Guns

( 47 )

Overview


Sam Bass is a hotshot pilot with a past, and when Sam makes a daring and dangerous rescue of a couple lost at sea in a storm, he gets publicity he definitely doesn't need. The Cowboy, as he's known in certain circles, has finally been located and a hit team is dispatched to take care of unfinished business. Original.
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Overview


Sam Bass is a hotshot pilot with a past, and when Sam makes a daring and dangerous rescue of a couple lost at sea in a storm, he gets publicity he definitely doesn't need. The Cowboy, as he's known in certain circles, has finally been located and a hit team is dispatched to take care of unfinished business. Original.
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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

"Fast, engaging—a fine debut."  —Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author, the Jack Reacher series

"An interesting thriller starring a fascinating laconic protagonist who's obsessed with a bloodthirsty mission."  —Harriet Klausner, Gotta Write Network

"Absolutely first rate. Outstanding read. Congratulations."  —Helen Rosburg, author, The Dream Thief

"An admirable debut . . . a good read can make those weekend afternoons breeze by.  Check out Guns and get a good read."  —Book Beat

"Bowie truly has a great plot that kept me interested."  —Novelspot

"A fine debut novel from a gifted writer. It is a chilling story. The plotting is good and the characters are well and truly drawn.  A good book.  Enjoy."  —Sun Journal (New Bern, North Carolina)

Lee Child
Fast, engaging—a fine debut. (Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author, Killing Floor)
Harriet Klausner
This is an interesting thriller starring a fascinating laconic protagonist who's obsessed with a bloodthirsty mission.
Gotta Write Network
Helen Rosburg
Absolutely first rate. Outstanding read. Congratulations. (Helen Rosburg, author, The Dream Thief)
Tammy Adams
Bowie truly has a great plot that kept me interested.
Novelspot
Sun Journal
A fine debut novel from a gifted writer. It is a chilling story. The plotting is good and the characters are well and truly drawn. A good book. Enjoy.
Book Beat
Guns is an admirable debut . . . a good read can make those weekend afternoons breeze by. Check out Guns and get a good read.
Publishers Weekly
In his debut novel, Bowie presents the smart, cocksure Sam Bass, a man with a mysterious past. To the handful of inhabitants on a tiny island off the coast of North Carolina, including Valerie, the Cherokee widow whom he loves, Sam is a laid-back pilot-for-hire. When he becomes a local hero after rescuing an elderly couple from their storm-battered boat, the human interest story is picked up by the wire services and draws the attention of men from his past. Intent on killing him and addressing him as "The Cowboy," the mystery men fail to get Sam but unintentionally kill Valerie, leaving her young son orphaned and Sam hell-bent on revenge. He seeks out Valerie's grandfather and trains with him in the ancient Cherokee way of vengeance before setting out to administer violent justice. Though Bowie did the homework to distinguish his History of Violence-style plot-researching planes and gun running as well as Cherokee history and lore, and investing his characters with elaborate backstories-he leans on these details too often, slowing down what could be an absorbing, fast-paced tale. (Aug.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781932815597
  • Publisher: Medallion Media Group
  • Publication date: 8/28/2006
  • Series: John Hardin series Series, #1
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: REV
  • Pages: 357
  • Product dimensions: 4.30 (w) x 6.96 (h) x 0.97 (d)

Meet the Author


Phil Bowie is an instrument-rated private pilot with his own 1968 Cessna Skyhawk, and flies as a volunteer for the nonprofit Neuse River Foundation. He lives in New Bern, North Carolina, and writes in a cottage he restored overlooking the Neuse.
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Read an Excerpt

Guns
By Phil Bowie Medallion Press, Inc. Copyright © 2007 Phil Bowie
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-932815-59-7


Chapter One The ringing phone was trying to compete with the keening of the wind outside the cottage when Sam Bass untangled himself from the sheets and reached for it in the gray light. "Damn, what time is it," he mumbled, sitting up groggily.

