark mountains hidden behind the screen of rushing trees. He was holding at eighty-five miles per hour, even through the turns, though that took a surgeon’s skill, a miracle of guts and timing. The music roared.
Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?
Gonna run to the sea
Sea won’t you hide me?
Run to the sea
Sea won’t you hide me?
But the sea it was aboilin’
All on that day
It was that old-time religion, fierce and haunted, harsh, unforgiving. It was Baptist fire and brimstone, his father’s fury and anguish, it was Negroes in church, afeared of the flames of hell, it was the roar of a hot, primer-gray V8 ’Cuda in the night, as good old boys in sheets raised their own particular kind of hell, driven by white lightning or too much Dixie or too much hate, it was the South arising under the red snapping of the flag of the Confederacy.
He rode the corner perfectly, left-footing the brake and coming off it at the precise moment so that he came out of the hairpin at full power. It was late, it was dark, it was quiet, except of course for the thunder of the engine. His right foot involuntarily pressed pedal to metal and the car leapt forward, breaching the century mark, now 110, now 120, right at death’s edge, right near to and within spitting distance of oblivion, and he loved it, a crack in the window seal sending a torrent of air to beat his hair.
Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?
Gonna run to the moon
Moon won’t you hide me?
Run to the moon
Moon won’t you hide me?
But the moon it was ableedin’,
All on that day
A climb and then a sudden turn. It was Iron Mountain, and 421 slashed crookedly up its angry hump. He hit brake, felt the car slide, saw the great whiz of dust white in the headlamp beams as he slipped to shoulder, felt the grit as the stilled tires fought the gravel and ripped it free, but the skid was controlled, never close to loss, and as the car slowed, he downshifted to second, lurched ahead and caught the angle of the turn just right, pealing back across the asphalt and leaving the dust explosion far behind as he found the new, perfect vector and powered onward into the night.
If you thought you were in the presence of a young prince of the South, high on octane and testosterone and the beat of an old and comforting spiritual, you’d be wrong. Brother Richard was by no means young; he was a thin, ageless man with a curiously dead face-a recent surgery had remolded his physiognomy into something generally bland and generic-and he was well enough dressed to pass for a preacher or a salesman or a dentist, in a gray suit, white shirt, and black tie, all neat, all cheap, straight off the rack at Mr. Sam’s big store near the interstate. You’d never look at him and see the talent for driving that was so special to his being, or the aggression that fueled it, or the hatred that explained the aggression, or the bleakness of spirt and utter capability, or even his profession, which was that of assassin.
“Nikki Swagger, girl reporter.” It was funny, it was corny, but she liked it and smiled whenever she conjured it to mind.
Nikki Swagger, girl reporter. It was true enough. Nikki, twenty-four, was the police reporter for the Bristol
