It feels as though I'm in one helluva losing streak, but I think it's just the writers I'm trying out for the first time/s that ... I'm not finding to write books I particularly enjoy. I can't keep reading books by authors I know forever. Anyway, this book is maybe not quite as bad as last night's: The prose is solid bordering on inert, and the characters are wildly implausible--as is the story itself--but it's probably not wildly off-piste for a gun-loving thriller (it really does remind me of some of the garbage novels I ended up reading for professional reasons more than a decade ago). There's an overpowering spell of backstory here, as though it was like the fifteenth book in a series, but that I can see there's just the novel this was a sequel to and this: Given that the ending here feels very much as though there's at least one other shoe gonna drop, that feels like something of a waste. There's not much here in the way of wit or whimsy or even really memorable language, though there's some weirdness in the subtext and themes, I can't tell if it's a parody of American liberalism written by a conservative or a parody of American conservatism written by a liberal--the fact Quirk wrote for The Atlantic isn't at all dispositive, here.
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