"It's oh six hundred, Sam. This's Ruben. Listen, we got us a situation here I thought you'd wanna hear about. You know the Stilleys pretty good, right? They got that big ketch the Osprey?" The voice sounded hollow and scratchy, as though the caller was shouting from the far end of a long tunnel.

Sam turned on the bedside lamp and reached for his jeans hanging on a straight chair. "Yes," he said loudly. "Is something wrong?"

The caller was Ruben Dixon, a grizzled Coast Guard boson's mate stationed on the island, and a casual friend. Ralph and Adele Stilley were much closer friends, retirees in their middle sixties with an expensive new home on the sound side of Ocracoke and a shiningly restored fifty-foot vintage wooden sailboat they were supposed to be bringing back home after visiting family and taking a shoebox or two full of summer snapshots along the New England coast.

"This storm has blowed up into a real nor'easter overnight, Sam. Gale warnings up all over the place. Seas offshore here are fifteen feet and more. We got a weak distress call from the Osprey an hour ago, from Miz Stilley. She was pretty shook but she gave us a fix from their GPS. Put 'em about fifteen miles south of Hatteras. Said they got hit by a real big wave. Busted the aft mast. Taking on water and her husband's hurt real bad. Haven't been able to raise them since and no EPIRB signal. Now here's the deal. One Jayhawk chopper out of Elizabeth City's down for repairs. The other's out hunting a sinking trawler that maydayed off Oregon Inlet. We got us a Herc assigned but they can't take off for another two hours. This blow's caught everybody with their pants around their ankles and it's Sunday to boot. The crew and me set out in the motor lifeboat forty-five minutes ago. It's rough out here but we're makin' good way. Thing is, I don't know how long the Stilleys can wait for, like, an organized search, you know?"

"What you're asking is will I go out and see if I can find them, right?"

"Naw, I couldn't ask a civilian, even a hot rod like you, to do anything for us, even if it ought to be a piece of cake. Something went wrong it'd mean my ass, you know?"

"Dammit, Ruben. That wind outside is fierce." He switched ears so he could pull on yesterday's paint-stained denim shirt. "What exactly is the weather, anyway?"

"One of our people checked with Flight Service. Visibility's not too bad. Between rain squalls you got up to four miles. Surface wind's a little stiff, though. About twenty-nine out of zero one zero, with gusts to thirty-eight or so. Ceiling's from eight hundred scattered to twelve hundred solid. Forecast through mid-day is about the same except for the winds maybe to shift and blow more out of the east, ease off some.

"Ruben, what I've got is a hundred-eighty-horse Cessna." Sam stuffed his feet into his tall hand-made goatskin ropers, a five-hundred-dollar extravagance from six years and another life ago, scuffed and worn now, but still fitting like a second skin. "What you just described is marginal visual flight rules at best. No visibility at all in those rain squalls. Winds aloft I don't even want to think about, and a bad thirty-degree crosswind on the Ocracoke strip. Picture trying to launch a kid's kite out there now."

"Well, like I said. There's no way I could ask a civvy to help out in a search. I mean specially if it could be a little risky. I just thought if you was, say, out for a spin this morning anyway, and you happened to spot anything, you could maybe give us a call on your av band at what, one twenty-two point seven-five? Boat's number is four three two five two."

A little risky.

"Okay, okay. Maybe I'll give it a try. I'll need fifteen minutes to top off and preflight. What was that fix Adele Stilley gave you?"

Ruben read off the latitude and longitude and Sam used a pencil stub to copy the numbers onto a pocket pad on the bedside table. He put a number one in a circle beside the fix. A blast of rain rattled against the cottage's tin roof. The light coming in the window was a dingy gray and the window banged softly in its frame. "How far do you guys think they could have moved since this fix?"

