{"product_id":"the-driver-isbn-9781101986363","title":"The Driver","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the creator of the TV show \u003ci\u003eBones\u003c\/i\u003e comes a smart and funny debut thriller. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e“Everything a great thriller should be—always smart, often funny, and relentlessly exciting. I loved every page.”—Scott Turow\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Michael Skellig is a limo driver waiting for his client in the alley behind an upscale hotel. He’s spent the past twenty-eight hours ferrying around Bismarck Avila, a celebrity skateboard mogul who isn’t going home any time soon. Suddenly the wind begins to speak to Skellig in the guttural accent of the Chechen torturer he shot through the eye in Yemen a decade ago:\u003ci\u003e Troubletroubletrouble\u003c\/i\u003e. Skellig has heard these warnings before—he’s an Army Special Forces sergeant whose limo company is staffed by a ragtag band of wounded veterans, including his Afghan interpreter—and he knows to listen carefully.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Skellig runs inside just in time to save Avila from two gunmen but too late for one of Avila’s bodyguards—and wakes up hours later in the hospital, the only person of interest in custody for the murder. Complicating matters further is the appearance of Detective Delilah Groopman of the LAPD, gorgeous and brash, for whom Skellig has always held a candle. As for Avila? He’s willing to help clear Skellig’s name under one peculiar condition: that Skellig become Avila’s personal chauffeur. A cushy gig for any driver, except for the fact that someone is clearly trying to kill Avila, and Skellig is literally the only person sitting between Avila and a bullet to the head.\u003cb\u003ePraise for Hart Hanson and \u003ci\u003eThe Driver\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hanson's storytelling voice is off the charts: blunt, morbid, morally indignant and furiously funny.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is so hard to be unique in crime fiction and Hart Hanson has done it big time with \u003ci\u003eThe Driver\u003c\/i\u003e. It’s got all the ingredients: high risks, strong momentum, unseen turns and a set of gripping characters. You can’t ask for more!”—Michael Connelly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An outstanding debut thriller. Readers of Scott Turow and Harlan Coben will appreciate the intricate plot and rich character development.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review) \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“The Driver\u003c\/i\u003e is an action-packed, humor-infused novel that doesn’t disappoint. Hart Hanson’s debut is chock full of eccentric characters, from soldiers with a cause to crooked cops to diva wannabes. This is a book that is sure to fly from the shelves to the bedside tables.”—\u003ci\u003eThe San Francisco Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The first chapter delivers an entertainment smack upside the head that will keep readers rapt to the story's end....Wryly funny and whip-smart, Hanson's narrative seamlessly weaves in serious themes, pop culture and a bit of a love letter to Los Angeles.”—Shelf Awareness \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] remarkable debut… The dialogue is crisp and street-tough, and the action redefines \u003ci\u003erelentless\u003c\/i\u003e. Expect lots of buzz for what is sure to be one of the season’s hottest first novels.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist (starred review)\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hanson, creator of the long-running TV series Bones, takes to crime fiction in high style. Like Carl Hiaasen, he shows great pleasure in combining nasty violence with an arch comic sensibility...[a] fresh-voiced first novel.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hanson, creator of the TV series \u003ci\u003eBones\u003c\/i\u003e, melds well-placed bits of humor with a serious look at the emotional trials of returning veterans. The energetic plot demands a sequel.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Riveting, smart, and funny, \u003ci\u003eThe Driver\u003c\/i\u003e is a masterfully crafted debut. Michael Skellig is the hero we’ve been waiting for—a wry war veteran who doesn’t take anything (or anyone) too seriously, even while staring down the face of a sawed-off shotgun.”—Harlan Coben \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Funny and smart.”—Dallas Morning News\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“[A] hugely entertaining thriller...Infused with dark humor.”\u003ci\u003e—The Oklahoman\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eThe Driver\u003c\/i\u003e has it all—crisp dialogue, complex characters, anda plot that zips at breathtaking speed. I see the beginning of a great career in thriller fiction.”—Kathy Reichs \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Driver \u003c\/i\u003eis packed with action...tightly plotted...The characters [are] sharply drawn and sympathetic (the heroes) or scary (the villains). Good or bad, they all come alive on the page.”