Slate should have walked away. The job sounded simple. Army convoy through the desert, trucks loaded with hush-hush cargo. Easy pickings. And Slate needed the money, fast. Desperate men get stupid. 

Now the Feds are closing in. Slate’s holed up in a dead man’s house with a scheming dame, her green kid brother, and the old buddy who took a bullet when the job went south. Slate’s friend should be dead. But the little silver box clutched in his hand won’t let him. It’s spinning silver wires up under his skin, whispering secrets in his ear. The little silver box has big plans. 

That’s okay. Slate has plans of his own.

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A side-quel to Get Lucky, following a minor character from that book while tying up a few of its loose ends, The Hot White Light tips its hat to the grimy crime fiction of Jim Thompson.