"That's a tough one," Ruben said. "Do they have the engine? A good bilge pump? If he's out of action how much does she know? Hold on, here comes a real big bastard ..." The phone crackled for ten seconds. "Okay, anyway, would she try to take the seas on her bows and run for an inlet? Or take it on the stern and make for deeper water, steer clear of the shoals? You got to make some assumptions or it's just a crapshoot. So figure that rogue wave really hammered them. Figure no power. The current's tryin' to push them northeast while the wind's driving 'em southwest. Anyway, you consider all that, we put them maybe thirty miles east southeast of Ocracoke Inlet now. Coordinates might be ..."

Ruben read the numbers off and Sam copied them, putting a circled number two beside them. He wished Ruben good luck and hung up. He knew that riding the bucking rescue boat through the confused seas out there would be no picnic. Ruben had given him a tour of the Coast Guard station and the boat two months back.

The forty-four-foot motor lifeboat, with its squarish fiberglass passenger cabin perched on the aft deck and its high amidships steering station open to the weather on three sides for visibility, was self-bailing and self-righting. Though it was not nearly as fast as a cutter, with a top speed of only fourteen knots, it had been designed to handle the roughest water and was virtually unsinkable, but the ride for the crew of four on a day like today could be sheer hell despite all their training.

Sam used the bathroom, raked his thick black hair back with his fingers, and crammed an old ball cap on to hold it there, pulled on a light jacket, and grabbed a stale donut from a box on the kitchen counter.

Then the power went out, the ancient refrigerator wheezing to a stop. Great.

There was no avgas on the island, so whenever Sam couldn't fill up at Manteo or some mainland airport, he burned auto gas, laboriously using five-gallon cans to lug it to the plane. No power meant the pumps at the village station would not be pumping. So, no fuel. He tried to remember exactly how much was left in the plane's tanks. He usually kept the plane topped off but this one time he had neglected that chore after his last flight two days ago.

Outside, the wind pummeled him, almost snatching the ball cap away. Ragged gray rolls of cloud scudded low overhead and the tough, wind-stunted wax myrtles around the cottage were shuddering. As he drove his rusted Jeep Wrangler down the sandy lane on the outskirts of the village and squealed onto the deserted main highway, rain spat inside through several old rents in the soft top, soaking the seats. The tall marsh grasses on both sides of the road rippled wildly as though in sympathy with the restless sea out beyond the dune line.

He hoped the Osprey was still afloat. It was August and the ocean was plenty warm so the Stilleys would not soon die of hypothermia if they were in the water, but the odds against finding them quickly would increase exponentially without the boat to spot. And Ralph had a mild heart condition. The man definitely did not need the stress of a foundering boat added to whatever injury he had suffered from the big wave.

He had met the Stilleys eighteen months ago when they had been supervising the construction of their two-story contemporary home and had chartered Sam several times to fly them to the mainland so they could select wallpapers, appliances, and furnishings, and to take care of bank business. Though they were twenty-five years older than Sam, the three of them had hit it off immediately. Ralph was a big, weathered, bald man with a faceful of smile lines, and Adele was a perky redhead barely five feet tall with an infectious shrieking laugh that often caught the amused attention of bystanders. They had made some real money together in their own long-haul trucking business. They were absolutely devoted to each other and shared a quirky sense of humor. He called her Red and she often called him Chromedome. Ralph knew enough dirty jokes to have written a blue encyclopedia, and could somehow deliver the worst of them inoffensively and almost always hilariously. They had invited Sam to their housewarming and after the party had wound down, the three of them had sat out on the brand-new rooftop deck under the stars. With the stubby Ocracoke lighthouse winking lazily over by the inlet they had poured salty dogs from a huge sweating pitcher, had devoured the remains of the hors d'oeuvres, and had laughed, at times tearfully, into the small hours. Sam always enjoyed watching the two of them interact and he valued their friendship.

