Thrillers & Suspense
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Righteous Prey (A Prey Novel)
Lucas Davenport and Virgil Flowers are up against a powerful vigilante group with an eye on vengeance in this stunning new novel from the #1 New York Times bestselling author.
"We're going to murder people who need to be murdered."
So begins a press release from a mysterious group known only as "The Five," shortly after a vicious predator is murdered in San Francisco. The Five is made up of vigilante killers who are very bored…and very rich. They target the worst of society-rapists, murderers, and thieves-and then use their unlimited resources to offset the damage done by those who they've killed, donating untraceable Bitcoin to charities and victims via the dark net. The Five soon become popular figures in the media …though their motives may not be entirely pure.
After The Five strike again in the Twin Cities, Virgil Flowers and Lucas Davenport are sent in to investigate. And they soon have their hands full--the killings are smart and carefully choreographed, and with no apparent direct connection to the victims, the killers are virtually untraceable. But if anyone can destroy this group, it will be the dynamic team of Davenport and Flowers.
"We're going to murder people who need to be murdered."
So begins a press release from a mysterious group known only as "The Five," shortly after a vicious predator is murdered in San Francisco. The Five is made up of vigilante killers who are very bored…and very rich. They target the worst of society-rapists, murderers, and thieves-and then use their unlimited resources to offset the damage done by those who they've killed, donating untraceable Bitcoin to charities and victims via the dark net. The Five soon become popular figures in the media …though their motives may not be entirely pure.
After The Five strike again in the Twin Cities, Virgil Flowers and Lucas Davenport are sent in to investigate. And they soon have their hands full--the killings are smart and carefully choreographed, and with no apparent direct connection to the victims, the killers are virtually untraceable. But if anyone can destroy this group, it will be the dynamic team of Davenport and Flowers.
Editorial Reviews
"The book's strength rests firmly on the rapport between Davenport and Flowers: their pithy dialogue is spiced with the kind of humor that enduring friendships engender. Sandford fans will hope they have a long run as a team."--Publishers Weekly
"Sandford's characters seem to have limitless unexplored nooks and crannies to their personalities. A solid entry from a writer who consistently gives his readers just what they want."--Booklist
"In Davenport and Flowers the author has two big, but very different, personalities who bounce off each other brilliantly. Their sharp and witty banter is one of the highlights of this book… And something the author does very well here – it's a trick he's perfected over the years – is to tell the story throughout from the point of view of both the chasers and the chased....He really is master of his craft."--Mystery & Suspense
"Sandford's characters seem to have limitless unexplored nooks and crannies to their personalities. A solid entry from a writer who consistently gives his readers just what they want."--Booklist
"In Davenport and Flowers the author has two big, but very different, personalities who bounce off each other brilliantly. Their sharp and witty banter is one of the highlights of this book… And something the author does very well here – it's a trick he's perfected over the years – is to tell the story throughout from the point of view of both the chasers and the chased....He really is master of his craft."--Mystery & Suspense
Readers Top Reviews
Austin FanMicha
Their back and forth is great entertainment. If you have ever been to Disney World you will appreciate Lucas threatening Virgil with humming "It's a Small World". Great repartee. Plus it is a good story with pretty darn good detective work. Congratulations to Sandford. Don't miss this one.
Kindle Good Aust
I think this was an anti-gun book in a way; Sanford is especially down on bump stocks, silencers & other additions that aren’t for anything but killing people. He always tells a good story, and this is a good one, too. However, he seems to have changed Weather from an eye surgeon to a plastic surgeon.
LorrieKindle Good
I love John Sandford books, read every single one. What I love about them I hate!! They’re fast reading because it flows like white water! What a rush! It’s hard to stop reading once you start so I always finish within two days and damnit I want more!!! I’m addicted to JS but I don’t want a cure!! Hit me again dude!
BookwormLorrieKin
This multilayered book leaves the reader with plenty of food for thought. Here again Lucas and Virgil do their stuff, wisecracking all the way - there is at least a spectacular pun- but one gets the uneasy feeling that America is unraveling. Guns, money, politics. The combined forces of the FBI, local police and our two heroes have their work cut out. After 32 installments, it may be time for Lucas and Virgil to enjoy a well deserved retirement.
