This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Jacob Paul Patchen will be awarding a free signed copy of NO PISTOL TASTES THE SAME to a randomly drawn winner (Print US only/international winners will receive a digital copy of the book) via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.
JP’s pistol tastes like bourbon.
Sergeant JP Grimm didn’t pull the trigger. Now his Marine brothers are dead. All victims of a child in a suicide vest…a child that resembled Sgt. Grimm’s very own. But how are you supposed to take a child’s life? How can you kill someone that looks just like your own son?
Those same hazel eyes he saw in his scope continue to haunt him long after he left the desert death lands as he tries to reconnect with his son, Adin. JP battles another war at home against PTSD and the worthless, dejected thoughts that he is the reason his friends are dead. His wife, Lisa, struggles to let her stubborn husband work it out on his own terms. She does all she can to give him space, support, and strength—but her love can only go so far.
As the world shows signs of impending doom from a weakening magnetic field and flaring sun, JP, too, shows signs of his own impending doom. After pushing everyone away, JP must face his nightmares to restore his relationship with his son, save his marriage, and save himself before the modern world burns out in a fiery, electromagnetic disaster.
Read an Exclusive Excerpt
Outside, the weather was turning. The heat of climate change brought in storms with the warming nights. They were storms that dazzled with displays of jagged bolts––sharp fingers reaching out across the sky or bright spears jabbing into the earth like the sky was at war with the ground. The wind rustled the leaves into corners and twigs along the walls. The moon was nothing more than a faint glow behind a black and gray curtain rolling in with the first true cold front of fall. Everything was shadows and blurs outside the window. JP and his pistol poked their heads around the blinds of the double window. During the day, it gave a view of Adin’s swing set and jungle gym pushed back in the front yard against the corn stalks and high grass. But in the gray of the early morning, JP only saw shadows. Dark forms blending in with a sea of black around them. The trees in his yard—black monsters waving and mocking him. The leaves and twigs—coal-colored critters of the night. The cut fields and twisted corn stocks—Damascus blades. The raspberry bushes lined along the far side of the yard—jagged teeth against the black backdrop. Everything out his window was shady and dangerous. Only the security light from the telephone pole on the other side of the garage gave a true hint of what lurked about.
JP unlatched the door gently and grasped the handle. He tucked his pistol back into his armpit with a firm grip. Then, all at once, he yanked open the door, and thrust out into the darkness with his muzzle leading the way to his left, and smoothly swept back to his right. A stirring of debris and leaves rushed in. They blew past his bare feet and fuzzy WELCOME rug. But JP wasn’t bothered by the leaves or twigs or dirt. He wasn’t hunting the obvious. He was hunting the hidden—the prowlers and thieves that were out to steal the peace and silence. JP was hunting the demons inside his head.
His form followed smoothly along the porch, beyond the matching rocking chairs and porch swing, all moving with the wind, and out past the corner shrubs. His feet squished in the chill of the cold ground. He patrolled around the corner and then the next and the next, searching for a target to drop, an enemy to engage. He pointed his pistol around each bend and break in his line of sight until he popped around the edge of the porch to find nothing. Nothing. Nothing? Standing flat-footed outside the door, he glared out into his now filled and faded world, where scrapes and rustles are nothing, and large lumps of darkness are things without a threat. His gun hung at his side, saddened, and he shook the disappointment from his head.
“Next time,” he mumbled to no one. And marched back into the house, locking up, before drifting to sleep in the armchair, facing the door, and cradling his Glock in his lap.
About the Author:
Jacob earns his inspiration through experience and believes every book has a purpose. He writes powerful, emotional, and thrilling stories about mental health, war, social stigmas, and other taboo subjects in order to bring awareness, change, and hope to those who need it.
Raised in Southeast Ohio, he’s a sucker for fast workouts, long laughter, and power naps. Snacks are his love language, and he thinks he’s a Pisces. Check him out and join his newsletter.
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Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Jacob-Paul-Patchen/e/B014MNSZZW
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ReplyDeleteSounds like a great book, and I love the cover.
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