—\u003ci\u003eSt. Louis Post-Dispatch\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] page turner.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Driver\u003c\/i\u003e is everything a great thriller should be—always smart, often funny, and relentlessly exciting. The novel features imaginative mayhem from the first pages, a terrific twisting plot, and countless fresh elements, starting with its hip, witty, limo-driver hero, who deals with the eccentric world of high-profile skateboarding and the lingering sadness of many of our vets. I loved every page.”—Scott Turow\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Hart Hanson has given us a wonderful debut novel in \u003ci\u003eThe Driver\u003c\/i\u003e. Former Army Special Forces Sergeant Michael Skellig runs a limousine service in Los Angeles, staffed by his hand-picked team of former war companions. Skellig and his people are living casualties of America's wars—damaged in different ways but clinging to their lives with determination, anger, and resourcefulness. Set in an LA of narcissistic celebrity, corrupt law enforcement, and limitless greed, \u003ci\u003eThe Driver\u003c\/i\u003e is grim, funny, violent, and moving—all on the same page.”—T. Jefferson Parker\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“The Driver\u003c\/i\u003e is smart, brash, and funny, with characters who strut right out of an Elmore Leonard novel.  For thrills, chills, and plenty of laughs, Hart Hanson is your man.”—Tess Gerritsen\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“The ghost of Raymond Chandler is apparently alive and well and living inside Hart Hanson. I felt as though I was reading a 21st century reboot of \u003ci\u003eThe Long Goodbye\u003c\/i\u003e. Brutal, gripping and funny. A dazzling debut.”—Charles Cumming\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eHart Hanson\u003c\/b\u003e wrote for Canadian television before moving to Los Angeles, where he worked on various TV programs before creating the series \u003ci\u003eBones\u003c\/i\u003e, the longest-running scripted hour-long series on the FOX network. Married with two sons, Hart lives with his wife, Brigitte, in Venice, California. \u003ci\u003eThe Driver\u003c\/i\u003e is his first novel.Something Gets in My      Eye\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Five minutes before a pair of overconfident, underaged,      undercooked, tweaked-out, teenage-skater-boy assassins swagger      through the front door of an upscale bar in a tourist hotel just      south of the Santa Monica Pier, I'm innocently killing time in the      manner of all limo drivers since the invention of the wheel:      wiping down my vehicle with a chamois while listening to a less      car-proud driver complain about the weather. He isn't wrong to      complain, considering how the two of us are being sandblasted by      Santa Ana winds in the limos-wait-here alley behind the hotel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Fuckin' Santa Anas,\" he said, squinting into the grit. \"White      people freak the fuck out, level a black man the evil eye.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Black man referred to him; white people referred to me. Which was      fair because I am, in fact, an astoundingly vanilla man: brown      hair, brown eyes, five foot eleven, medium build-your average kind      of white man, milquetoast invisible average-but while I admit to      regarding him with interest, \"leveling the evil eye\" parlayed too      much spin on it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e (Yet . . .)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was something about the guy that didn't ring true.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He wore a dark-blue limo-driver's suit made for somebody maybe two      inches shorter than himself unless he'd recently undergone a      growth spurt, which seemed unlikely given that he was pushing      thirty. His shoes were not the standard black wingtips or cap-toed      oxfords; they were patent leather laceless boots, sporting flashy      silver toe and heel caps (though whether gaudy-cheap or      conspicuous-expensive was beyond me).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His hair was rusty colored in a way that said beach bum more than      limo driver. As did his cigarillo packed with primo weed. Plus, he      checked his phone with manic regularity. Normally, I'd have      written him off as a moonlighting soul surfer obsessively checking      an app that tracked storm waves from across the ocean. Except the      Santa Anas blow out any kind of decent surfing; even junk surfers      don't need an app for that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Most likely Mr. Chelsea Boots was new to the limo business,      nervous, checking for texts from a particularly demanding      client-but if that was the case, then why was he getting high? To      calm his jitters?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So yeah, come to think of it, maybe Chelsea Boots was right and I      was leveling him the evil eye. Or maybe he was paranoid from the      weed. Maybe a little of both.