From the author of The Last Detective and Hostage, comes a thriller featuring a father searching for vengeance in the City of Angels. But for an ex-con fresh on parole, finding answers in the corruption of the LAPD means asking for help from the person least expecting it: the FBI officer who put him away…
Every seasoned criminal knows the two minute rule: the two minutes before the cops show up at the scene of a robbery. Keeping the rule means changing your life, breaking it means a lifetime in jail. But not everyone plays by the rules…
When a decisive four minutes put Max Holman in prison, he spent the next decade planning one thing: reconciliation with his estranged son. Determined to put the past behind him, Max sets out on the morning of his parole only to discover his son, a cop, was gunned down in cold blood hours earlier. When the hit is exposed as a revenge killing, Max is determined to track down the murderer—at any cost.
From the author that sets the standard of gripping, edgy suspense, The Two Minute Rule delivers all the surprising plot twists and powerful characters that make Robert Crais one of the top crime writers today.
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Simon & Schuster
February 21, 2006
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Excerpt from The Two Minute Rule by Robert Crais
"YOU'RE NOT TOO OLD. Forty-six isn't old, these days. You got a world of time to make a life for yourself."
Holman didn't answer. He was trying to decide how best to pack. Everything he owned was spread out on the bed, all neatly folded: four white T-shirts, three Hanes briefs, four pairs of white socks, two short-sleeved shirts (one beige, one plaid), one pair of khaki pants, plus the clothes he had been wearing when he was arrested for bank robbery ten years, three months, and four days ago.
"Max, you listening "
"I gotta get this stuff packed. Lemme ask you something ' you think I should keep my old stuff, from before I don't know as I'll ever get into those pants."
Wally Figg, who ran the Community Correctional Center, which was kind of a halfway house for federal prisoners, stepped forward to eye the pants. He picked them up and held them next to Holman. The cream-colored slacks still bore scuff marks from when the police had wrestled Holman to the floor in the First United California Bank ten years plus three months ago. Wally admired the material.
"That's a nice cut, man. What is it, Italian "
Wally nodded, impressed.
"I'd keep'm, I was you. Be a shame to lose something this nice."
"I got four inches more in the waist now than back then."
In the day, Holman had lived large. He stole cars, hijacked trucks, and robbed banks. Fat with fast cash, he hoovered up crystal meth for breakfast and Maker's Mark for lunch, so jittery from dope and hung over from booze he rarely bothered to eat. He had gained weight in prison.
Wally refolded the pants.
"Was me, I'd keep'm. You'll get yourself in shape again. Give yourself something to shoot for, gettin' back in these pants."
Holman tossed them to Wally. Wally was smaller.
"Better to leave the past behind."
Wally admired the slacks, then looked sadly at Holman.
"You know I can't. We can't accept anything from the residents. I'll pass'm along to one of the other guys, you want. Or give'm to Goodwill."
"You got a preference, who I should give'm to "