The Never Game

The Never Game

by Jeffery Deaver

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Overview

A New York Times Book Review Top 10 Crime Novel of the Year

From the bestselling and award-winning master of suspense, the first novel in a thrilling new series, introducing Colter Shaw.


"You have been abandoned."

A young woman has gone missing in Silicon Valley and her father has hired Colter Shaw to find her. The son of a survivalist family, Shaw is an expert tracker. Now he makes a living as a "reward seeker," traveling the country to help police solve crimes and private citizens locate missing persons. But what seems a simple investigation quickly thrusts him into the dark heart of America's tech hub and the cutthroat billion-dollar video-gaming industry.

"Escape if you can."

When another victim is kidnapped, the clues point to one video game with a troubled past—The Whispering Man. In that game, the player has to survive after being abandoned in an inhospitable setting with five random objects. Is a madman bringing the game to life?

"Or die with dignity."

Shaw finds himself caught in a cat-and-mouse game, risking his own life to save the victims even as he pursues the kidnapper across both Silicon Valley and the dark 'net. Encountering eccentric game designers, trigger-happy gamers and ruthless tech titans, he soon learns that he isn't the only one on the hunt: someone is on his trail and closing fast.

The Never Game proves once more why "Deaver is a genius when it comes to manipulation and deception" (Associated Press).

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

Praise for The Never Game

“Jeffery Deaver creates insanely devious plots calculated to make your head explode…[The Never Game] dazzles with its crafty twists and turns.”—The New York Times Book Review

“Deaver introduces a fascinating new character in the methodical Colter Shaw. Nothing is predictable in the case, and like a curvy mountain road, the twists are intense. Hopefully more stories with Shaw are in the future.”—Associated Press

“[A] superb series launch from Thriller Award winner Deaver…Fans of twisty suspense that pushes the envelope of plausibility without inviting disbelief will be enthralled.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“The story is—this will come as no surprise to Deaver’s many fans—full of twists and right-angle turns, and a second Colter Shaw novel feels not just inevitable but mandatory. Deaver is a hit maker who always delivers the goods.”—Booklist

“Award-winning author Deaver  introduces an engaging new protagonist with staying power. Colter’s backstory is fascinating and his persona as much a part of the tale as the crime itself. This is a sure bet for fans of suspense and will find a home with those who like their protagonists to be a central part of the mystery.”—Library Journal

“As always Deaver gets you in his stealthy grip on page one, and then takes you on a wild and inventive ride...this time with new star character Colter Shaw.  No one in the world does this kind of thing better than Deaver.”—Lee Child

“With a twisty plot, riveting characters, and relentless suspense, The Never Game fires on every single cylinder. Readers will delight in this compelling new character from one of the finest suspense writers in the field. I always look forward to the new Deaver, but this one tops them all.”—Karin Slaughter

“Lightning-fast and loaded with twists, The Never Game is a thrill a minute from one of the best.  Don’t miss it.”—Harlan Coben

“Jeffery Deaver is a one of our most exciting storytellers, and The Never Game pulls off the remarkable feat of intertwining a devilish plot with unforgettable characters, fascinating disquisitions with propulsive action, every element conspiring to make it almost impossible to not turn the page. I absolutely loved it.”—Chris Pavone

“Jeffery Deaver knows how to deliver exactly what a reader wants. He has a gift for place and character and, here, the tension ratchets up, page by page, as we follow the exploits of a new hero. Crisply plotted and fraught with danger.”—Steve Berry

“Terrific writing, vivid and raw, Deaver grips from the very first line and never lets up. He is, hands-down, one of the finest thriller writers of our time.”—Peter James

“The Never Game is the very definition of a page-turner.”—Ian Rankin

“Grabbing you from the first page, Jeffery Deaver crafts a devilish plot that unfolds with breakneck speed. An excellent start to a new series, Colter Shaw has comfortably nestled onto the bench with Lincoln Rhyme and Kathryn Dance - one of our best literary puppet-masters at the end of all their strings.”—J.D. Barker

“Jeffery Deaver scores yet again with a fascinating new detective, Colter Shaw, and a plot as full of thrills and twists and turns as you would expect from him. With The Never Game you know you are in the hands of a master. But be warned—don’t start this too late in the evening because sleep would be an annoying interruption once you’ve started reading!”—Peter Robinson

