From Publishers Weekly
Sakey's second crime novel doesn't quite measure up to his impressive debut, The Blade Itself (2007), but it exhibits many of the same strengths: high-tension action, intricate plotting and a Chicago setting that thrums and pulses with the feel of the city. Jason Palmer, a veteran of the current Iraq war haunted by his experiences, has yet to settle down, unlike his older brother, Michael, who runs a bar in their old South Side Chicago neighborhood and is raising an eight-year-old son, Billy. But when Michael is murdered and Billy threatened, Jason finds himself reacting in the only way he knows—as a soldier. Soldiering, however, is only part of the answer, and Jason has to come to terms with his past, weigh new responsibilities and counter the carnage that gang warfare, political corruption and corporate greed are wreaking on the neighborhood. Sakey, who draws disturbing and thought-provoking parallels between Baghdad and Chicago, provides enough narrow escapes, traps and obstacles to satisfy a Die Hard fan, but enough meat to please readers who demand more than pyrotechnics. Author tour. (Jan.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Review
"At the City's Edge crackles and sears like a rip-roaring fire."
--Tess Gerritsen, author of The Bone Garden
"Goes from zero to sixty in a blazing rush. Sakey knows how to thrill a reader."
--David Morrell, author of Creepers
Book Description
Jason Palmer loved being a soldier. But after returning home from Iraq with an "other than honorable" discharge, he's finding rebuilding his life the toughest battle yet.
Elena Cruz is a talented cop, the first woman to make Chicago's prestigious Gang Intelligence Unit. She's ready for anything the job can throw at her.
Until Jason's brother, a prominent community activist, is murdered in front of his own son.
Now, stalked by brutal men with a shadowy agenda, Jason and Elena must unravel a conspiracy stretching from the darkest alleys of the ghetto to the manicured lawns of the city's power brokers. In a world where corruption and violence are simply the cost of doing business, two damaged people are all that stand between an innocent child--and the killers who will stop at nothing to find him.
From the Back Cover
“MARCUS SAKEY IS EXACTLY THE ELECTRIC JOLT CRIME FICTION NEEDS.”—DENNIS LEHANE
Jason Palmer loved being a soldier. But after returning from Iraq with an “other than honorable” discharge, he’s finding that rebuilding his life is his toughest battle yet.
“FAST AND FURIOUS.”—CHICAGO SUN-TIMES
Elena Cruz is the first woman to make Chicago’s prestigious Gang Intelligence Unit. A fearless cop, she’s ready for any challenge…until Jason Palmer’s brother, a prominent community activist on the South Side, is murdered—in front of his son.
“SAKEY IS A PRODIGIOUS TALENT.”—LAURA LIPPMAN
Now Jason and Elena are caught in a conspiracy stretching from the darkest alleys of the ghetto to the manicured lawns of the city’s power brokers. In a world where corruption and violence are simply the cost of doing business, the two of them are all that stand between an innocent child—and the killers that hunt him.“NOTHING SHORT OF BRILLIANT…AS MUCH A WORK OF LITERARY FICTION AS CRIME FICTION.” —CHICAGO TRIBUNE
About the Author
MARCUS SAKEY is the author of the critically acclaimed novel The Blade Itself. He has shadowed homicide detectives, toured the morgue, interviewed soldiers, ridden with gang cops, and learned to pick a dead bolt in sixty seconds. Born in Flint, Michigan, he now lives in Chicago with his wife. Visit him online at MarcusSakey.com for contests, behind-the-scenes info, and excerpts of his work in progress.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
When the man pointed a gun at him, Jason Palmer was cooling down after his daily five and picturing the first beer of the day, a sweating Corona-and-lime that he figured he’d drink in the shower. Happy hour had been coming early lately, but he’d decided not to worry about it. To pretend this was summer vacation. Spend it running along the lake, scoping the bikini-girls that hit North Avenue Beach every afternoon like rent was a concept they weren’t familiar with. He pushed sweat-damp bangs out of his eyes, laced his fingers overhead, and turned into the pedestrian tunnel beneath Lake Shore Drive. The change from blast-furnace sun to cement-cool shadows left him blinking, but when his eyes adjusted there the guy was, standing like he’d been waiting.
Maybe twenty, with dark skin and predator’s eyes. A sharp-edged soul patch cropped the same length as his hair. A chromed-up Beretta with the safety off. He held the weapon wrong, elbow cocked out and wrist twisted sideways, but his hand was dead steady.
“Yo, I wanna talk to you.” A diamond-studded Cadillac crest hung on a rope chain around his neck.
Adrenaline tingled up the back of Jason’s legs. His heart, still racing from the run, thudded louder as he stared at the black hole pointed at his chest. He tried to remember everything he’d heard about getting mugged, how you weren’t supposed to look at the guy, that it could make him nervous. “Easy.” Jason slowly unwound his hands from his head. “It’s no problem. Take the money.”
Soul Patch tilted his head slightly, the smile wider. “I say anything about money?”
Jason froze. He’d never seen the man before, and didn’t suspect they had much to talk about. He stood at the mouth of the tunnel, the sun roasting his back; behind him he could hear the sound of gulls calling to one another, fighting over garbage. There were always people on the beach.
Then Soul Patch narrowed his eyes. “Further than you think.” His finger curled against the trigger. “You don’t want to be playing.”
Reluctantly, Jason stepped forward. Soul Patch nodded down the underpass. “Slow.” He draped his track jacket to cover the pistol. A tattoo curled on his forearm, a six-pointed star with letters inside, a G, maybe a D.
Jason’s sneakers crunched sand as he walked toward the far end, Soul Patch falling in behind. The sound of their passage echoed in the closed space, scuffing back mingled with the faint rumble of cars above. His shirt went cold and clammy. Keep it easy, he thought. Get him off balance.
