13 Bullets

Zusatztext In 13 BULLETS! David Wellington focuses his ample powers of imagination on modernizing the vampire legend. The result is a charming! funny! bloody! and best of all! thrilling adventure. FBI vampire hunters Caxton and Arkeley make an electric duo. Thwarting them at every turn from within the walls of a maximum security prison! ringleader Malvern is a diabolical cross between Hannibal Lecter and one of Anne Rice's ancients. Sarah Langan! author of THE KEEPER Lace collars and kerchiefs are nowhere to be found in this breakneck! blood-spattered! totally original vampire novel. Breathless! exciting and totally kick ass. -- B. H. Fingerman! author of Bottomfeeder Informationen zum Autor David Wellington, author of Monster Island Klappentext The first book in the Laura Caxton Vampire series from the author of the Monster Island trilogy. All the official reports say that vampires are dead--extinct since the late '80s! when FBI agent Arkeley defeated the last vampire in a fight that nearly killed him. But when state trooper Laura Caxton calls the FBI looking for help in the middle of the night! Arkeley is unsurprised to hear that it sounds like a vampire attack. He's been expecting such a call to come eventually. Sure! it has been years since any signs of an attack! but Arkeley knows what most people don't: there is one left. In an abandoned asylum she is rotting! plotting! and biding her time in a way that only the undead can. Laura Caxton is out of her league on this case and more than a little afraid. Arkeley made it clear there is only one way out. The worst thing is the feeling that the vampires want more than just her blood. They want her for a reason! one she can't guess; a reason her sphinxlike partner knows but won't say; a reason she has to find out-or die trying. 1. Incident report filed by Special Deputy Jameson Arkeley, 10/4/83 (recorded on reel-to-reel audiotape): Through the rain there wasn't much to see. The all-night diner stood at the corner of two major streets. Its plate glass windows spilled a little light on the pavement. I handed the binoculars to Webster, my partner. "Do you see him?" I asked. The subject in question, one Piter Byron Lares (probably an alias), sat at the diner's counter, hunched over in deep conversation with a middle-aged waitress. He would be a big man if he stood up, but leaning over like that, he didn't look so imposing. His face was very pale, and his black hair stood up in a wild shock of frizzy curls. An enormous red sweater hung off him--another attempt at camouflaging his size, I figured. He wore thick eyeglasses with tortoiseshell rims. "I don't know what they teach you at Fed school, Arkeley, but I've never heard of one of them needing glasses," Webster said, handing me back the binoculars. "Shut up." The week before I had found six dead girls in a cellar in Liverpool, West Virginia. They'd been having a slumber party. They were in so many pieces it took three lab technicians working night and day in a borrowed school gymnasium just to figure out how many bodies we had. I was not in a good mood. I had beaten one of the asshole's minions to dust with my bare hands just to find out his alias. I wasn't going to slow down now. Lares stood up, his head still bowed, and took a leather wallet out of his pocket. He began to count out small bills. Then he seemed to think of something. He looked up, around the diner. He rose to his full height and looked out at the street. "Did he just make us?" Webster demanded. "In this weather?" "I'm not sure," I said. About a gallon of bright red blood erupted across the diner's front window. I couldn't see anything inside. "Shit!" I screamed, and pushed my way out of the car, across the sidewalk, the rain soaking me instantly. I burst inside the dine...

Autorentext
David Wellington, author of Monster Island

Klappentext
The first book in the Laura Caxton Vampire series from the author of the Monster Island trilogy.

All the official reports say that vampires are dead--extinct since the late '80s, when FBI agent Arkeley defeated the last vampire in a fight that nearly killed him. But when state trooper Laura Caxton calls the FBI looking for help in the middle of the night, Arkeley is unsurprised to hear that it sounds like a vampire attack. He's been expecting such a call to come eventually. Sure, it has been years since any signs of an attack, but Arkeley knows what most people don't: there is one left. In an abandoned asylum she is rotting, plotting, and biding her time in a way that only the undead can.

Laura Caxton is out of her league on this case and more than a little afraid. Arkeley made it clear there is only one way out. The worst thing is the feeling that the vampires want more than just her blood. They want her for a reason, one she can't guess; a reason her sphinxlike partner knows but won't say; a reason she has to find out-or die trying.

Zusammenfassung
The first book in the Laura Caxton Vampire series from the author of the Monster Island trilogy.

All the official reports say that vampires are dead--extinct since the late ’80s, when FBI agent Arkeley defeated the last vampire in a fight that nearly killed him. But when state trooper Laura Caxton calls the FBI looking for help in the middle of the night, Arkeley is unsurprised to hear that it sounds like a vampire attack. He’s been expecting such a call to come eventually. Sure, it has been years since any signs of an attack, but Arkeley knows what most people don’t: there is one left. In an abandoned asylum she is rotting, plotting, and biding her time in a way that only the undead can.

Laura Caxton is out of her league on this case and more than a little afraid. Arkeley made it clear there is only one way out. The worst thing is the feeling that the vampires want more than just her blood. They want her for a reason, one she can’t guess; a reason her sphinxlike partner knows but won’t say; a reason she has to find out-or die trying.

Leseprobe
1.

Incident report filed by

Special Deputy Jameson Arkeley, 10/4/83

(recorded on reel-to-reel audiotape):



Through the rain there wasn't much to see. The all-night diner stood at the corner of two major streets. Its plate glass windows spilled a little light on the pavement. I handed the binoculars to Webster, my partner. "Do you see him?" I asked.

The subject in question, one Piter Byron Lares (probably an alias), sat at the diner's counter, hunched over in deep conversation with a middle-aged waitress. He would be a big man if he stood up, but leaning over like that, he didn't look so imposing. His face was very pale, and his black hair stood up in a wild shock of frizzy curls. An enormous red sweater hung off him--another attempt at camouflaging his size, I figured. He wore thick eyeglasses with tortoiseshell rims.

"I don't know what they teach you at Fed school, Arkeley, but I've never heard of one of them needing glasses," Webster said, handing me back the binoculars.

"Shut up." The week before I had found six dead girls in a cellar in Liverpool, West Virginia. They'd been having a slumber party. They were in so many pieces it took three lab technicians working night and day in a borrowed school gymnasium just to figure out how many bodies we had. I was not in a good mood. I had beaten one of the asshole's minions to dust with my bare hands just to find out his alias. I wasn't going to slow down now.

Lares stood up, his head still bowed, and took a leather wallet out of his pocket. He began to count out small bills. Then he seemed to think of something. He looked up, around the diner. He rose to his full height and looked out at the street.

"Did he just make us?" Webster demanded. "In this weather?"

"I'm not su…

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