“[The Never Game] has film adaptation written all over it.”—Bookpage

“I loved The Never Game and I particularly loved its hero, Colter Shaw, the original and fascinating investigator at the heart of the book. It’s a twisty 'keep you up all night'page-turner of a book with a wonderfully human core. A fantastic read.”—Kate Hamer, author of The Girl in the Red Coat

The New York Times Book Review - Marilyn Stasio

Got game? Jeffery Deaver creates insanely devious plots calculated to make your head explode. In The Never Game, he applies that skill to the video gaming world, with its arcane rituals, hypnotic moves and obsessive players…Deaver's cunning plot dazzles with its crafty twists and turns, but when the fun gets really nasty, it's comforting to repeat this mantra: It's only a game…It's only a game…It's only…

Publishers Weekly

★ 03/18/2019

Colter Shaw, the hero of this superb series launch from Thriller Award winner Deaver (the Lincoln Rhyme series), travels around the U.S. in an RV, earning rewards for finding missing persons, fugitives, and “suspects who have not yet been identified or located.” In the prologue, Colter attempts to rescue a kidnapped pregnant woman, Elizabeth Chabelle, from a sinking fishing vessel off the California coast. With Elizabeth’s fate in doubt, the action moves back two days, when Colter goes looking for 19-year-old Sophie Mulliner in Silicon Valley. Sophie vanished after an argument with her father, who was unable to get the authorities to take his fear that she was attacked and kidnapped seriously. Colter does, and manages to locate suggestive evidence—Sophie’s cell phone, a bloodied rock, and a plastic shard that may have come from the teen’s bike. That investigation proves to be just the tip of the iceberg after the person who abducted Sophie strikes again and Colter finds parallels between the crimes and a creepy video game called The Whispering Man. Fans of twisty suspense that pushes the envelope of plausibility without inviting disbelief will be enthralled. Author tour. Agent: Deborah Schneider, Gelfman Schneider Literary. (May)

Library Journal

05/01/2019

Colter Shaw is a "rewardist"—a civilian who travels around the country finding missing persons and escaped fugitives for a living. He is uniquely qualified for such a job. Raised off the grid on his family's extensive compound, he spent his formative years hunting, tracking, and perfecting the art of survival. The story opens with Colter searching for a missing college student in Silicon Valley whom he eventually finds imprisoned in an abandoned warehouse seemingly left to die. No sooner has he returned her to her family when another innocent in the area is abducted. Colter begins to connect these kidnappings to the popular video game The Whispering Man, and the case veers off into the unusual and extremely profitable world of gaming. A race against the clock ensues as Colter pits his old-school tracking and detecting skills against the high-tech tools of a worthy antagonist. Award-winning author Deaver ("Lincoln Rhyme" series) introduces an engaging new protagonist with staying power. Colter's backstory is fascinating and his persona as much a part of the tale as the crime itself. VERDICT This is a sure bet for fans of suspense and will find a home with those who like their protagonists to be a central part of the mystery. [See Prepub Alert, 11/12/18.]—Amy Nolan, St. Joseph, MI

Kirkus Reviews

2019-03-03

Veteran thrillmeister Deaver kicks off a new series about a man who collects rewards for a living.

Don't call Colter Shaw a private eye, or a freelance investigator, or even a soldier of fortune, though his job includes elements of all three. The son of a cranky survivalist who died years ago amid suspicious circumstances, light-footed Shaw has returned close to his childhood home in the Bay Area in the hope of claiming the $10,000 Frank Mulliner is offering for the return of his daughter, Sophie, a college student who stormed out after the two of them fought over the FOR SALE sign outside his house and hasn't been seen since. Shaw, who has the cool-headed but irritating habit of calculating the numerical odds on every possibility, thinks there's a 60 percent chance that Sophie's dead, "murdered by a serial killer, rapist or a gang wannabe." Even though he accepts rewards only for rescues, not recoveries, he begins sorting through the scant evidence, quickly gets a hot lead about Sophie's fate, and just as quickly realizes that Detective Dan Wiley, of the Joint Major Crimes Task Force, should have followed exactly the same clues days ago. (The rapidly shifting relations between Shaw and the law, in fact, are a particular high point here.) The day after Shaw's search for Sophie comes to a violent end, he's already, in the time-honored manner of Deaver's bulldog heroes (The Burial Hour, 2017, etc.), on the trail of a second abduction, that of LGBT activist Henry Thompson. Readers who haven't skipped the prologue will know that still a third kidnap victim, very pregnant Elizabeth Chabelle, will need to be rescued the following day. Thompson's grief-stricken partner, Brian Byrd, tells Shaw, "It's like this guy's playing some goddamn sick game"—a remark Deaver's fans will know to give just as much weight as Shaw himself does.

