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![Iron House: A Novel by [John Hart]](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/41MJVohiX6L._SY346_.jpg)
Iron House: A Novel Kindle Edition
John Hart (Author) Find all the books, read about the author, and more. See search results for this author |
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An old man is dying.
When the old man is dead they will come for him.
And they will come for her, to make him hurt.
John Hart has written three New York Times bestsellers and won an unprecedented two back-to-back Edgar Awards. His books have been called "masterful" (Jeffery Deaver) and "gripping" (People) with "Grisham-style intrigue and Turow-style brooding" (The New York Times). Now he delivers his fourth novel—a gut-wrenching, heart-stopping thriller no reader will soon forget.
HE WOULD GO TO HELL
At the Iron Mountain Home for Boys, there was nothing but time. Time to burn and time to kill, time for two young orphans to learn that life isn't won without a fight. Julian survives only because his older brother, Michael, is fearless and fiercely protective. When tensions boil over and a boy is brutally killed, there is only one sacrifice left for Michael to make: He flees the orphanage and takes the blame with him.
TO KEEP HER SAFE
For two decades, Michael has been an enforcer in New York's world of organized crime, a prince of the streets so widely feared he rarely has to kill anymore. But the life he's fought to build unravels when he meets Elena, a beautiful innocent who teaches him the meaning and power of love. He wants a fresh start with her, the chance to start a family like the one he and Julian never had. But someone else is holding the strings. And escape is not that easy. . . .
GO TO HELL, AND COME BACK BURNING
The mob boss who gave Michael his blessing to begin anew is dying, and his son is intent on making Michael pay for his betrayal. Determined to protect the ones he loves, Michael spirits Elena—who knows nothing of his past crimes, or the peril he's laid at her door— back to North Carolina, to the place he was born and the brother he lost so long ago. There, he will encounter a whole new level of danger, a thicket of deceit and violence that leads inexorably to the one place he's been running from his whole life: Iron House.
Now with an excerpt of John Hart's next book The Hush, available in February 2018.
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherThomas Dunne Books
- Publication dateJuly 12, 2011
- File size1481 KB
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Editorial Reviews
Review
"It isn’t as if Hart’s career needed jump-starting. His first three stand-alone thrillers have been greeted by an ever-growing crescendo of praise, including two Edgar Awards. Definitely not the kind of writer who needs a breakthrough book. And, yet, Iron House lifts Hart to an altogether new level of excellence…. The present-time plot—disaffected Mob hit man on the run, trying to carve a new life without endangering those he loves—makes a superb thriller on its own (steadily building tension, magnificently choreographed fight scenes, including a High Noon–like finale), but it’s what Hart does with the backstory that gives the novel its beyond-genre depth. Like the great Peter Hoeg in Borderliners (1994), Hart uses the familiar story of mistreatment in an orphanage as a way into the inner lives of his characters, and the blind fear, abject confusion, and yearning for love he finds there are both heartbreaking and curiously hopeful, in an almost postapocalyptic way. An unforgettable novel from a master of popular fiction.” –Booklist, starred review
"This rich, impressive contemporary thriller from two-time Edgar-winner Hart (The Last Child) focuses on two brothers, Michael and Julian, both raised and abused at the Iron House of the title, an orphanage in the mountains of North Carolina.... Hart deftly interweaves a complex family history story with Stevan's intense, bloody quest for vengeance.... [The book's] powerful themes and its beautiful pr...
About the Author
Review
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Michael woke reaching for the gun he no longer kept by the bed. His fingers slid over bare wood, and he sat, instantly awake, his skin slick with sweat and the memory of ice. There was no movement in the apartment, no sounds beyond those of the city. The woman beside him rustled in the warm tangle of their sheets, and her hand found the hard curve of his shoulder. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Weak light filtered through the curtains, the open window, and he kept his body turned so she could not see the boy that lingered in his eyes, the stain of hurt so deep she had yet to find it. “Bad dream, baby.” His fingers found the swell of her hip. “Go back to sleep.”
“You sure?” The pillow muffled her voice.
“Of course.”
“I love you,” she said, and was gone.
Michael watched her fade, and then put his feet on the floor. He touched old scars left by frostbite, the dead places on his palms and at the tips of three fingers. He rubbed his hands together, and then tilted them in the light. The palms were broad, the fingers long and tapered.
A pianist’s fingers, Elena often said.
Thick and scarred. He would shake his head.
