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Patriot Acts [Paperback]

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  • Category: Books (Fiction)
  • Author:  Rucka, Greg
  • Author:  Rucka, Greg
  • ISBN-10:  0553588990
  • ISBN-10:  0553588990
  • ISBN-13:  9780553588996
  • ISBN-13:  9780553588996
  • Publisher:  Bantam
  • Publisher:  Bantam
  • Pages:  416
  • Pages:  416
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Pub Date:  01-Mar-2008
  • Pub Date:  01-Mar-2008
  • SKU:  0553588990-11-SPLV
  • SKU:  0553588990-11-SPLV
  • Item ID: 101303984
  • Seller: ShopSpell
  • Ships in: 2 business days
  • Transit time: Up to 5 business days
  • Delivery by: Jan 18 to Jan 20
  • Notes: Brand New Book. Order Now.

Suspense fiction’s most dangerous and unpredictable hero is back—with a vengeance. This time bodyguard-turned-fugitive Atticus Kodiak goes underground to protect the woman he loves and the country he may have to betray to defend.

It begins with a brutal ambush and the murder of a friend. Now Atticus is taking lessons from the world’s premier assassin, a.k.a. Drama. If he’s going to survive, he’ll have to become exactly what they’re accusing him of being: a stone-cold killer. From Eastern Europe to the Montana wilderness, Atticus and Drama will uncover evidence of a secret so explosive, it could shake the foundations of a nation . . . so shocking, their ruthless pursuers don’t care how many bodies it takes to bury it forever."Rucka is a sharp and original thriller writer."—Chicago Tribune

"Rucka's Kodiak stories always read like wildfire." —Dallas Morning News

"Rucka keeps the adrenaline level high throughout."—San Francisco ChronicleBorn in San Francisco, Greg Rucka was raised on the Monterey Peninsula. He is the author ofPrivate Wars,A Gentleman’s Game, and six previous thrillers, as well as numerous comic books, including the Eisner Award—winningWhiteout: Melt. He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his family.Chapter One


Natalie Trent drove, speeding us away from Allendale and the body of the man I had been unable to kill.

She drove fast at first, trying to put quick distance between ourselves and the place where Oxford's body now lay, but once we left the Franklin Turnpike for US 202, she slowed to the speed limit. From inside her coat, she pulled her cell phone, pressed the same button on it twice without ever looking away from the road, and then moved it to her ear.

"About thirty minutes," Natalie told the phone, softly. "I've got lS;
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