Edge : a novel / Jeffery Deaver.

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Behind the well-known U.S. security organizations-- the FBI and CIA among them--lies a heavily guarded, anonymous government agency dedicated to intelligence surveillance and to a highly specialized brand of citizen protection.

Shock waves of alarm ripple through the clandestine agency when Washington, D.C., police detective Ryan Kessler inexplicably becomes the target of Henry Loving, a seasoned, ruthless "lifter" hired to obtain information using whatever means necessary. While Loving is deft at torture, his expertise lies in getting an "edge" on his victim--leverage--usually by kidnapping or threatening family until the "primary" caves under pressure.

The job of keeping the Kessler family alive falls to a man named Corte, a senior federal protection officer known as a "shepherd." Uncompromising, relentlessly devoted to protecting those in his care and a passionate board game aficionado, he applies brilliant gaming strategy to his work. For Corte, the reappearance of Loving--the man who, six years earlier, had tortured and killed someone close to him--is also an opportunity to avenge his friend's death. The assignment soon escalates into a fast-paced duel between Corte and Loving, a dangerous volley of wits and calculated risks.

As he shepherds the Kesslers to a concealed safe house, Corte must anticipate Loving's every step as the lifter moves in on his prey, and with the help of razor-sharp investigator Claire DuBois and his longtime ally, FBI agent Paul Fredericks, pinpoint which of Kessler's seemingly insignificant cases has triggered Loving's return. As the team digs deeper, each of the Kesslers comes under close scrutiny, and in captivity their family bonds are stretched to the breaking point--as the lifter draws near, Corte must ultimately choose between protecting his charges and exposing them to a killer in the name of long-awaited revenge.

Author Notes

Jeffery Deaver was born on May 6, 1950 in Chicago, Illinois. He received a degree in journalism from the University of Missouri and a law degree from Fordham University. Before attending law school, he worked as a business writer. After law school, he worked for a Wall Street law firm practicing corporate law. In 1990, he decided to stop practicing law and become a full-time writer.

His first novel was a horror story entitled Voodoo. He is the author of more than 25 novels and has written some of those stories under the pseudonym William Jeffries. He writes the Lincoln Rhyme series and the Kathryn Dance series. A Maiden's Grave was adapted into a film by HBO called Dead Silence and The Bone Collector was adapted into a feature film starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. He received the Steel Dagger and Short Story Dagger from the British Crime Writers' Association, the Ellery Queen Reader's Award for Best Short Story of the Year three times, and the British Thumping Good Read Award.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews (5)

Publisher's Weekly Review

Thriller Award-winner Deaver (The Bodies Left Behind) unveils some nifty new tricks in this edge-of-your-seat thriller that pits two worthy antagonists against each other. Henry Loving, "a lifter," specializes in extracting information from human targets by any means necessary (i.e., torture). Corte, "a shepherd," is an agent in the Strategic Protection Department of a secret government agency normally assigned to protect high-profile targets. An intercepted communication identifies Loving as the lifter ordered to target Ryan Kessler, a Washington, D.C., metro detective. While Corte attempts to protect Kessler's family and identify the "primary," Loving's employer, Loving seeks the edge to get the information he needs to extract. Corte, a board game aficionado and game theory student, and Loving are well matched, sharing a history that ups the stakes and makes the contest personal. Deaver's first first-person narrator, Corte, is an exciting new weapon in the author's arsenal of memorable characters. (Nov.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Booklist Review

This stand-alone thriller by the author of the Lincoln Rhyme and Kathryn Dance novels introduces Corte, an officer of the Strategic Protection Department, an arm of a larger government agency tasked with protecting individuals who have been targeted for abduction or murder (among other crimes). Henry Loving, a brutal lifter who specializes in physical extraction of information, has apparently targeted a cop, Ryan Kessler. The details are shaky: Corte's people don't know why Kessler has been targeted or what information Henry Loving is after. But Corte must do everything in his power to protect Kessler. This is a slightly unusual novel for Deaver. It's a prolonged cat-and-mouse game a familiar format to the author's fans but the novel is relatively free of Deaver's customary neck-wrenching plot reversals. He's got a few tricks up his sleeve, but readers expecting the kind of jaw-dropping, out-of-left-field twists he specializes in might feel a bit cheated. Make no mistake: this is a fine thriller with strong characters and a compelling story. But Deaver devotees need to be forewarned not to look for any showstopping reverse pivots.--Pitt, David Copyright 2010 Booklist