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My mobile buzzed. I removed my sunglasses, shaded the screen from      the setting sun and gusts of grit with my body. It was my      mechanic, Tinkertoy, calling. I answered in my most soothing      voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dead silence (not unexpected). Sonic blackouts are a quirk of      Tinkertoy's post-traumatic stress paranoia, an awkward unwanted      intermission as she evaluates whether or not the person on the      other end of the call is for reals the person she herself just      dialed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's you who?\" Tinkertoy asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This is Michael Skellig,\" I answered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Crickets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Your boss.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In college, in addition to required math and engineering classes,      I took an elective survey course in Great Thinkers in which we      studied the birth of medicine, featuring protodoctors, half      scientist \/ half magician, starting with a Greek named      Hippocrates. (You've heard of his oath.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hippocrates set out to label and categorize human beings by      separating us into four basic groups based upon (I shit you not) a      personal predominance of the following: snot, black bile, yellow      bile, and blood. He labeled these Humors. We all have one, a      humor, like a sign of the zodiac. Hippocrates would have diagnosed      Tinkertoy as a Melancholic, meaning she suffered from a surfeit of      black bile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eventually, Tinkertoy decided that I was, in fact, who I claimed      to be and, in the jerky, tumbledown telegram way she speaks once      she decides it's safe, she said, \"Two is ready. Fuel injector was      fucked. Not like from sabotage. Nuh-uh. Just old. So I replaced      it. Hundred seventy-five bucks. Secondhand. Could not. Be      rebuilt.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two referred to the second of the three limos I own. I was      currently leaning on our flagship: Number One.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Good job,\" I said, and waited for Tinkertoy to analyze that      controversial response for hidden meaning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You're wondering where I get the patience to deal with Tinkertoy,      and the answer is that I appreciate the way she fends off her PTSD      demons by immersing herself in the minutiae of all things      mechanical (typewriters, binoculars, clocks and compasses, fuel      injectors, air-conditioning units, cameras, whirligigs, toys,      guns, stereos, computers, lawn mowers, and anything else you can      think of with spinning, clicking, percolating, conducting,      gyrating, or ambulatory properties).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Veterans Health Administration psych wizards categorize      Tinkertoy not as Melancholic but as Ego-syntonic suffering from      Obsessive Compulsive Disorder derived from Post-Traumatic Stress      with Serotonergic Imbalance Resulting in Adjustment Disorder with      Anxious Features-indicating, to me at least, that shrinks could      learn a thing or two from Hippocrates and his humors.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Chelsea Boots huffed noisily on his doctored Black \u0026amp; Mild      blunt, quick, shallow, urgent puffs like trying to keep something      alight that wants to go out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The major limo companies do not sanction that kind of behavior.      They maybe look the other way if a driver is obliged to take a      friendly hit off a doobie (I know, but that's what I call it) to      assuage the nerves of a pot-paranoid client who worries about      off-duty cops moonlighting as limo drivers. But Chelsea Boots      sucked back on his shit with Snoop Dogg levels of enthusiasm, the      end of his cigar glowing red even through all this crashing      sunlight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tinkertoy finally ticked the last box on her exasperating mental      list and said, \"Ripple says should he call in Lucky since Two is      ready?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ripple's another employee Army vet with issues. I hired him to      handle scheduling and dispatch for my company, Oasis Limo      Services. The other full-time driver is named Lucky. Lucky owns a      ten percent stake in the company but he has to trust me on that      because he's an illegal alien coasting along on forged documents      (yes, another veteran-we all have our tribes).