There was nobody at the airstrip. Five light planes were in a line on the small parking apron, all of them rocking their wings and straining at their tiedowns, wanting to fly. At mainland airports, tiedowns were most often just worn ropes. Out here, twenty miles from the mainland, where many a fierce storm had blown some common sense into the natives, they were stout chains. Sam's twenty-year-old blue-and-white Cessna, three niner zero Whiskey Sierra, was the farthest away from the single open-walled shelter that housed only a pay phone and some benches. He parked the Jeep on the grass behind the plane just as a squall hit. The cold gray rain drenched him through to his skin while he did a fast walkaround, pulling out the rudder gust lock and unhooking the chains as he went. The agitated surf thundered out beyond the dunes that ran alongside the strip.

He unlocked the cabin and climbed into the left seat, using a paper towel to wipe his face. He pulled the master switch and watched the needles jump up to just under half tanks, knowing that light plane fuel gauges were notoriously unreliable, realizing that fueling up from cans would be next to impossible in these conditions anyway. So figure a maximum of two hours flying time with no reserve. He punched the two fixes from his pocket pad into his GPS and started the elapsed time clock. The plane rocked on its gear and the wind whistled in the vents. As an afterthought he dug under his seat for a yellow inflatable life jacket and put it on. He clicked on the seat and shoulder belts, snugged them up tight, pulled on his headset, gave it two shots of primer, clamped the foot brakes, released the hand brake, and keyed the starter. The engine stuttered to life and the prop became a fluttering gray blur, blowing the rain back off of the windshield in quick little runnels. He switched on the radio but left the transponder off.

The fixes were close to the Atlantic Defense Identification Zone line, or ADIZ. Prowling around out there could trigger the coastal warning net and some bored noncom from Seymour Johnson Air Force Base might mark him for an enemy bomber from Grenada or a flying saucer from Mars and scramble a pair of Tomcats to bounce him just for the sport of it. Flying in low-level search patterns, without his transponder, there was less chance of him being painted on anybody's radar and having to take the time to explain what he was doing. Also, the weather might legally be IFR, in which case he was not even supposed to take off without filing an instrument flight plan with Air Traffic Control. ATC was not likely to grant him clearance to conduct a search offshore in these conditions. If anybody wanted to know later, he would just have to say conditions were basically VFR, with at least three miles visibility and at least a thousand-foot ceiling. There wasn't anybody out here checking.

The windsock, starched by the gale into a rigid cone, danced about ten degrees side-to-side in the gusts. The brutal crosswind was from the left about thirty degrees to the strip on average. He had never taken off in a light plane in such a wind, much less a crosswind. He checked the gauges, noting the oil pressure in the green, set the altimeter to zero, and taxied out onto the narrow runway, holding the yoke full forward to keep the buffeting gusts from getting under the tail. He back-taxied the length of the strip and swung it around to line up into the wind. He held the brakes while he did a run-up to check the magnetos and the carb heat, and cycled the flight controls to their stops. Then he lined up on the centerline and let it fast idle and warm, the wings rocking, while he talked to the plane, an old habit since his student days two decades ago.

"Okay, old girl. The best way to do this is a short-field takeoff but with no flaps. As soon as our wheels are off we crab full into the wind. Hold the rate-of-climb down and be ready for those gusts." He rehearsed the takeoff mentally for a few seconds, then said, "Okay, let's do it." He clamped the brakes tighter and pushed the throttle smoothly to the panel, watching the windsock for the most favorable wind direction and hoping for a lull. The engine was bellowing at full power, the brakes slipping. The wind seemed to let up somewhat and he cranked in full left aileron to keep the wind from lifting the left wing during the early part of the roll, and released the brakes. Then he was moving, picking up speed, easing off gradually on the aileron, and a sudden gust shoved the left wing up, hiking the left main gear clear of the pavement despite his immediate return to full aileron deflection, the right tire yelping as it skidded sideways, the sand at the right edge of the strip getting close, and he reached for the throttle to chop power but the gust eased and the left wheel bounced back down and he was accelerating so he left the throttle fire-walled. He tested the elevator and then pulled the plane up off of the pavement, immediately lowering the nose to stay in ground effect and build flying speed, pushing left rudder to crab into the wind.