New York Review of Books Review

The economic recession that never seems to end for workingclass Americans is making itself felt in the crime fiction of authors whose regional roots run deep. Dennis Lehane, not the cheeriest of writers in the best of times, seems downright depressed about the way things are going in New England. In MOONLIGHT MILE (Morrow/HarperCollins, $26.99), he brings back Patrick Kenzie, the private detective from Dorchester, Mass., whose anti-establishment attitude and "class rage" fueled the violence of his earliest novels, to paint a bleak picture of nice towns coming apart at the seams. Driving around Auburn, Me., with a high school coach, Patrick gains perspective on how a former athlete might lose his mind to methamphetamines and wind up killing a woman. According to the coach, the big crack in the town's foundation is the double-digit unemployment rate. But that's just the beginning. "The stuff our fathers took for granted as long as you worked hard, the great safety net and the fair wage and the gold watch at the end of it all? That's all gone around here," he tells Patrick, who says it's gone in Boston too. "Gone all over" the coach reckons. Even Patrick, who is now married to his gunslinger partner, Angie Gennaro, and mindful of his fatherly duties to their little girl, feels the financial pinch. Angling for full-time employment, he takes on demeaning assignments for a big Boston security firm, but throws a bone, to his conscience by chasing a runaway teenager who has never forgiven him for snatching her from the loving couple who kidnapped her when she was 4 years old and returning her to her wildly neglectful mother. At 16, Amanda M cCready appears to be more intelligent, mature and well adjusted than the adults who are still fighting over her, but the ethical issues of the case weigh heavily on Patrick. After indulging his hero in a Jesuitical analysis of his moral actions, Lehane lets him cleanse his soul through unusual acts of extreme violence. After all these years, you'd think he'd have outgrown his old habits. But once the plot goes ballistic, he and Bubba, the thug with the "deranged cherub's face" who backs him up on these wild adventures, do battle with a cartoon gallery of Russian gangsters who appear to have been airlifted from a video game. Times may be bad, but you can't blame the economy for this one. Reggie Nadelson has a real feel for the sources of life in the New York neighborhoods she celebrates in her vibrant mysteries featuring Artie Cohen, a Russianborn detective who knows the city with the intimacy of a lover. Nadelson sends Artie to Harlem in BLOOD COUNT (Walker, $26), initially to feel the pulse of the district on the night Barack Obama is elected president, and later to help a friend cope with the suspicious death of an old Russian woman at the Louis Armstrong Apartments in Sugar Hill. This grand old building, perpetually besieged by opportunistic developers, is more than an attractive murder setting. It's also a stage where the elderly residents can regale Artie with wonderful accounts of legends like Ella Fitzgerald and Billy Strayhorn. Even the stories that lack a pivotal function in the plot, like the reverential one about Paul Robeson, contribute to the broader message: that some neighborhoods can always find hope in a dream. Every game has its rules, including the deadly one that Jeffery Deaver plays in EDGE (Simon & Schuster, $26.99). The challenge is to figure out what the rules are in this brain-teaser of a thriller, which pits two ruthless professionals against each other in a murderous contest over the lives of a Washington, D.C., police detective and his family. The taciturn narrator, known only as Corte, is the designated "shepherd," secretly dispatched by the government to protect "an armed, drinking cop with a hero complex" from the "lifter" whose grim specialty is extracting information through torture. Although these well-matched adversaries are both highly disciplined and equally heartless, Corte is at a disadvantage : he has no¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿

