From the dust jacket flap:

Lucas Davenport returns - in the most harrowing Prey of all.

Everybody has his secrets.
But some of them will get you killed.

John Sandford has long been praised as "one of the most gifted thriller writers at work in this country or any other" (Richmond TImes Dispatch) - but this time he surpasses himself.

The company chairman lay on the cold ground of the woods, his eyes unseeing, his orange hunting jacket punctured by a rifle bullet fired at close range. Near him stood the four executives with whom he had been hunting, each with his or her own complicated agenda, each with a reason not to be sorrowful about the man's death. If he read it in a book, Lucas Davenport thought it would seem like one of those classic murder mysteries, the kind where the detective gathers everyone together at the end and solves it with a little speech.

But it wasn't going to be that easy, he knew. There were currents running through this group, hints and whispers of something much greater than the murder of a single man. Davenport had felt this way not long before, sensed the curling of an indefinable evil, and not only had it almost gotten him killed, it had lost him his fiancee, who'd never been able to recover from the violence of the encounter. Sometime soon, unless he could stop it, there would be another death, and then another, and Davenport couldn't help wondering if maybe this time, the final death might not be his own. . . .

John Sandford has written extraordinary thrillers before, but nothing to top the startling twists and unrelenting suspense of Secret Prey.

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