Patriot Lies by Scott Blade

Patriot Lies

Patriot Lies (Jack Widow Series #14) by Scott Blade
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 2.7 MB

Someone executed a forgotten veteran and is trying to cover it up.
Jack Widow wants to know why.
International bestselling author Scott Blade weaves a masterful plot of action-packed thrills that pits the homeless sleuth, Widow up against an unseen enemy in Patriot Lies.
Jack Widow passes through DC.
It’s not a place he wants to be.
Hanging out, reading the morning paper, he learns about a homeless vet found burned alive on a park bench.
The article claims that there’s no known family.
No known relatives.
No one’s expected to attend the vet’s wake or funeral.
Widow is compelled to show.
At the service, he’s not alone.
A lawyer shows up looking for any family that may turn out.
The lawyer claims there’s a sizable inheritance – a stock portfolio worth fifty million dollars.
What’s a homeless vet doing with that kind of secret money?

He had let his beard grow wild to the point where even his friends from twenty years ago wouldn’t recognize him. He’d let his pores clog over time. He hadn’t showered in days. He couldn’t remember the last time a razorblade had touched his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he had brushed his teeth or combed his hair or laid hands on a bar of soap.

Not to mention, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had touched him. No woman would touch him now. He knew that for sure. Now, all he got were dirty looks and people going out of their way to avoid him.

Lincoln Park wasn’t his first choice for spending a cold October night. He usually rotated between the back of a 7-Eleven on Benning Street or the Kingsman Field Dog Park on Tennessee Avenue or one of the ten churches in less than ten square blocks or the back alley of a yoga studio over on Tenth Street, past the Maryland Avenue overpass.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he slept in Lincoln Park. Not planned. He had gotten drunker than usual. It was just the way things worked out. He’d ended up there by a series of events that seemed random, like every other day of his life. Nothing had been planned. There was no predestined reason for him to be drinking with the other homeless guys. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Early that night, he’d met a guy, got a ride, and found a bottle of booze, which he shared with other homeless guys. He got drunk, too drunk, and, now, here he was, sleeping on a park bench. It was all a typical night, except this time he spent it with drinking buddies and a full bottle.

His drinking buddies numbered five guys. There was the one he knew by name, the one he knew by face, and the three he didn’t. When you’re homeless, you take all the drinking buddies you can get—random or not.

The five of them gathered around a trashcan fire to stay warm. Autumn nights in DC could be relentlessly cold. Not like winter nights, but still, at best, he ran the risk of catching a cold; at worst, he could freeze to death.

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