Kirkus Review

Deaver's latest nail-biter features a blank-faced hero from a shadowy federal agency whose job is to protect menaced innocents from kidnappers and killers who don't want them to be protected.The bad news is that Henry Loving, the ruthless freelance "lifter" who specializes in using physical torture to extract information from targets who know too much, wasn't killed in Rhode Island two years ago; he's very much alive and headed for the home of D.C. Metro police detective Ryan Kessler. The good news is that Corte, the Strategic Protection Department officer assigned to protect Kessler and his family, now has a shot at revenge against Loving, who tortured and murdered his mentor Abe Fallow six years ago. Corte's first attempt to protect his chargesRyan Kessler, his daughter Amanda, his second wife Joanne and her flaky sister Mareeby moving them to a safe house is undermined by strong opinions from the Kesslers and the first of many attacks by Loving. Taking advantage of what he's learned about the lifter from the attack, Corte, an obsessive game-player, shifts his strategy, trying to identify Loving's client by figuring out what Kessler could know that would make him so dangerous. But Kessler insists that his current cases are routine, and all the while that Corte's struggling to put the pieces together, Loving is learning more about his strategies and reactions. As each combatant seeks an edge over the other, the game between them becomes more and more wildly twisted, with so many embedded subplots, threats and distractions that you'll welcome Corte's canned profundity ("People will do anything to anybodyif the edge is right") if only because it provides moments of relief from the otherwise breakneck action.Fans of Deaver's fiendishly clever suspensers (The Burning Wire, 2010, etc.) won't be surprised by the nonstop deceptions, reversals, shocks and surprises, but this time they're even more varied than usual, and, given the characters' backgrounds, a lot more plausible. The result is his most successful thriller in years.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Library Journal Review

Deaver's (www.jefferydeaver.com) latest stand-alone work introduces Corte, the senior official of a highly secretive Witness Protection Program-like government agency. While "shepherding" people whose lives are in danger, Corte and his team come up against Henry Loving, a brilliant psychopath who has a personal history with Corte. The narrative, which occurs over the course of a weekend, takes some wild turns that will keep listeners guessing until the very end. Actor/musician Skipp Sudduth skillfully keeps the pace moving along, slowing down where necessary, as when Corte engages in some retrospection on his past association with Loving. Deaver fans and anyone liking a good thriller will be clamoring for this one; highly recommended. [The New York Times best-selling S. & S. hc also received a starred review, LJ 10/15/10; the Pocket Star pb will publish in September 2011.-Ed.]-Joseph L. Carlson, Vandenberg Air Force Base Lib., Lompoc, CA (c) Copyright 2011. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Excerpts