The hands of an artist …
She liked to say things like that, the talk of an optimist and dreamer. Michael flexed his fingers, and heard the sound of her words in his head, the lilt of her accent, and for that instant he felt ashamed. Many things had come through the use of his hands, but creation was not one of them. He stood and rolled his shoulders as New York solidified around him: Elena’s apartment, the smell of recent rain on hot pavement. He pulled on jeans and glanced at the open window. Night was a dark hand on the city, its skin not yet veined with gray. He looked down on Elena’s face and found it pale in the gloom, soft and creased with sleep. She lay unmoving in the bed they shared, her shoulder warm when he laid two fingers on it. Outside, the city grew as dark and still as it ever got, the quiet pause at the bottom of a breath. He moved hair from her face, and at her temple saw the thread of her life, steady and strong. He wanted to touch that pulse, to assure himself of its strength and endurance. An old man was dying, and when he was dead, they would come for Michael; and they would come for her, to make Michael hurt. Elena knew none of this, neither the things of which he was capable nor the danger he’d brought to her door; but Michael would go to hell to keep her safe.
Go to hell.
Come back burning.
That was truth. That was real.
He studied her face in the dim light, the smooth skin and full, parted lips, the black hair that ran in waves to her shoulder then broke like surf. She shifted in her sleep, and Michael felt a moment’s bleakness stir, a familiar certainty that it would get worse before it got better. Since he was a boy, violence had trailed him like a scent. Now, it had found her, too. For an instant, he thought again that he should leave her, just take his problems and disappear. He’d tried before, of course, not one time but a hundred. Yet, with each failed attempt, the certainty had only grown stronger.
He could not live without her.
He could make it work.
Michael dragged fingers through his hair, and wondered again how it had come to this place. How had things gone so sour so fast?
Moving to the window, he flicked the curtain enough to see down into the alley. The car was still there, black and low in the far shadows. Distant lamplight starred the windshield so that he could not see past the glass, but he knew at least one of the men who sat inside. His presence was a threat, and it angered Michael beyond words. He’d made his bargain with the old man, and expected the deal to be honored. Words still mattered to Michael.
Promises.
Rules of conduct.
He looked a last time at Elena, then eased two silenced forty-fives from the place he kept them hidden. They were cool to the touch, familiar in his hands. He checked the loads and a frown bent his face as he turned from the woman he loved. He was supposed to be beyond this, supposed to be free. He thought once more of the man in the black car.
Eight days ago they’d been brothers.
Michael was at the door and almost out when Elena said his name. He paused for a moment, then lay the guns down and slipped back into the bedroom. She’d shifted onto her back and one arm was half-raised. “Michael…”
The name was a smile on her lips, and he wondered if she was dreaming. She shifted and a warm-bed smell rose in the room. It carried the scent of her skin and of clean hair. It was the smell of home and the future, the promise of a different life. Michael hesitated, then took her hand as she said, “Come back to bed.”
He looked into the kitchen, where he’d left the guns next to a can of yellow paint. Her voice had come as a whisper, and he knew that if he left, she would ride the slope back into sleep and not remember. He could slip outside and do the thing he did well. Killing them would likely escalate matters, and others would certainly take their place; but maybe the message would serve its purpose.
And maybe not.
His gaze traveled from Elena to the window. The night outside was just as black, its skin stretched tight. The car was still there, as it had been the night before and the night before that. They would not move against him until the old man died, but they wanted to rattle him. They wanted to push, and every part of Michael wanted to push back. He took a slow breath and thought of the man he desired to be. Elena was here, beside him, and violence had no place in the world they wished to make. But he was a realist first, so that when her fingers flexed on his, his thoughts were not just of hope, but of retribution and deterrence. An old poem rose in his mind.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood …
Michael stood at a crossroad, and it all came down to choice. Go back to bed or pick up the guns. Elena or the alley. The future or the past.
Elena squeezed his hand again. “Love me, baby,” she said, and that’s what he chose.
Life over death.
The road less traveled.
* * *
The New York dawn came scorching hot. The guns were hidden and Elena still slept. Michael sat with his feet on the windowsill and stared down into the empty alleyway. They’d left at around five, backed from the alley and sounded a single blow of their horn as the sightlines collapsed. If their goal had been to wake or scare him, they’d failed miserably. He’d been out of the bed since three and felt great. Michael studied his fingertips, where flecks of yellow paint stained them.
“What are you smiling at, gorgeous?” Her voice surprised him and he turned. Elena sat up in bed, languorous, and pushed long, black hair from her face. The sheet fell to her waist and Michael put his feet on the floor, embarrassed to be caught in a moment of such open joy.
“Just thinking of something,” he said.
“Of me?”
“Of course.”
“Liar.”
She was smiling, skin still creased. Her back arched as she stretched, her small hands fisted white. “You want coffee?” Michael asked.
She fell back against the pillows, made a contented sound, and said, “You are a magnificent creature.”
“Give me a minute.” In the kitchen, Michael poured warm milk in a mug, then coffee. Half and half, the way she liked it. Café au lait. Very French. When he came back, he found her in one of his shirts, sleeves rolled loosely on her narrow arms. He handed her the coffee. “Good dreams?”
