Some people like to flirt with danger. These guys kick it in the balls and then shag its sister. When two bikers are found half-eaten, the coroner's report records an animal attack. But England doesn't have any large predators ... ... unless you count werewolves. Tempest Michaels, paranormal detective, gets hired by the dead bikers' gang to find out what happened and point the finger at a new rival motorcycle club in the next town. Calling themselves the Herne Bay Howlers, they proudly display a werewolf on their jackets and they are far from your average Hell's Angels. But Tempest doesn't…mehr
Some people like to flirt with danger. These guys kick it in the balls and then shag its sister. When two bikers are found half-eaten, the coroner's report records an animal attack. But England doesn't have any large predators ... ... unless you count werewolves. Tempest Michaels, paranormal detective, gets hired by the dead bikers' gang to find out what happened and point the finger at a new rival motorcycle club in the next town. Calling themselves the Herne Bay Howlers, they proudly display a werewolf on their jackets and they are far from your average Hell's Angels. But Tempest doesn't believe in the paranormal, and werewolves are right up there on his list of fake nonsense he wants to kick in the nuts. He goes in fully charged and ready, with former army mate and force of nature, Big Ben, at his side. However, this mystery is nothing like the simple case he expected and when Amanda Harper, his business partner/girlfriend, demands he drop it, he'll have to put everything on the line to find the truth. Is he right? Are they just idiots in good costumes, or is he about to bite off something that will chew him? The stakes are always high, but when the chips come down, do the guys have what it takes to see this one through? Don't miss your chance to find out because everyone loves a snark-fuelled action fest. The paranormal? It's all nonsense, but proving it might just get them all killed.
At school, the author was mostly disinterested in every subject except creative writing, for which, at age ten, he won his first award. However, calling it his first award suggests that there have been more, which there have not. Accolades may come but, in the meantime, he is having a ball writing mystery stories and crime thrillers and claims to have more than a hundred books forming an unruly queue in his head as they clamour to get out. He lives in the south-east corner of England with a duo of lazy sausage dogs. Surrounded by rolling hills, brooding castles, and vineyards, he doubts he will ever leave, the beer is just too good.
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