Chapter 1 "WE'VE GOT A bad one, Corte." "Go ahead," I said into the stalk microphone. I was at my desk, on a hands-free. I set down the old handwritten note I'd been reading. "The principal and his family're in Fairfax. There's a go-ahead order for a lifter and seems like he's under some time pressure." "How much?" "A couple of days." "You know who hired him?" "That's a negative, son." It was Saturday, early. In this business, we drew odd hours and workweeks of varying lengths. Mine had just begun a couple of days ago and I'd finished a small job late yesterday afternoon. I was to have spent the day tidying up paperwork, something I enjoy, but in my organization we're on call constantly. "Keep going, Freddy." There'd been something about his tone. Ten years of working with somebody, even sporadically, in this line of work gives you clues. The FBI agent, never known for hesitating, now hesitated. Finally: "Okay, Corte, the thing is ?? ?" "What?" "The lifter's Henry Loving?? . I know, I know. But it's confirmed." After a moment, in which the only sounds I could hear were my heart and a whisper of blood through my ears, I responded automatically, though pointlessly, "He's dead. Rhode Island." " Was dead. Was reported dead." I glanced at trees outside my window, stirring in the faint September breeze, then looked over my desk. It was neat but small and cheaply made. On it were several pieces of paper, each demanding more or less of my attention, as well as a small carton that FedEx had delivered to the town house, only a few blocks from my office, that morning. It was an eBay purchase I'd been looking forward to receiving. I'd planned to examine the contents of the box on my lunch hour today. I now slid it aside. "Go on." "In Providence? Somebody else was in the building." Freddy filled in this missing puzzle piece, though I'd almost instantly deduced--correctly, from the agent's account--exactly what had happened. Two years ago the warehouse Henry Loving had been hiding in, after fleeing a trap I'd set for him, had burned to the ground. The forensic people had a clear DNA match on the body inside. Even badly burned, a corpse will leave about ten million samples of that pesky deoxyribonucleic acid. Which you can't hide or destroy so it doesn't make sense to try. But what you can do is, afterward, get to the DNA lab technicians and force them to lie--to certify that the body was yours. Loving was the sort who would have anticipated my trap. Before he went after my principals, he'd have a backup plan devised: kidnapping a homeless man or a runaway and stashing him in the warehouse, just in case he needed to escape. This was a clever idea, threatening a lab tech, and not so far-fetched when you considered that Henry Loving's unique art was manipulating people to do things they didn't want to do. So, suddenly, a man a lot of other people had been content--I'd go so far as to use the word "happy"--to see die in a fire was now very much alive. A shadow in my doorway. It was Aaron Ellis, the head of our organization, the man I reported to directly. Blond and fiercely broad of shoulder. His thin lips parted. He didn't know I was on the phone. "You hear? Rhode Island--it wasn't Loving after all." "I'm on with Freddy now." Gesturing toward the hands-free. "My office in ten?" "Sure." He vanished on deft feet encased in brown tasseled loafers, which clashed with his light blue slacks. I said to the FBI agent, in his office about ten miles from mine, "That was Aaron." "I know," Freddy replied. "My boss briefed your boss. I'm briefing you. We'll be working it together, son. Call me when you can." "Wait," I said. "The principals, in Fairfax? You send any agents to babysit?" "Not yet. This just happened." "Get somebody there now." "Apparently Loving's nowhere near yet." "Do it anyway." "Well--" "Do it anyway." "Your wish, et cetera, et cetera." Freddy disconnected before I could say anything more. Henry Loving … I sat for a moment and again looked out the window of my organization's unmarked headquarters in Old Town Alexandria, the building aggressively ugly, 1970s ugly. I stared at a wedge of grass, an antique store, a Starbucks and a few bushes in a parking strip. The bushes lined up in a staggered fashion toward the Masonic Temple, like they'd been planted by a Dan Brown character sending a message via landscaping rather than an email. My eyes returned to the FedEx box and the documents on my desk. One stapled stack of papers was a lease for a safe house near Silver Spring, Maryland. I'd have to negotiate the rent down, assuming a cover identity to do so. One document was a release order for the principal I'd successfully delivered yesterday to two solemn men, in equally solemn suits, whose offices were in Langley, Virginia. I signed the order and put it into my OUT box. The last slip of paper, which I'd been reading when Freddy called, I'd brought with me without intending to. In the town house last night I'd located a board game whose instructions I'd wanted to reread and had opened the box to find this sheet--an old to-do list for a holiday party, with names of guests to call, groceries and decorations to buy. I'd absently tucked the yellowing document into my pocket and discovered it this morning. The party had been years ago. It was the last thing I wanted to be reminded of at the moment. I looked at the handwriting on the faded rectangle and fed it into my burn box, which turned it into confetti. I placed the FedEx box into the safe behind my desk--nothing fancy, no eye scans, just a clicking combination lock--and rose. I tugged on a dark suit jacket over my white shirt, which was what I usually wore in the office, even when working weekends. I stepped out of my office, turning left toward my boss's, and walked along the lengthy corridor's gray carpet, striped with sunlight, falling pale through the mirrored, bullet-resistant windows. My mind was no longer on real estate values in Maryland or delivery service packages or unwanted reminders from the past, but focused exclusively on the reappearance of Henry Loving--the man who, six years earlier, had tortured and murdered my mentor and close friend, Abe Fallow, in a gulley beside a North Carolina cotton field, as I'd listened to his cries through his still-connected phone. Seven minutes of screams until the merciful gunshot, delivered not mercifully at all, but as a simple matter of professional efficiency. © 2010 Jeffery Deaver Chapter 1 "WE'VE GOT A bad one, Corte." "Go ahead," I said into the stalk