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I named our company Oasis Limo Services on the advice of my      mother, who, as a politician, knows a lot about branding. Mom said      that if I called it Stars and Stripes Limo Services it would scare      the limousine liberals on the west side of Los Angeles, who happen      to be my target clientele. Plus, according to Mom, the word oasis      works on the subliminal level to seduce prospective clients into      feeling \"like Bedouins eating dates in a tent near a cool water      hole after crossing the Sahara.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e (Like everyone else who doesn't know better, Mom views Los Angeles      as both a literal and a figurative desert.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Ripple needs to do his job,\" I told Tinkertoy, which resulted in      the muffle of Tinkertoy covering the phone with her grease-stained      palm, ostensibly repeating to Ripple what I'd just said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ripple is barely nineteen years old and looks younger, a      luminously pale freckled boy with crazy hair like copper wires. He      draws cartoons all day, all of them horrifically violent in the      way that sets off alarms for the VA wizards. Just over a year ago,      Private Second Class (E-2) Ripple had a bad day in a shithole      called Walakan, southwest of Kandahar, Afghanistan, when he lost      his right leg from just above the knee to a sniper and his left      leg at the hip when an HMMWV (which was rushing to block a second      kill shot) accidentally ran him over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hippocrates would label Ripple Sanguine, which means his      predominant humor is blood, which tells you just about everything      you need to know about the kid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I heard Ripple's voice in the background, a jumble of words      followed by a clearly discernible, \"Tell Skellig to go fuck      himself!\" followed by Tinkertoy's muffled, \"Why don't you? Go      fuck? Yourself?\" followed by escalating classic      Sanguine-versus-Melancholic insults. I hung up to let the two of      them work it out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Famous poem about the Santa Anas,\" Chelsea Boots continued, as      though our conversation had never been interrupted, \"concerning a      wife and a knife. You got a wife?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I shook my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Why not?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e How do you answer a question like that? I'm single for all the      usual reasons plus a couple of ancillary snags and detriments, for      example: an eye-catching scar on my forearm left by an obstinate      pit bull whose windpipe I was forced to (honest to God!) wrench      out in panicked self-defense-please, no grief about the humane      treatment of animals. Killing a dog is not a meet-cute anecdote on      a first date (especially if the woman in question is an animal      lover), and yet due to the prominence of the dimpled scars on my      arm it has never not come up, unless I wear long sleeves, in which      case, this being Los Angeles, the woman in question assumes I'm a      junkie. I could go for Gila monster attack as an explanation, but      then I'm lying on a first date, which, as any relationship expert      will tell you, does not bode well for the future of the      relationship.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Putting aside the dog-killer excuse, the main reason I do not have      a wife is that I'm hopelessly in love with a woman who not only      refuses to marry me but decided that the fact that I'd asked (and      she'd refused) meant that we should take our whole relationship to      a much more casual level.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Instead of admitting all that to baked Mr. Chelsea Boots, I      changed the subject.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's not a poem.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What's not a poem? Wife with a knife? What is it, then? Doesn't      sound like no kind of joke.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's a story.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Which is when a speck of grit blew into my eye and burned like an      ember. Santa Anas are the katabatic devil winds that blow no good      from the high deserts-everybody knows that, not only wives and      knives, poets and surfers and limo drivers, especially getting      late in the afternoon, after twenty-eight hours of no sleep,      driving around a client who obviously does not ever want to go      home, the sun banging on your eyeballs from both the sky and the      reflection off the ocean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I heard a burst of calliope music from the Santa Monica Pier      amusement park, blown up the alley behind the hotel on a back eddy      of the Santa Anas, and my eye watered and stung and the wind spoke      to me in the guttural accent of a Chechen jihadist torturer I shot      through the eye in Yemen a decade ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What the Chechen said was Troubletroubletrouble.