“You know,” Jason said, voice light, “I like the Cadillac myself.”
“What?”
“Saw your necklace, is all.”
Suddenly, he heard voices. For a minute, he was relieved. Then two girls turned from the ramp to the hallway, their voices young, college freshmen maybe, laughing like the whole world was their keg party. Soul Patch stiffened at the sight of them.
Jason’s fingers tingled. One thing when it was just him on the line; this was responsibility he didn’t need. He had to keep the situation under control. “Yup. Beautiful vehicles.” Dry tongue forcing the words. “I got a ’72 Eldorado. Convertible.”
“Shit, one of those old boats? I don’t roll that way.”
“What do you like, the Escalade?”
“I’m black, I gotta drive an Escalade?”
“I don’t know,” Jason said. The girls were ten feet away. “Just guessing.”
“Man, I got me a XLR.”
Jason looked over his shoulder. “No shit?”
“Leather interior and a DVD in the dash.”
He nodded, trying to ignore the tension in his muscles. “Nice.” The girls drew parallel, and Jason clenched to jump if Soul Patch even looked their direction. But the blonde and brunette passed smooth-faced and oblivious. Jason let out a relieved breath, walked another dozen feet, out of earshot, and then stopped. Enough. “Listen, I’ve only got twenty bucks on me.”
“So?”
“So, take it.” He started to reach, froze when Soul Patch shook his head slow.
“Son, I wanted your money, you think you’d still have it?”
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk.” He cocked his head. “About what your brother’s up to.”
Michael.
Jason felt his fingers go to fists. He fought the urge to jump the fucker right there. But the man’s gun was steady and his smile was cruel. “What do you mean?” Jason’s voice thinner than he intended.
Soul Patch cleared his throat in a sticky gurgle and spat a chunk of phlegm against the wall. “Move.”
He forced himself to obey, biting at his lip, limbs raw with adrenaline. Ten more steps took him out of the tunnel, the sun landing with physical force on his shoulders, the faint burn on his neck. He walked up the concrete ramp to a two-story parking deck, most of the spaces filled, the BMWs, Hummers, and Mercedes of a class of people who saw Monday as just a quieter afternoon to take the yacht out. Soul Patch followed, gestured to the stairs.
Jason climbed, mind working furiously. What could possibly connect his brother and this man with the killer’s eyes? He tried and discarded a dozen explanations with every step, but couldn’t make the pieces fit. It had to be a mistake. They reached the second floor and started down the row of cars. The whole thing was funny in a dark sort of way. Used to be that every time the squad hit the street, someone might have been watching, sweaty finger on a radio detonator, waiting for Jason to step a little too close to death. It was a feeling he’d grown used to, that proximity to nothingness, the way he might just disappear in a roar of flame. Now here he was, safe and sound at home, getting hijacked by somebody who couldn’t tell one white dude from another. It would have been hysterical if it weren’t actually happening.
So what are you going to do about it, soldier?
A delivery truck was parked forty yards up, the angular rear jutting out past the car beside, and he began to drift toward it, rolling on the balls of his feet to fight adrenaline-stiffness. Six cars to go: A couple of imports, a big SUV, one of the new Beetles, and then his truck. A lunge would get him behind it. Soul Patch might snap a shot off, but it would be hurried. And after that, it was just a matter of staying low and weaving. Killer or no, a man who held his weapon sideways didn’t have the skill to hit a moving target at any distance. Just a few more steps, and he’d be clear.
Three cars short of the delivery truck, a man leaned out from behind the big SUV and slammed his fist into Jason’s stomach.
Breath exploded from his lungs. He doubled over, hands flying out for something solid, coming to rest on the SUV. Pain blossomed in his gut, a warm and living thing. As his body fought for air, his mind raged, telling him to take the pain. He struggled to straighten, one hand against the rear door, the other up in a clumsy defense.
The man who’d hit him stood five and a half. Elaborately muscled shoulders tapered directly into his shaven head. He wore a spotless white T-shirt that hung almost to his knees and ornate gold rings on every finger of his punching hand. Soul Patch stood beside him, chuckling, the gun steady on Jason’s heart.
Every breath was razors in his belly. Slowly, he forced his shoulders back, took the hand off the SUV. He glanced at it as he turned away, did a double-take, then looked at Soul Patch.
“I thought,” Jason said, “you didn’t like the Escalade.”
The man smiled, his tooth gleaming. “I was just playing.”
“No DVD?” He struggled to stay cool, to show that he wasn’t panicking, that they didn’t need to jump him.
“Oh, I got the DVD. You can watch it in back.”
A shiver ran through Jason’s belly. This couldn’t be happening, not really. “Listen man, you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“I feel you. Hop in, we’ll discuss.” He gestured, and the wrestler stepped forward to open the back, standing like a limo driver on the other side of the car door.
Jason could feel the blood vibrate through his palms, pound in his neck. In the truck he’d be trapped. That action-movie stuff about people rolling out of moving cars and walking it off, that was crap. Bail out of a car going faster than twenty miles per, you weren’t walking anything off. Plus, here, in a public parking lot, he had some hope. A single bullet might be dismissed, but a firefight would attract attention. He hesitated.
“I said get in.” Sun made Soul Patch’s eyes glow yellow.
“Okay.” Jason held his hands up. “Easy. I’ll come.” Electricity burnished his skeleton as he started for the car.
Then, for the first time, Soul Patch made a mistake. He stood still.
It was as much of a window as Jason could hope for. Continuing his forward motion, he stepped into Soul Patch like they were dancing, right hand closing on the guy’s wrist to lock the gun in place. But instead of grappling for the weapon, he spun, planting his back against the man’s chest, the gun arm now in front of both of them. The wr...
