In this explosive mystery thriller from the award-winning author of Rattlesnake Daddy, a disgraced intelligence agent tries to prove her innocence. Or die trying.
Hella Duran was âa good piece of gear,â according to her CO. She had a sock full of medals to prove it.
But then it all went terribly wrong.
Now, rejected by the Army, she goes home to Nebraska, only to find that her family and hometown reject her, too. Homeless, she realizes the only way back is to find out what really happened that day in Afghanistan.
But her search for the truth draws a relentless killer to Americaâs heartland, a man who'll stop at nothing to protect his secret. A soul-shattering truth that, if it gets out, will deal a death blow to democracy.
Can she uncover the truth? Or will it be buried with her and her family under a moonlit dune deep in the Nebraska Sandhills?
This is a book for readers who loved Those Who Wish Me Dead, Winterâs Bone, and Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
The Last of Her is a revision of a book previously published as All Done with Dying.
In this explosive mystery thriller from the award-winning author of Rattlesnake Daddy, a disgraced intelligence agent tries to prove her innocence. Or die trying.
Hella Duran was âa good piece of gear,â according to her CO. She had a sock full of medals to prove it.
But then it all went terribly wrong.
Now, rejected by the Army, she goes home to Nebraska, only to find that her family and hometown reject her, too. Homeless, she realizes the only way back is to find out what really happened that day in Afghanistan.
But her search for the truth draws a relentless killer to Americaâs heartland, a man who'll stop at nothing to protect his secret. A soul-shattering truth that, if it gets out, will deal a death blow to democracy.
Can she uncover the truth? Or will it be buried with her and her family under a moonlit dune deep in the Nebraska Sandhills?
This is a book for readers who loved Those Who Wish Me Dead, Winterâs Bone, and Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
The Last of Her is a revision of a book previously published as All Done with Dying.
Hella. It was the only name she answered to. Sheâd been given the name one day during her vacation in the Ozarks, at Fort Leonard Wood. Back in boot camp. She and the other recruits had just finished small arms training, releasing the magazines on their M9s and racking the slides, ejecting the chamber rounds, then locking the slides.
âRemember, people!â the master gunner had said. âYou want a click, not a boom!â
She eyeballed the chamber of her M9, closed the action, and dropped the hammer. Click.
After holstering their nines, they scrambled downrange to retrieve their paper targets from the hay bales. Except for Hella, who headed back to the formation area.
âHey, look!â a private called out, holding up his target. âI put one in Osamaâs chin!â He had a tight vee of a smile that bunched up his knobby cheeks in delight. His name was Monroe, she remembered, but the other guys called him âTR.â
Without a glance at him, the soldier in the next lane said, âAnd all the rest into the hay bales behind him.â
âYeah?â Monroe said, turning to watch Hella leave the range. âWell, looks like some people shot so bad theyâre not even collecting their paper!â
He pulled her target. A single hole in the targetâs forehead and one in the center of the chest.
Only two holes.
Except the chest hole was four inches in diameter. Sheâd shot out the center ring of the target as if sheâd hit it with an RPG round.
âHoly crap!â Monroe said as he brought her target to the sergeant. âSheâs one lucky bââ
âRecruit!â the master gunner called out. Hella froze. Somehow she knew he wasnât talking to Monroe. âYes, Master Gunner?â
He had a lean, lined face and thoughtful eyes. He held her target wide, inspecting it for stray holes, found none, said, âFrom now on you clear your own target.â
âYes, Master Gunner.â She took a step, his voice stopping her again.
âAnd unless you want us to call you âCenter-Ring Sallyâ from now on, youâre going to have to tell us what they call you.â
She turned to him now. âSir?â
âYour nickname. What you go by.â
She muttered, âThey mostly call me âHelen,â Master Gunner,â though her mother and grandfather called her Helai and some of the guys at school had called her The Girl, Sugar Tits, and sometimes Hey, Bitch.
âHelen?â the man said. âHelen will not do, recruit. No Helen ever shot the shit out of a ten-ring like this. From now on youâll be known as Hella. As in âThis is hella fine shooting.â We clear?â
The name came to her like a lost dog finding its way home. It felt as though sheâd never had another name.