For once Deaver takes more effort to establish his hero's bona fides than to give him a compelling and logical plot. The results are subpar for this initial installment but more encouraging for the promised series.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780525535959
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date: 03/24/2020
Series: Colter Shaw Series , #1
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 544
Sales rank: 21,745
Product dimensions: 4.10(w) x 7.50(h) x 1.50(d)

Related Subjects

Read an Excerpt

1.

He asked the woman to repeat herself.

"That thing they throw," she said. "With the burning rag in it?"

"They throw?"

"Like at riots? A bottle. You see 'em on TV."

Colter Shaw said, "A Molotov cocktail."

"Yeah, yeah," Carole was saying. "I think he had one."

"Was it burning? The rag part?"

"No. But, you know . . ."

Carole's voice was raspy, though she wasn't presently a smoker that Shaw had seen or smelled. She was draped with a green dress of limp cloth. Her natural expression seemed to be one of concern yet this morning it was more troubled than usual. "He was over there." She pointed.

The Oak View RV park, one of the scruffier that Shaw had stayed at, was ringed with trees, mostly scrub oak and pine, some dead, all dry. And thick. Hard to see "over there."

"You called the police?"

A pause. "No, if it wasn't a . . . What again?"

"Molotov cocktail."

"If he didn't have one, it'd be embarrassing. And I call the cops enough, for stuff here."

Shaw knew dozens of RV park owners around the country. Mostly couples, as it's a good gig for middle-aged marrieds. If there's just a single manager, like Carole, it was usually a she, and she was usually a widow. They tend to dial 911 for camp disputes more than their late husbands, men who often went about armed.

"On the other hand," she continued, "fire. Here. You know."

California was a tinderbox, as anybody who watched the news knew. You think of state parks and suburbs and agricultural fields; cities, though, weren't immune to nature's conflagrations. Shaw believed that one of the worst brush fires in the history of the state had been in Oakland, very near where they were now standing.

"Sometimes, I kick somebody out, they say they'll come back and get even." She added with astonishment, "Even when I caught them stealing forty amps when they paid for twenty. Some people. Really."

He asked, "And you want me to . . .? "

"I don't know, Mr. Shaw. Just take a look. Could you take a look? Please?"

Shaw squinted through the flora and saw, maybe, motion that wasn't from the breeze. A person walking slowly? And if so did the pace mean that he was moving tactically-that is, with some mischief in mind?

Carole's eyes were on Shaw, regarding him in a particular way. This happened with some frequency. He was a civilian, never said he was anything else. But he had cop fiber.

Shaw circled to the front of the park and walked on the cracked and uneven sidewalk, then on the grassy shoulder of the unbusy road in this unbusy corner of the city.

Yes, there was a man, in dark jacket, blue jeans and black stocking cap, some twenty yards ahead. He wore boots that could be helpful on a hike through brush and equally helpful to stomp an opponent. And, yes, either he was armed with a gas bomb or he was holding a Corona and a napkin in the same hand. Early for a beer some places; not in this part of Oakland.

Shaw slipped off the shoulder into the foliage to his right and walked more quickly, though with care to stay silent. The needles that had pitched from branch to ground in droves over the several past seasons made stealth easy.

Whoever this might be, vengeful lodger or not, he was well past Carole's cabin. So she wasn't at personal risk. But Shaw wasn't giving the guy a pass just yet.

This felt wrong.

Now the fellow was approaching the part of the RV camp where Shaw's Winnebago was parked, among many other RVs.

Shaw had more than a passing interest in Molotov cocktails. Several years ago, he'd been searching for a fugitive on the lam for an oil scam in Oklahoma when somebody pitched a gas bomb through the windshield of his camper. The craft burned to the rims in twenty minutes, personal effects saved in the nick. Shaw still carried a distinct and unpleasant scent memory of the air surrounding the metal carcass.

The percentage likelihood that Shaw would be attacked by two Russian-inspired weapons in one lifetime, let alone within several years, had to be pretty small. Shaw put it at five percent. A figure made smaller yet by the fact that he had come to the Oakland/Berkeley area on personal business, not to ruin a fugitive's life. And while Shaw had committed a transgression yesterday, the remedy for that offense would've been a verbal lashing, a confrontation with a beefy security guard or, at worst, the police. Not a firebomb.

