I’ve only just finished this one, and it’s left me with that post-read tightly wound ball of intense, opposite emotions. That cold, churning feeling, as present in the pit of the stomach as it is in the mind, only great works of fiction leave you with.

In the end, there is no redemption for Chris Faulkner. The internal conflict of this young suit is unlikely to continue – he puts it best in the book’s final line of dialogue: There isn’t anything you can do anymore. There’s nothing you can do anymore to stop men like us!

The climax was a pure shot of adrenaline which eventually produced in me a feeling of sweet sickness very few novels have yet to produce.

This one succeeds on so many levels…