JoanBookwormLorri
I'm disappointed. I love the Prey series and I wait eagerly for each new book. I also love Virgil's series. I love them together. What I don't love is the heavy political overtones leaning to the far left. Either keep it even or keep it out. I don't like how Lucas was portrayed in this book. Very very sad. The book itself had something I never saw in Sandford books before -typos-. Other than that it is well written and entertaining. it just isn't Sandford's best effort.
Short Excerpt Teaser
One
Bitcoin billionaire, amateur art historian, onetime farm boy George Sonnewell sat on a concrete abutment in a sour-milk-smelling alley near Union Square in San Francisco, the cement rough against his jean-clad butt.
The night was chilly, a good excuse for the long-sleeved work shirt and nylon Air Force jacket, heavy jeans, and boots, although a neutral observer might have been puzzled by the translucent vinyl gloves he wore on his hands.
The clothing had been worn only this once, the better to minimize the transfer of DNA to a murder victim.
And he waited, a predator in plaid.
Overhead, between the buildings, he could see exactly one star, surrounded by roiling purple nighttime clouds that reflected the kaleidoscope of city lights back to earth. Though he rarely used alcohol, Sonnewell had three-fourths of a jug of Burnett's peach vodka by his hip.
Bait.
His hands trembled. Nerves, he thought. He was scared, but he was going for it.
And here came Duck Wiggins, right on schedule, down the alley that he considered his alley. He spotted Sonnewell and the jug. Wiggins was a battered man, his face a collection of fleshly crevasses, eroded by his years on the street. His beard might almost have been mistaken for religious expression, so twisted and solid with filth it was.
Wiggins said, "Hey! This is my street, bitch!" and a moment later, "Whatchagot there?"
Sonnewell, matching the aggression: "What the fuck is it to you?"
"Gimme a taste."
"Why should I?"
Wiggins: "Give me a taste and I'll blow you. Later." He was lying. He was the top of the food chain, not this dweeb sitting on the wall like Humpty Dumpty.
Sonnewell pretended to think about it: "Bite me and I'll kill you."
"I don't bite."
Sonnewell pretended to think about it some more: "Okay."
They sat together, a yard apart on the abutment, silent except for the steady gurgling of the vodka-Wiggins got on it and never let up. It occurred to him at one point that the other man was neither drinking nor complaining, but if he wasn't complaining, then Wiggins wasn't complaining.
Sonnewell turned as if to say something, but instead cocked his arm and struck Wiggins at the base of the skull with a scything forearm blow, knocking the other man off the wall, facedown in the alley. The bottle fell backward, still on the wall, but didn't break.
As Wiggins hit the ground, Sonnewell dropped all his two hundred and twenty pounds on his back. Too drunk to fight, Wiggins tried to push up and then to roll, but the other man forced him down to the broken concrete.
Wiggins, face to the side, mumbling into the dirt: "Wha . . . t' . . . fuck?"
Sonnewell pulled a short hard-finished nylon rope from his hip pocket. The ends of the rope were knotted around four-inch lengths of dowel, like an old-fashioned lawnmower starter rope, the better to grip it. He dragged the rope past Wiggins' forehead, nose, lips, and chin to his neck, and pulled on the dowels for a long three minutes as Wiggins thrashed and kicked and pounded the concrete with his fists.
Sonnewell cursed and looked up and down the alley as he rode the other man, fearing a witness, but he'd chosen the kill site carefully and there were no other eyes. The alcohol was too much for Wiggins to overcome; Sonnewell won in the end.
When he was sure Wiggins was dead, Sonnewell untangled the rope from his victim's neck, put it back in his hip pocket, looked up and down the alley. Then he crossed Wiggins' feet and turned them, rolling the dead man onto his back.
Wiggins' forehead was wet with sweat and maybe vodka, and air burped from his lungs, creating a stench compounded of alcohol and old meat. Sonnewell took a black Sharpie from his shirt pocket and wrote a careful "1" on Wiggins' forehead. He retraced the "1" three times, to make sure it was perfectly clear. When he was satisfied, he stood, looked both ways, and left Wiggins as he lay.
Sonnewell was a half mile from his car and it was dark, and the San Francisco streets were mean. He touched his hip, where he'd tucked a compact nine-millimeter handgun. He was not to be fucked with, not on this night. Before he left the alley, he pulled on a dark blue Covid mask; he shouldn't get close enough to anyone to get Covid, but it was a useful disguise.