microphone. I was at my desk, on a hands-free. I set down the old handwritten note I'd been reading. "The principal and his family're in Fairfax. There's a go-ahead order for a lifter and seems like he's under some time pressure." "How much?" "A couple of days." "You know who hired him?" "That's a negative, son." It was Saturday, early. In this business, we drew odd hours and workweeks of varying lengths. Mine had just begun a couple of days ago and I'd finished a small job late yesterday afternoon. I was to have spent the day tidying up paperwork, something I enjoy, but in my organization we're on call constantly. "Keep going, Freddy." There'd been something about his tone. Ten years of working with somebody, even sporadically, in this line of work gives you clues. The FBI agent, never known for hesitating, now hesitated. Finally: "Okay, Corte, the thing is ?? ?" "What?" "The lifter's Henry Loving?? . I know, I know. But it's confirmed." After a moment, in which the only sounds I could hear were my heart and a whisper of blood through my ears, I responded automatically, though pointlessly, "He's dead. Rhode Island." " Was dead. Was reported dead." I glanced at trees outside my window, stirring in the faint September breeze, then looked over my desk. It was neat but small and cheaply made. On it were several pieces of paper, each demanding more or less of my attention, as well as a small carton that FedEx had delivered to the town house, only a few blocks from my office, that morning. It was an eBay purchase I'd been looking forward to receiving. I'd planned to examine the contents of the box on my lunch hour today. I now slid it aside. "Go on." "In Providence? Somebody else was in the building." Freddy filled in this missing puzzle piece, though I'd almost instantly deduced--correctly, from the agent's account--exactly what had happened. Two years ago the warehouse Henry Loving had been hiding in, after fleeing a trap I'd set for him, had burned to the ground. The forensic people had a clear DNA match on the body inside. Even badly burned, a corpse will leave about ten million samples of that pesky deoxyribonucleic acid. Which you can't hide or destroy so it doesn't make sense to try. But what you can do is, afterward, get to the DNA lab technicians and force them to lie--to certify that the body was yours. Loving was the sort who would have anticipated my trap. Before he went after my principals, he'd have a backup plan devised: kidnapping a homeless man or a runaway and stashing him in the warehouse, just in case he needed to escape. This was a clever idea, threatening a lab tech, and not so far-fetched when you considered that Henry Loving's unique art was manipulating people to do things they didn't want to do. So, suddenly, a man a lot of other people had been content--I'd go so far as to use the word "happy"--to see die in a fire was now very much alive. A shadow in my doorway. It was Aaron Ellis, the head of our organization, the man I reported to directly. Blond and fiercely broad of shoulder. His thin lips parted. He didn't know I was on the phone. "You hear? Rhode Island--it wasn't Loving after all." "I'm on with Freddy now." Gesturing toward the hands-free. "My office in ten?" "Sure." He vanished on deft feet encased in brown tasseled loafers, which clashed with his light blue slacks. I said to the FBI agent, in his office about ten miles from mine, "That was Aaron." "I know," Freddy replied. "My boss briefed your boss. I'm briefing you. We'll be working it together, son. Call me when you can." "Wait," I said. "The principals, in Fairfax? You send any agents to babysit?" "Not yet. This just happened." "Get somebody there now." "Apparently Loving's nowhere near yet." "Do it anyway." "Well--" "Do it anyway." "Your wish, et cetera, et cetera." Freddy disconnected before I could say anything more. Henry Loving … I sat for a moment and again looked out the window of my organization's unmarked headquarters in Old Town Alexandria, the building aggressively ugly, 1970s ugly. I stared at a wedge of grass, an antique store, a Starbucks and a few bushes in a parking strip. The bushes lined up in a staggered fashion toward the Masonic Temple, like they'd been planted by a Dan Brown character sending a message via landscaping rather than an email. My eyes returned to the FedEx box and the documents on my desk. One stapled stack of papers was a lease for a safe house near Silver Spring, Maryland. I'd have to negotiate the rent down, assuming a cover identity to do so. One document was a release order for the principal I'd successfully delivered yesterday to two solemn men, in equally solemn suits, whose offices were in Langley, Virginia. I signed the order and put it into my OUT box. The last slip of paper, which I'd been reading when Freddy called, I'd brought with me without intending to. In the town house last night I'd located a board game whose instructions I'd wanted to reread and had opened the box to find this sheet--an old to-do list for a holiday party, with names of guests to call, groceries and decorations to buy. I'd absently tucked the yellowing document into my pocket and discovered it this morning. The party had been years ago. It was the last thing I wanted to be reminded of at the moment. I looked at the handwriting on the faded rectangle and fed it into my burn box, which turned it into confetti. I placed the FedEx box into the safe behind my desk--nothing fancy, no eye scans, just a clicking combination lock--and rose. I tugged on a dark suit jacket over my white shirt, which was what I usually wore in the office, even when working weekends. I stepped out of my office, turning left toward my boss's, and walked along the lengthy corridor's gray carpet, striped with sunlight, falling pale through the mirrored, bullet-resistant windows. My mind was no longer on real estate values in Maryland or delivery service packages or unwanted reminders from the past, but focused exclusively on the reappearance of Henry Loving--the man who, six years earlier, had tortured and murdered my mentor and close friend, Abe Fallow, in a gulley beside a North Carolina cotton field, as I'd listened to his cries through his still-connected phone. Seven minutes of screams until the merciful gunshot, delivered not mercifully at all, but as a simple matter of professional efficiency. © 2010 Jeffery Deaver Excerpted from Edge by Jeffery Deaver All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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