Shaw was now only ten yards behind the man, who was scanning the area-looking into the trailer park as well as up and down the road and at several abandoned buildings across it.

The man was trim, white, with a clean-shaven face. He was about five-eight, Shaw estimated. The man's facial skin was pocked. Under the cap, his brown hair seemed to be cut short. There was a rodent-like quality to his appearance and his movements. In the man's posture Shaw read ex-military. Shaw himself was not, though he had friends and acquaintances who were, and he had spent a portion of his youth in quasi-military training, quizzed regularly on the updated U.S. Army Survival Manual FM 21-76.

And the man was indeed holding a Molotov cocktail. The napkin was stuffed into the neck of the bottle and Shaw could smell gasoline.

Shaw was familiar with revolver, semiautomatic pistol, semiautomatic rifle, bolt-action rifle, shotgun, bow and arrow and slingshot. And he had more than a passing interest in blades. He now withdrew from his pocket the weapon he used most frequently: his mobile, presently an iPhone. He punched some keys and, when the police and fire emergency dispatcher answered, whispered his location and what he was looking at. Then he hung up. He typed a few more commands and slipped the cell into the breast pocket of his dark plaid sport coat. He thought, with chagrin, about his transgression yesterday and wondered if the call would somehow allow the authorities to identify and collar him. This seemed unlikely.

Shaw had decided to wait for the arrival of the pros. Which is when a cigarette lighter appeared in the man's hand with no cigarette to accompany it.

That settled the matter.

Shaw stepped from the bushes and closed the distance. "Morning."

The man turned quickly, crouching. Shaw noted that he didn't reach for his belt or inside pocket. This might have been because he didn't want to drop the gas bomb-or because he wasn't armed. Or because he was a pro and knew exactly where his gun was and how many seconds it would take to draw and aim and fire.

Narrow eyes, set in a narrow face, looked Shaw over for guns and then for less weaponly threats. He took in the black jeans, black Ecco shoes, gray-striped shirt and the jacket. Short-cut blond hair lying close to his head. Rodent would have thought "cop," yet the moment for a badge to appear and an official voice to ask for ID or some such had come and gone. He had concluded that Shaw was civilian. And not one to be taken lightly. Shaw was about one-eighty, just shy of six feet, and broad, with strappy muscle. A small scar on cheek, a larger one on neck. He didn't run as a hobby but he rock-climbed and had been a champion wrestler in college. He was in scrapping shape. His eyes held Rodent's, as if tethered.

"Hey there." A tenor voice, taut like a stretched fence wire. Midwest, maybe from Minnesota.

Shaw glanced down at the bottle.

"Could be pee, not gas, don'tcha know." The man's smile was as tight as the timbre of his voice. And it was a lie.

Wondering if this'd turn into a fight. Last thing Shaw wanted. He hadn't hit anybody for a long time. Didn't like it. Liked getting hit even less.

"What's that about?" Shaw nodded at the bottle in the man's hand.

"Who are you?"

"A tourist."

"Tourist." The man debated, eyes rising and falling. "I live up the street. There's some rats in an abandoned lot next to me. I was going to burn them out."

"California? The driest June in ten years?"

Shaw had made that up but who'd know?

Not that it mattered. There was no lot and there were no rats, though the fact that the man had brought it up suggested he might have burned rats alive in the past. This was where dislike joined caution.

Never let an animal suffer . . .

Then Shaw was looking over the man's shoulder-toward the spot he'd been headed for. A vacant lot, true, though it was next to an old commercial building. Not the imaginary vacant lot next to the man's imaginary home.

The man's eyes narrowed further, reacting to the bleat of the approaching police car.

"Really?" Rodent grimaced, meaning: You had to call it in? He muttered something else too.

Shaw said, "Set it down. Now."

The man didn't. He calmly lit the gasoline-soaked rag, which churned with fire, and like a pitcher aiming for a strike, eyed Shaw keenly and flung the bomb his way.

2.

Molotov cocktails don't blow up-there's not enough oxygen inside a sealed bottle. The burning rag fuse ignites the spreading gas when the glass shatters.

Which this one did, efficiently and with modest spectacle.

A silent fireball rose about four feet in the air.

Shaw dodged the risk of singe and Carole ran, screaming, to her cabin. Shaw debated pursuit, but the crescent of grass on the shoulder was burning crisply and getting slowly closer to tall shrubs. He vaulted the chain-link, sprinted to his RV and retrieved one of the extinguishers. He returned, pulled the pin and blasted a whoosh of white chemical on the fire, taming it.