As he walked back to his car, he passed a row of tents inhabited by homeless people. He left the remains of the vodka there, next to a tattered plastic POW flag planted in a bucket of dirt.
&...
Bitcoin billionaire, amateur art historian, onetime farm boy George Sonnewell sat on a concrete abutment in a sour-milk-smelling alley near Union Square in San Francisco, the cement rough against his jean-clad butt.
The night was chilly, a good excuse for the long-sleeved work shirt and nylon Air Force jacket, heavy jeans, and boots, although a neutral observer might have been puzzled by the translucent vinyl gloves he wore on his hands.
The clothing had been worn only this once, the better to minimize the transfer of DNA to a murder victim.
And he waited, a predator in plaid.
Overhead, between the buildings, he could see exactly one star, surrounded by roiling purple nighttime clouds that reflected the kaleidoscope of city lights back to earth. Though he rarely used alcohol, Sonnewell had three-fourths of a jug of Burnett's peach vodka by his hip.
Bait.
His hands trembled. Nerves, he thought. He was scared, but he was going for it.
And here came Duck Wiggins, right on schedule, down the alley that he considered his alley. He spotted Sonnewell and the jug. Wiggins was a battered man, his face a collection of fleshly crevasses, eroded by his years on the street. His beard might almost have been mistaken for religious expression, so twisted and solid with filth it was.
Wiggins said, "Hey! This is my street, bitch!" and a moment later, "Whatchagot there?"
Sonnewell, matching the aggression: "What the fuck is it to you?"
"Gimme a taste."
"Why should I?"
Wiggins: "Give me a taste and I'll blow you. Later." He was lying. He was the top of the food chain, not this dweeb sitting on the wall like Humpty Dumpty.
Sonnewell pretended to think about it: "Bite me and I'll kill you."
"I don't bite."
Sonnewell pretended to think about it some more: "Okay."
They sat together, a yard apart on the abutment, silent except for the steady gurgling of the vodka-Wiggins got on it and never let up. It occurred to him at one point that the other man was neither drinking nor complaining, but if he wasn't complaining, then Wiggins wasn't complaining.
Sonnewell turned as if to say something, but instead cocked his arm and struck Wiggins at the base of the skull with a scything forearm blow, knocking the other man off the wall, facedown in the alley. The bottle fell backward, still on the wall, but didn't break.
As Wiggins hit the ground, Sonnewell dropped all his two hundred and twenty pounds on his back. Too drunk to fight, Wiggins tried to push up and then to roll, but the other man forced him down to the broken concrete.
Wiggins, face to the side, mumbling into the dirt: "Wha . . . t' . . . fuck?"
Sonnewell pulled a short hard-finished nylon rope from his hip pocket. The ends of the rope were knotted around four-inch lengths of dowel, like an old-fashioned lawnmower starter rope, the better to grip it. He dragged the rope past Wiggins' forehead, nose, lips, and chin to his neck, and pulled on the dowels for a long three minutes as Wiggins thrashed and kicked and pounded the concrete with his fists.
Sonnewell cursed and looked up and down the alley as he rode the other man, fearing a witness, but he'd chosen the kill site carefully and there were no other eyes. The alcohol was too much for Wiggins to overcome; Sonnewell won in the end.
When he was sure Wiggins was dead, Sonnewell untangled the rope from his victim's neck, put it back in his hip pocket, looked up and down the alley. Then he crossed Wiggins' feet and turned them, rolling the dead man onto his back.
Wiggins' forehead was wet with sweat and maybe vodka, and air burped from his lungs, creating a stench compounded of alcohol and old meat. Sonnewell took a black Sharpie from his shirt pocket and wrote a careful "1" on Wiggins' forehead. He retraced the "1" three times, to make sure it was perfectly clear. When he was satisfied, he stood, looked both ways, and left Wiggins as he lay.
Sonnewell was a half mile from his car and it was dark, and the San Francisco streets were mean. He touched his hip, where he'd tucked a compact nine-millimeter handgun. He was not to be fucked with, not on this night. Before he left the alley, he pulled on a dark blue Covid mask; he shouldn't get close enough to anyone to get Covid, but it was a useful disguise.
As he walked back to his car, he passed a row of tents inhabited by homeless people. He left the remains of the vodka there, next to a tattered plastic POW flag planted in a bucket of dirt.
&...
