A corrupt cop. A dead drug dealer. A cache of heroin. A city on fire. A rash of hard-boiled staccato sentences written. Just. Like This. If any of those elements sound appealing, then you immediately pick up a copy of The Force , Don Winslow’s testosterone-fuelled rampage the filthiest version of New York you will encounter, save a time-machine trip back to 42nd Street circa 1977. Junkies, gangsters, killers and crooks – they all mingle merrily in Winslow’s vision of the Big Apple, rotten to the core easy enough to take a bite of all the same. It’s nostalgia crossed with nausea and delivered with such a furious blast of intimacy – this is Winslow’s city, yours, and if you think you know it better then him, you can to hell – that it cannot help but suck in even the most jaded crime reader. Take this passage The Force ’s opening pages, where Winslow makes his messy relationship with the city or at least his vision of a 21st-century New York, abundantly clear: “A strong wind finds its way every crack, into the project stairwells, the tenement heroin mills, the […]