Lost River by J. Todd Scott
English | 2020 |Crime Thriller| ePUB | 3.6 MB
A blistering crime novel of the opioid epidemic–and its cops, villains, and victims–written by a twenty-five-year veteran of the DEA.
Angel, Kentucky: Just another one of America’s forgotten places, where opportunities vanished long ago, and the opioid crisis has reached a fever pitch. When this small town is rocked by the vicious killing of an entire infamous local crime family, the bloody aftermath brings together three people already struggling with Angel’s drug epidemic: Trey, a young medic-in-training with secrets to hide; Special Agent Casey Alexander, a DEA agent who won’t let the local law or small-town way of doing things stand in her way; and Paul Mayfield, a former police chief who’s had to watch his own young wife succumb to addiction.
Over the course of twenty-four hours, loyalties are tested, the corrupt are exposed, and the horrible truth of the largest drug operation in the region is revealed. And though Angel will never be the same again, a lucky few may still find hope.
He and Jamie drove him back here wrapped in some Cabela’s camo tarp and he has a vague memory of telling Jamie afterward to toss the whole fucking mess into Rockhouse Fork or even Yatesville Lake, but Jamie’s now standing by Little Paris’s Mustang, staring down at the dead man like he’s never seen one before.
Like this one just fucking magically appeared here flat on its back with two bullets in its skull, turning autumn Kentucky colors and going soft, setting off a mighty righteous stink, where his amigos will soon smell him all the way down in ole Me-hi-co or wherever the hell it is they breed ’em.
If Jamie wasn’t already Glasser blood, weak and thin as it might be on his side of the family, Little Paris might find himself inclined to shoot this sonofabitch, too.
“What’d I say?” Little Paris asks, toeing the gassy body with one of his boots, but gently, so it don’t rip like an overripe Granny Smith and explode shit and pus everywhere.
A sweet, crisp Granny Smith is one of Hardy’s favorite things.
“What the fuck did I say about this?”
Jamie shrugs but won’t quite look at him ’cause maybe he really can see all them angry yellowjackets behind his eyes.
“I know, coz. I know. Just ain’t seen to it yet.” Jamie goes to light a Marlboro, that dumb-ass silver ring of his catching fire with the first of the morning sun. “It ain’t like we ain’t been busy. That last batch this boy brought is moving. I’m still cleanin’ up with that.”
That last batch . . . the white powder H the dead wetback brought them.
Everyone around three states wants a taste of it, but no matter how pure or good it is, smack has never really been Little Paris’s thing. It makes him too soft, too fuzzy at the edges. The dope sex is good and all, sweet as pure cane sugar or honey, but he likes the way crank sharpens him right up, a whetstone to a knife, and that sex ain’t half bad, either.
Rough, angry, although sometimes just a little too much of both.
“If Danny were here—” But Jamie stops sudden, wise enough, or sober enough, anyway, not to hold Danny’s name in his mouth for too long. Little Paris has already done heard it a thousand times if he’s heard it once—from Daddy out loud and damn near everyone else just under their breath—how he ain’t like Danny at all.
How Little Paris is gonna be the one to finally let slip through his fingers these mountains that one Glasser or another has held on to with an iron fist for a hundred years or more.