Hard Revolution: A Derek Strange Novel (Derek Strange Novels)
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In this epic showdown from "one of the best crime novelists alive" (Dennis Lehane), police officer Derek Strange hunts his brother's killer through a city erupting with rage.
Petersen, with growing impatience. “You don’t need to take notes.” “I’d rather,” said Lucas. “I can’t tell if you’re listening.” “I’m listening. Where’d they boost the Denali?” “They took it up in Manor Park, on Peabody Street. Near the community garden, across from the radio towers.” “Behind the police station?” “Right in back of Four-D.” “Pretty bold,” said Lucas. “How many boys?” “Two. Unfortunately, my client, David Hawkins, was the one behind the wheel.” “You just have him?” “The
there at the D.C. Transit stop. Hess touched at his lip. The blood had congealed some, but it still seeped out occasionally, as the split was deep. He put his cigarette in the other side of his mouth and had a drag. “What you gonna do?” said Hess. “What you mean?” “Like, with your life?” “I don’t know.” Stewart hadn’t weighed it much. “I’m thinking of enlisting in the Corps.” “Think they’ll take you, huh?” “Why wouldn’t they?” “Ain’t you never heard of a Section Eight?” Hess rubbed at
eyes would go there, too. “I got ’em down at the Bootery on Connecticut. They’re called gunboots.” “You don’t say.” “They go with my Capone stripes. You know, the pants suit I got last week at Franklin Simon?” “The one came with the hat?” “It’s a beret. Don’t you know the difference?” “Sure. Like the painters wear.” Olga wiggled one foot. “You likee?” “Me no sabbee,” said Vaughn, tapping ash off his cigarette. He’d be glad when this bullshit Bonnie-and-Clyde craze was done. “Oh, Frank,”
mouth. As he did this, he locked eyes with Derek. Eventually, they made their way to Ida’s, the department store up on the east-side corner of Georgia and Quackenbos. In addition to selling household goods, the store clothed most of the kids in the area, colored and white alike. The PF Flyers on Derek’s feet were from Ida’s, as was the old Boy Scout uniform in Billy Georgelakos’s closet. Ida’s was the uptown equivalent of the downtown Morton’s. The boys entered the store, hit one of the aisles,
Detective?” said the fresh-faced blond kid behind the wheel. His name was Mark White. “Stay here, White,” said Vaughn, studying the drop-down door on the garage, padlocked at the latch. “Anyone comes for that Rambler or the Plymouth, hold him.” Vaughn walked through the backyard and around the side of the house to the porch, where he knocked on the front door. An old Italian woman in thick eyeglasses and a black dress answered his knock. “Yes?” “Frank Vaughn, ma’am,” he said, smiling, showing