The Five
Language: English
Pages: 520
ISBN: 1596063416
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Subterranean Press is proud to present Robert McCammon's first contemporary novel in nearly two decades, a tale of the hunt and unlikely survival, of the life and soul, set against a supernatural backbeat. Robert McCammon, author of the popular Matthew Corbett historical thrillers (Speaks the Nightbird, Mister Slaughter), now gives us something new and completely unexpected: The Five, a contemporary novel as vivid, timely, and compelling as anything he has written to date.
The Five tells the story of an eponymous rock band struggling to survive on the margins of the music business. As they move through the American Southwest on what might be their final tour together, the band members come to the attention of a damaged Iraq war veteran, and their lives are changed forever.
The narrative that follows is a riveting account of violence, terror, and pursuit set against a credible, immensely detailed rock and roll backdrop. It is also a moving meditation on loyalty and friendship, on the nature and importance of families those we are born into and those we create for ourselves and on the redemptive power of the creative spirit. Written with wit, elegance, and passionate conviction, The Five lays claim to new imaginative territory, and reaffirms McCammon's position as one of the finest, most unpredictable storytellers of our time.
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Miles past Gila Ridge, True and nearly everybody else heading westbound turned off on the two-lane that stretched out flat for a distance and then began its climb into the heat-hazed, brick-red mountains toward Stone Church. The road was jammed and traffic slowed to a crawl. In front of them the passenger of a gray van lowered their window and threw yellow liquid from a bucket onto the pavement, where it bubbled and steamed. Young men wearing umbrella caps that bore the red legend Stone Church.
Front teeth. The cap was pushed down low and tight on his head, with a huge curved bill. His hair was a sandy color on the sides and his deepset eyes were light brown. He had a bulbous nose that could round a corner before his Pumas did. “Just be a minute,” he told her. He was already setting up a tripod for a video camera next to the table. A black camera bag lay at his sneakered feet. “Go ahead, siddown.” Somebody else behind him told him to hurry up, and he shot a dark glance at the guy and.
Cameras up on the corners of the building, but this one out in an industrial area is a windowless cinderblock slab designated by a portable sign on wheels to be Club Salvaje, Where The Wild Angels Play. There are lights in the parking lot, but they’re angled so they throw huge pools of black shadow amid the cars, SUVs and trucks. Up on the building itself are two video cameras aimed down at the front door, which might have been a problem except for the fact that Jeremy thinks they’re fakes.
Little premature,” the PIO lady added, as a softener. “Sir?” said the KVOA reporter. “Are you saying this was a coincidence?” It sounded ridiculous, the way he said it. “I’m saying we have a young man who is fighting for his life.” Garza would not rise to the bait. His expression was Buddha-calm, if Buddha had been born the son of a Juarez cop. The hospital public relations rep had only a few minutes ago left this room on the first floor of University Medical Center, after telling the assembled.
Ruddy, outdoors coloring. His gray, close-cropped hair was retreating at the temples and sat on his head like a tight cap. He was so clean-shaven a razor might have been his religion. A military man? Nomad wondered. The man’s thick eyebrows were still black, his eyes a pale sky-blue. He had the square chin of a comic-book hero but the crooked nose of a boxer who has gone a few bad rounds in his life. He was wearing khaki trousers and a dark gray polo shirt. Nomad had seen that he was wearing a.