The airspeed indicator inched up to eighty miles per hour and he let her climb at full power into the wind, fighting the gusts to keep reasonably level, noting the island stretching away to the northeast to quickly disappear in the sand-and-salt spray and the rain mist. The shelter and the dunes crawled by below. A sudden lash of rain sounded like gravel flung against the Plexiglas windshield.

At seven hundred feet he was already in dirty wisps of scud and he leveled off and began a cautious turn across the wind, the left wing lurching up wildly in gusts. He fought around to a heading of one hundred and twenty degrees, the violent bucking easing off somewhat. The turbulence was bad but manageable, not quite exceeding the limits of his flight controls. The island quickly fell out of sight behind and there was only the angry sea below. The dark waves looked monstrous and malevolent, with violently breaking tops and chiseled foam-streaked flanks.

Within ten minutes, off to his right he caught sight of the white Coast Guard motor lifeboat, with its diagonal orange slash on the bow. The boat punched obliquely into a breaking wave and burst in a welter of wind-blown spray out the other side, only to slam down into the trough and bury its nose into the next wave.

Sam thumbed the push-to-talk switch on his yoke and said, "Coast Guard vessel two five two this is Cessna three niner zero Whiskey Sierra more or less airborne on a heading of one two zero. I have you in sight. How do you read?"

"Five by five Cessna Whiskey Sierra. Got you in sight. Jesus, you look like a rodeo bronco. Two five two more or less same heading," Ruben said.

Sam was crabbing considerably to allow for wind drift and he had to keep fighting the turbulence. He began scanning ahead to the limit of his visibility, back and forth, glancing at the GPS frequently as it counted down to the number two fix. He reduced the power another five percent and leaned it out as much as he dared, conserving fuel.

In another ten minutes he was at the fix but there was no sign of the ketch. He rolled into a thirty-degree banking left turn and tried to gradually increase the radius in order to fly outward in a spiral from the fix, scanning.

Nothing but ranked mountainous black waves. Nothing ...

Nothing ...

Nothing ...

After a frustrating ten minutes he flew back to the fix and took up a heading to the number one fix, the position Adele had radioed. "Okay, Red, where the devil are you, girl?" he said to the wind.

Within minutes the GPS told him he was at the number one fix and he tried the spiraling scan pattern again, making his turns steeper when he flew away from the wind, lessening the bank angle as he flew into it, trying to keep the spirals from elongating despite the gale.

No luck. Nothing.

Turbulence forced him to fight the controls constantly. He wiped his eyes with his fingers and strained to see into the mists. Twice he flew into rain squalls and had to go on instruments until he broke out again. The boat could be under one of these squalls and he'd never see it. He had to believe it was still afloat.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from Guns by Phil Bowie Copyright © 2007 by Phil Bowie. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 47 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(20)

4 Star

(14)

3 Star

(6)

2 Star

(4)

1 Star

(3)

Your Rating:

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 47 Customer Reviews
  • Posted September 15, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Sam Bass Could Be A New And Successful Series

    There is no need for me to rehash the plot of the store here; it has already been well reported. I would simply like to add that I am another who enjoyed this story which never seemed to drag and never let me down. Not only did the author make me like Sam Bass and Valerie, he also made me care about what was happening to them as the story worked its way to the conclusion. As the story develops, the character of Sam Bass is required by the plot to become "The Cowboy" who is a more mysterious shadow of the original Sam Bass character. It would seem the author could easily turn this protagonist into a most interesting characteer in future stores. While Sam Bass is not his real name, it would also seem to be the "right" name for the author to use for this protagonist if he should choose to have him appear in future stories. Sam Bass, the cowboy, just seems to have a good ring to it. Also, as the reader proceeds along the plot of this story, he is exposed to some interesting aspects of Cherokee Indian culture, and that also adds to an interesting story. Best wishes, Dave Wile

    8 out of 8 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 27, 2007

    Super Suspense!

