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Prince of Thieves: A Novel

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Overview

The men wear masks. Their guns are drawn on the bank manager. She nervously recites the alarm code, and the tumblers within the huge vault fall. The timing and execution are brilliant. It could be the perfect heist. But as the huge sum of cash is stolen, so too is one man's heart -- and that man is the Prince of Thieves...Charlestown, a blue-collar Boston neighborhood, produces more bank robbers and armored car thieves than any square mile in the world. In this gripping, intricately plotted thriller, Claire Keesey, the branch manager for a Boston bank and one of an influx of young professionals chipping away at the neighborhood's insularity, is taken hostage during a robbery.

Editorial Reviews

Editorial Reviews for this product are not available at this time.

Author Information

Bio of Chuck Hogan

Chuck Hogan's first novel, The Standoff, was translated into fourteen languages and adapted for film. His second, The Blood Artists, was called "sensational" and "masterfully suspenseful" by Kirkus Reviews and a "quantum leap" by the Chicago Tribune. He lives in Massachusetts and is at work on a new novel.

Customer Reviews

  • 4 stars out of 5Great most of the way

    Posted September 03, 2007 by mlorenz, NC

    The first 3/4 of the book is 5 stars - excellent. However, the last 1/4 was a 2 or 3, really didn't make a lot of sense. I still liked the book, but it really let me down toward the end.

Additional Info

Imprint

Scribner

Filesize

896.95 KB

Number of Pages

384

eBook ISBN

9780743270519

Excerpt from: Prince of Thieves by Chuck Hogan

Doug MacRay stood inside the rear door of the bank, breathing deeply through his mask. Yawning, that was a good sign. Getting oxygen. He was trying to get amped up. Breaking in overnight had left them with plenty of downtime to sit and eat their sandwiches and goof on each other and get comfortable, and that wasn't good for the job. Doug had lost his buzz -- the action, fear, and momentum that was the cocktail of banditry. Get in, get the money, get out. His father talking, but fuck it, on this subject the old crook was right. Doug was ready for this thing to fall.

He swung his head side to side but could not crack his neck. He looked at the black .38 in his hand, but gripping a loaded pistol had long since lost its porn. He wasn't there for thrills. He wasn't even there for money, though he wouldn't leave without it. He was there for the job. The job of the job, like the thing of the thing. Him and Jem and Dez and Gloansy pulling pranks together, same as when they were kids -- only now it was their livelihood. Heisting was what they did and who they were.

His blood warmed to that, the broad muscles of his back tingling. He rapped the hard plastic forehead of his goalie mask with his pistol barrel and shook out the cobwebs as he turned toward the door. A pro, an athlete at the top of his game. He was at the height of his powers.

Jem stood across from him like a mirror image: the dusty navy blue jumpsuit zipped over the armored vest, the gun in his gloved hand, and the white goalie mask marked up with black stitch scars, his eyes two dark sockets.

Happy voices approaching, muffled. Keys turning in reinforced locks, strongbars releasing.

A spear of daylight. A woman's hand on the knob and the kick of a chunky black shoe -- and the swish of a black floral skirt walking into Doug's life.


He seized the branch manager's arm and spun her around in front of him, showing her the pistol without jamming it in her face. Her eyes were green and bright and full, but it was his mask that scared short her scream, not the Colt.

Jem kicked the door shut behind the assistant manager, smacking the cardboard caddy out of the guy's hand. Two steaming cups of coffee splattered against the wall, leaving a runny brown stain.