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Yes, yes, I know, on top of the dog story now you're going to be      all freaked-out about my mental health, but those ghostly wind      warnings have saved my life a dozen times, always keening in the      spectral voice of somebody I'd killed. Of course I've never      admitted that to the wizards. I tell them that I experience an      overwhelming sense of dŽjˆ vu and disconnection from the world.      They tell me I suffer from a form of PTSD-induced protomigraine      known as an aura. Why don't I tell the wizards about my whispering      ghost voices? Because they will take it much too seriously and      plunge a needle full of Thorazine in my ass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . . troubletroubletroublebadtrouble . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What up?\" Chelsea Boots asks, because I'm tossing the chamois      onto the limo's hood, tucking my sunglasses into the breast pocket      of my shirt, and turning to trot along the broken asphalt of the      alley, instinctively reaching for a phantom sidearm that isn't      there and hasn't been there for three years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I slam into the dented metal door at the rear of the hotel like      I'm trying to escape a burning building, then thump on it with my      elbow until it opens a crack. I shove my way past the shocked      Malaysian dishwasher kid wearing eyeliner and rubber gloves,      moving fast and low, like I'm leading a strike team, through the      coolness of the corridor, smelling cleaning fluids and raw      refrigerated beef, olive oil, spilled liquor, antiseptic. I zigzag      through the kitchen, scanning, scanning, ignoring the whoops and      hollers of the Mexicans and Guatemalans who work there-\"Hey! Choo      can be dere!\"-bursting from behind the bar into a cool place of      wood warmth and air-conditioning and mirrors and an infinity of      bottles and indirect light and people and music throbbing at 180      beats per minute (like the heart of panic).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Jesus Christ!\" grunts a barback; then there's a bouncer who      plants himself in front of me, chanting, \"Stop. Stop. Stop!\" in      the singsong, patronizing, faux-weary voice bouncers affect to      hide their own anxieties in a physical confrontation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When I outzig his zag, he tucks in behind and chases me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Buddy? Buddy?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This bouncer moves well but his nose has never been broken, which      indicates that he's a martial arts type, which means that, unlike      a boxer or a cop, he cannot take a hit and keep coming, so when he      grabs my shoulder I spin, elbow him once, solar plexus, and keep      going. I consider shouting my client's name, which is Bismarck      Avila (that's right, the wunderkind skateboarding hip-hop mogul      from the reality show), but then I see Avila rising as the      culminating sound of the disturbance I'm causing roils over my      head and breaks over him like a wave, so I jostle my way through      the evening drinks crowd, managers and agents and call girls and      tourists, muttering \"'Scuse me, 'scuse me, 'scuse me . . .\" in a      way that really means, Get the fuck out of my way or I will hurt      you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two three-hundred-pound bodyguards rise in front of me like      darkness looming, twins, buttoning their Hugo Boss suits in the      way large African American men do in order to intimidate      average-size Caucasian men like me, the same monumental bookends      who followed my limo in a tricked-out black Navigator as I drove      their boss from club to club to sex club to hotel suite to      restaurant to private party to bar-a different woman or women in      the back servicing the client on each leg.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Get him out,\" I advise the twins, pointing at Avila but scanning,      scanning, for the threat that the Chechen had warned me about but      had not yet presented itself in reality.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I don't think so,\" Tweedledee says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Who you talkin'?\" Tweedledum asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's the limo driver,\" says Tweedledee just before the bullet      slaps his gut, right through his Hugo Boss buttonhole, the crack      of a nine millimeter following a microsecond later and the awful      wet-clap sound of bullet meets flesh, and for the two seconds      before hysteria and panic hit, the whole place goes as silent as      Antarctica.","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304547569893,"sku":"NP9781101986363","price":26.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101986363.jpg?v=1767739087","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-driver-isbn-9781101986363","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}