By Peter Brandvold
" Mankind has fought the battle opposed to ghouls of all types because the starting of time. The final stronghold of evil within the recognized international is the yank frontier, yet for the way lengthy? Bounty hunter Uriah Zane and US marshal Aubrey Coffin are humanity's final desire to rid the area, as soon as and for all, of this demon scourge... "
The Hell's Angels are a gang of werewolves who've escaped from Hellsgarde Federal detention center. initially they have been recruited out of jap Europe by way of Abraham Lincoln to mercilessly tear the Confederates into submission at Gettysburg, hence finishing the Civil conflict. however the Hell's Angels by no means back domestic. They headed west-to subscribe to the legions of alternative ghouls...
Armed with an arsenal of guns, the deadliest being Marshal Aubrey Coffin, infamous ghoul-hunter Uriah Zane needs to cease the hordes of form- moving creatures pushing west. Aided via a stunning Mexican witch and necromancer, werebeasts are looking out the deserts for a coveted key, a key which may supply the ghouls eternal lifestyles and ultimate dominion over the earth-with people as their servants.
But first they need to face the wrath of Zane, a guy who is familiar with greater than so much the twisted soul of the wolves....
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Life, he decided, was all about trade-offs. They’d been in the hills for two days, all of it on the move, sleeping two to three hours a night. He was part of the special operations team of the 75th Ranger Regiment, based permanently at Fort Benning, Georgia, where there was a nice NCO club with good beer on tap. By closing his eyes and concentrating, he imagined he could still taste the cold beer, but that moment passed quickly. He had to focus here, every second. They were fifteen thousand feet above sea level, in the Hindu Kush mountains, in that gray zone that was both Afghanistan and Pakistan, and neither—at least to the locals.
Hadn’t moved at all. Driscoll brought his M4 up, settled the sights on the nape of the man’s neck, and then tightened his finger on the trigger. Easy, easy … squeeze … Pop. Not much of a sound. Hard to hear at all at a range of more than fifty meters, but the bullet flew true and transited the target’s head, leaving a puff of green vapor behind, and he went off to see Allah, or whatever god he acknowledged; at twenty-odd years old, growing and eating and learning, and probably fighting, came to an abrupt and unwarned end.
Wrong gomer was his immediate thought, followed by Shit. The face was the embodiment of confusion and shock. He was shaking his head, trying to get his brain initialized, but young and tough as he was, he wasn’t fast enough for the necessities of the moment. Near the back wall of the chamber Driscoll saw movement, a shadow hunched over, sliding along the rock wall. Not moving toward them but somewhere else. Driscoll holstered his pistol, turned to Tait, then pointed at the gomer on the ground—Cuff ’em—then flipped on his NV and dropped the M4’s sights over the moving shadow.