Gun Work

Acclaim For the Work of

DAVID J. SCHOW!

“Smart, scathing, and verbally inventive to an astonishing degree, David J. Schow [is] one of the most interesting writers of his generation.”

—Peter Straub

“Take no prisoners fiction that rarely pulls away from the grisly heart of the matter, Schow’s prose is extremely cinematic, filled with pungent dialogue, sharp, memorable characters, and a sense of macabre irony worthy of Alfred Hitchcock.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“[A] sinuous psychological thriller... Schow works suspenseful sleight-of-hand with his story... His kinetic orchestration of events [and] vivid hardboiled prose push the plot to a thunderclap climax that... is a measure of coolly calculated audacity.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Evocatively described and expertly paced... Schow cranks up the tension effortlessly and artfully. Reading the novel is akin to being slipped a mickey... a wonderful treat.”

—The Agony Column

“Edgy, insightful, and fearless.”

—Joe R. Lansdale

“David Schow writes with a lethal beauty.”

—Robert R. McCammon

“A highly original, boldly conceived psychological thriller observed with the rapt eye and assassin’s sting of the artist as fer-de-lance...[I’m] a major fan of David’s work.”

—John Farris

“A jagged nightmare spiked with charm, melancholy and vicious intelligence. Don’t accept this novel’s invitation to party unless you’re prepared to be dragged to some very dark places — and to love every step of the way. Like being punched in the face by a poet.”

—Michael Marshall Smith

“Schow is so fine a writer, so imaginative a storyteller, that he deserves a place in all contemporary fiction collections.”

—Library Journal

“Very much in the groove of Thomas Harris.”

—Twilight Zone

“David J. Schow is a master of the art of giving the plot an unexpected wrinkle.”

—The Philadelphia Inquirer

“There is poignancy everywhere in his talent, amid the exquisite threat.”

—Richard Christian Matheson

“Creepy and fascinating.”

—Booklist

“It’s raw, it’s rough, and it’s not for wimps... A damn fine book.”

—Afraid

The night came alive with auto weapons fire.

“What the hell are you doing —” Carl hollered.

“Shut up. Get in the back. Head down.”

Lacquer chips jumped from the hood of the Town Car as a fusillade of nine-millimeter slugs flattened into the windshield, making starbursts, rude impact hits without the attendant cacophony of gunfire.

Triangulating, Barney figured four shooters, three of them the guys after the bag. One grabbed and they all scattered two seconds before the limo came to a dust-choked halt near the natural stone foundation.

Barney already had the Army .45 in his hand.

As the car stopped he chocked his door open with his foot and stayed low, popping two rounds and dropping the runner with the bag, who was not shooting. The bag was scooped by another runner who fired back — Uzis, from the sound and cycle rate. Barney ducked the incoming angry metal bees, mostly discharged unaimed, panic fire, gangsta showoff.

The brake was up and the limo began a slow roll toward the bridge. This was intentional. Barney crabwalked alongside, scanning around for the bonus shooter, who expectedly rose from the crest of the bridge and began shooting downward, ineffectually. Barney put a triple-tap in his general direction to keep him down, under cover.

The right front wheel stopped against the outstretched leg of the first guy to grab the bag.