"Oh my God. Are you okay, Mr. Shaw?" Carole was plodding up, carrying an extinguisher of her own, a smaller, one-hand canister. Hers wasn't really necessary, yet she too pulled the grenade pin and let fly, because, of course, it's always fun. Especially when the blaze is nearly out.

After a minute or two, Shaw bent down and, with his palm, touched every square inch of the scorch, as he'd learned years ago.

Never leave a campfire without patting the ash.

A pointless glance after Rodent. He'd vanished.

A patrol car braked to a stop. Oakland PD. A large black officer, with a glistening, shaved head, climbed out, holding a fire extinguisher of his own. Of the three, his was the smallest. He surveyed the embers and the char and replaced the red tank under his front passenger seat.

Officer L. Addison, according to the name badge, turned to Shaw. The six-foot-five cop might get confessions just by walking up to a suspect and leaning down.

"You were the one called?" Addison asked.

"I did." Shaw explained that the person who'd thrown the cocktail had just run off. "That way." He gestured down the weedy street, handfuls of trash every few yards. "He's probably not too far away."

The cop asked what had happened.

Shaw told him. Carole supplemented, with the somewhat gratuitous addendum about the difficulty of being a widow running a business by herself. "People take advantage. I push back. I have to. You would. Sometimes they threaten you." Shaw noted she'd glanced at Addison's left hand, where no jewelry resided.

Addison cocked his head toward the Motorola mounted on his shoulder and gave Central a summary, with the description from Shaw. It had been quite detailed but he'd left out the rodent-like aspect, that being largely a matter of opinion.

Addison's eyes turned back to Shaw. "Could I see some ID?"

There are conflicting theories about what to do when the law asks for ID and you're not a suspect. This was a question Shaw often confronted, since he frequently found himself at crime scenes and places where investigations were under way. You generally didn't have to show anybody anything. In that case, you'd have to be prepared to endure the consequences of your lack of cooperation. Time is one of the world's most valuable commodities, and being pissy with cops guarantees you're going to lose big chunks of it.

His hesitation at the moment, though, was not on principle but because he was worried that his motorbike's license had been spotted at the site of yesterday's transgression. His name might therefore be in the system.

Then he recalled that they'd know him already; he'd called 911 from his personal phone, not a burner. So Shaw handed over the license.

Addison took a picture of it with his phone and uploaded the details somewhere.

Shaw noted that he didn't do the same with Carole, even though it was her trailer court that had tangentially been involved. Some minor profiling there, Shaw reflected: stranger in town versus a local. This he kept to himself.

Addison looked at the results. He eyed Shaw closely.

A reckoning for yesterday's transgression? Shaw now chose to call it what it was: theft. There's no escape in euphemism.

Apparently the gods of justice were not a posse after him today. Addison handed the license back. "Did you recognize him?" he asked Carole.

"No, sir, but it's hard to keep track. We get a lot of people here. Lowest rates in the area."

"Did he throw the bottle at you, Mr. Shaw?"

"Toward. A diversion, not assault. So he could get away."

This gave the officer a moment's pause.

Carole blurted: "I looked it up online. Molotov secretly worked for Putin."

Both men looked at her quizzically. Then Shaw continued with the officer: "And to burn the evidence. Prints and DNA on the glass."

Addison remained thoughtful. He was the sort, common among police, whose lack of body language speaks volumes. He'd be processing why Shaw had considered forensics.

The officer said, "If he wasn't here to cause you any problem, ma'am, what was he here about, you think?"

Before Carole answered, Shaw said, "That." He pointed across the street to the vacant lot he'd noted earlier.

The trio walked toward it.

The trailer camp was in a scruffy commercial neighborhood, off Route 24, where tourists could stage before a trip to steep Grizzly Peak or neighboring Berkeley. This trash-filled, weedy lot was separated from the property behind it by an old wooden fence about eight feet tall. Local artists had used it as a canvas for some very talented artwork: portraits of Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X and two other men Shaw didn't recognize. As the three got closer, Shaw saw the names printed below the pictures: Bobby Seale and Huey P. Newton, who'd been connected with the Black Panther Party. Shaw remembered cold nights in his television-free childhood home. Ashton would read to Colter and his siblings, mostly American history. Much of it about alternative forms of governance. The Black Panthers had figured in several lectures.

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