She nodded and a glint sparked in her eyes. “One in particular seemed very real.”
“Did it?”
She sank into the bed and made the same contented noise. “One of these days I’m actually going to wake up before you.”
Michael sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand on the arch of her foot. “Sure you will, baby.” Elena was a late sleeper, and Michael rarely managed more than five hours a night. Her climbing from bed before him was a near impossibility. He watched her sip coffee, and reminded himself to notice the small things about her: the clear polish she preferred on her nails, the length of her legs, the tiny scar on her cheek that was her skin’s only imperfection. She had black eyebrows, eyes that were brown but could look like honey in a certain light. She was lithe and strong, a beautiful woman in every respect, but that’s not what Michael admired most. Elena took joy in the most insignificant things: how it felt to slip between cool sheets or taste new foods, the moment’s anticipation each time she opened the door to step outside. She had faith that each moment would be finer than the last. She believed that people were good, which made her a dash of color in a world blown white.
She sipped again, and Michael saw the exact moment she noticed the paint on his hands. A small crease appeared between her brows. The cup came away from her lips. “Did you paint it already?”
She tried to sound angry but failed, and as he shrugged an answer to the question he could not keep the smile from touching every part of his face. She’d envisioned them painting it together—laughter, spilled pai... --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Product details
- ASIN : B004TLHPGI
- Publisher : Thomas Dunne Books; First edition (July 12, 2011)
- Publication date : July 12, 2011
- Language : English
- File size : 1481 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Print length : 433 pages
- Lending : Not Enabled
- Best Sellers Rank: #120,920 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #1,514 in Organized Crime Thrillers
- #1,623 in Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Literary Fiction
- #1,775 in Contemporary Literary Fiction
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

JOHN HART is the author of six New York Times bestsellers, THE KING OF LIES, DOWN RIVER, THE LAST CHILD,IRON HOUSE, REDEMPTION ROAD and THE HUSH. His seventh novel, THE UNWILLING, be will be released on February 2, 2021. The only author in history to win the best novel Edgar Award for consecutive novels, Hart has also won the Barry Award, the Southern Book Prize, the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award and the North Carolina Award for Literature. His novels have been translated into thirty language and can be found in over seventy countries. He works from home on a Virginia farm, where he lives with his wife, daughters and four dogs.
He can be found here:
Website: http://www.johnhartfiction.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/JohnHartAuthor
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/johnhartauthor
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/johnhartauthor/
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He introduces Iron House by admitting that he almost didn't make it through the writing of it.
It's perfectly understandable as Mr. Hart sets an extremely high bar for himself. There are moments a reader wonders if she can "live" through it, but she does as there's simply no stopping the read.. his plots are so incredibly intricate and almost convoluted one wonders at times where he's going, but he never fails at arriving, and I particularly enjoy his final sentences; they do more than "end" the book, they deliver hope. It's important because one becomes deeply involved with his characters; he doesn't spend much time describing physical characteristics, so the reader truly absorbs the characters almost by osmosis...
Not many writers can do that; it can make for a challenging read, but this writer challenges himself..
I loved Iron House...yes there were some difficult if not horrifying moments, and long journeys for the characters, but I can only say I loved it; I recommend it; it's just freaking brilliant.
Top reviews from other countries

Iron House begins well - it has mystery, love and suspense. An over arching sense of impending doom follows the story of Michael and Elena. She is an interesting love interest and underpins his motivations well. The reveal of his past and the Iron House is neatley played - so to the introduction of the main support cast, all well delivered and sensibly written characters. With the possible exception of Stevan - we are left to assume too much about him and maybe we needed to read a little more of his personality. However, after the first 15 or so chapters the book grinds to something of a halt - as the intricacies of the story are developed sadly the pace drops to a crawl - adding in alot of driving and chatting didn't make up for it. The middle third is the books problem, as Elena makes way for another strong female charatcer so the relationships all change - it's like being back at square one, I wasn't really convince by the "investigation" element as it seemed a little too hackneyed way of getting to the truth. The book then sprngs back to life for the final 3rd, though the action climax is a smidge of an anti-climax in places.I'd liked to have seen a little more of the great Michael in action.
It's an interesting and well produced book, which drags in the middle. The subtext of mother's and sons, nature vs nurture is not over played, but neither is it subtle. Overall the it had enough to keep me and most readers going but given the intricacies the twist and 'reveal' wasn't enough to truly drop the jaw. I shall read more from Hart, his accomplished style and character development are worthy of further investment.



A very well constructed book, lots of exciting twists and turns, however the torture in the latter half of the story I felt was totally unnecessary.
Only for this reason am I giving this book four stars.
Will definitely read more by this author.