âI say again,â the master gunner said, âare we clear?â
âClear, Master Gunner.â
âWhereâd you learn to shoot like this anyway?â
âMy grandpa, sir.â
The sergeant nodded and pursed his thin lips. Heâd seen it before. âEx-military.â
âNo, sir. Mean Nebraska rancher.â
OK, not what heâd expected. âWell, he was a good teacher.â
And now she couldnât stop talking. âHam isnât so much a teacher as a threatener. In summer, he doesnât let me come in to supper until I shoot all the snakes off the bushes. Where I live, they like to climb up there and sun themselves. Paper targetâs got nothing on an angry massasauga, Master Gunner.â
âA what?â
âPrairie rattler, sir.â
âWhere in Godâs big greenie are you from, recruit?â
âThe Sandhills, sir.â
âThe where?â
âThe moon, sir.â
She floated for the rest of the day. She had a name. The only name sheâd ever truly felt was hers. And sheâd earned it. Later, walking across the compound, sheâd passed Monroe, the knobby-faced private from the shooting range. He called out to her, the first to use her new name: âHey, Hella! How âbout a little horizontal R&R?â
She ignored him, kept walking. He was only messing with her. Chin music. No big thing.
But then he came up behind her and spun her by the shoulder. Monroe was a thin guy with a pale, papery face. He growled, âIâm talking to you, breech bunny.â His gray lips bent into a vee as he grabbed a breast in each hand. âNow ainât this some kind of fun?â
Hella couldnât believe it. Had he slept through both gunnery and hand-to-hand combat training? She grabbed one of his biceps in each hand, planting a thumb at the base of each, then pressed. Hard. With a sharp insuck of air, he dropped to his knees. She kept pressing, rolling him onto his back, his breath gone now, his eyes filled with tears, a choking cry in his throat. Only then did she let go, but not before lecturing him. âVictory through skills, man! Donât forget!â
As she walked away, he yelled, âWhat are you, some kind of dyke?â
Without looking back, she sang out, âTo you, I am!â
It was the last problem she had with him, in fact the last problem any woman in their platoon had with any of the men, though itâs true the men had all decided, âBoys, weâre serving with a bunch of rug munchers!â Let them think that. Maybe now they wouldnât try to pass the female recruits around like a bowl of nachos.
No biggie, she decided. From early on, sheâd come to believe that men were minuses in the brain department. What was that little rattle inside a manâs skull? A tiny stale peanut wobbling on the head of a pin. Just like high school. Back then, in the twisted logic of the peanut brain, she was a slut because she wouldnât put out, wouldnât, in fact, become the slut she was accused of being.
Hella Duran is a tough, hard woman who devotes her life to the Army on September 11, 2001. What then follows is a story of an excellent woman soldier in Afghanistan, helping to fight for her country. The thing that I loved the most about this story was its focus on women veterans, the lack of support veterans get after serving, and the intricacies of our military system. The way Brent Spencer writes about these topics makes me think he has experienced these things first hand, and he does a great job of writing from a female perspective.
Another thing I loved is that Hella is a certified bad ass. Over and over we see her getting screwed up, dragged through the mud, physically beaten up, and she never gives up. This felt very much like the female Jason Bourne this world needs.
However, the thing that lowered my overall enjoyment of reading this was the intensity of how unrealistic the events in this story were. Hella is only human, and what she experiences in the last bit of this book would have destroyed her several times over. These scenes also felt very dragged out, and unnecessarily long. How many times does one need to see her accept her mortality to ultimately then push through and keep fighting?
Overall, Brent Spencer has an excellent writing style and voice. I would read more of his work. Unfortunately, I believe that The Last of Her could use some serious editing. The timeline was messy, character choices were sometimes confusing, and a lot of the characters lacked basic empathy and general compassion; this left me feeling unattached to a majority of the characters. This book ended up not being for me, but I believe people who love political thrillers, stories about war, and military dramas would enjoy this book.