    This book was a 'couldn't put it down because I had to know what was going to happen next.' I believe the author had to have taken these characters, if not the story, from real life and changed the names to protect the innocent. Well worth the time. I'm looking for the next one!

    5 out of 6 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 22, 2006

    Couldn't Put It Down!

    I recieved the book on Saturday and finished it Sunday! You can't put it down - just have to know what is happening next... Great charactors and unexpected twists to the story. 'Guns' is very well written and flows very fast. If you love a good mystery, this one is a 'must read'. I'm sure hoping Mr. Bowie will do a sequel to this book - I'll be among the first to order it. I'm suggesting 'Guns' to all my reading friends...

    5 out of 7 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 15, 2012

    !

    Please ban harriet klausner from posting. She constantly reveals every plot point of a book. This poster needs to be shut up.

    4 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 18, 2006

    interesting thriller

    Off the North Carolina coast, Coast Guard Mate Ruben Dixon calls Sam Bass to ask him to search for the Osprey caught at sea by a storm. Though the weather is horrendous Sam flies into the storm and spots the ship giving the Coast Guard the coordinates. Ralph and Adele Stilley are rescued just before their vessel sinks. Raleigh Sentinel reporter Ira Cohn and TV news anchor Samantha Blackstone were sharing a tryst on the barrier island when they heard the story. They interview Sam, who becomes a national hero. --- However, instead of enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame, Sam finds his past has returned with a vengeance. Thugs arrive to kill ¿The Cowboy¿, but instead murder his beloved Valerie, a Cherokee widow and mother of a young boy. Vowing revenge, Sam travels to see Valerie's Cherokee grandfather to tell him what happened, but soon becomes a willing student to his mentor learning the old fashion Indian way of meting out justice. --- GUNS comes out of the gate on all cylinders as the mysterious Bass saves the lives of the Stilleys and keeps the fast pace going until the final avenging confrontation occurs even with sidebars involving aircraft, gun running and the Cherokee Nation. The cast is solid especially Sam, but when Phil Bowie dwells on his past, the story line loses some momentum though it also explains why he is a target. Still this is an interesting thriller starring a fascinating laconic protagonist who¿s obsessed with a bloodthirsty mission. --- Harriet Klausner

    4 out of 9 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 6, 2006

    A Great Read!

    I thoroughly enjoyed this fast-paced suspense novel. The plot kept me interested with its many unexpected twists and surprises.

    3 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 13, 2013

    Should have been titled Airplanes

    This book went into way to much detail on airplanes and flying. The story was decent, but the beginning was very slow. Definitely not a page turner.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 11, 2012

    Not worth the time

    Too much "HISTORY" that had nothing to do with the story line, took over 100 pages before it even started coming together. Not worth the time on this one.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 8, 2012

    Good read.

    Well paced. Good plot and great chatacters. Reads like a movie....

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted September 10, 2011

    A good story in there somewhere

    Unfortunately it was very difficult to find. Could have lost 2/3 of this book by leaving out the excessive flight information. I do not need to know every time the pilot changes altitude and heading. Overall very disappointing. There was a great story that never filled out because the author was more interested in the flight plan rather than the experience of the flight.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 10, 2013

    good

    Good mystery with a good storyline. A bit too detailed in some history and on flying a plane but otherwise a good read.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 8, 2013

    Sadaqt

    Good job!!!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 18, 2013

    Good

    This book to good

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 24, 2013

    Good

    Any guns for any one it goes from the AUG to P90 to AK47 AND

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 28, 2013

    Unicorn man

    I WANT THIS BOOK! To bad i only have two bucks in my gift cards

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 15, 2013

    Burnstar

    To be in this clan u have to be on alot

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 14, 2013

    Strongblaze and Lillyscar

    We r. We wanna join.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 9, 2012

    Enjoyable to the end

    Read this on a whim. Never heard of Phil Bowie. I will sure be ready to read the rest of his books soon. Sometimes a little to discriptive to where you almost think it is a subplot but a very good book. Excitement and love all mixed into a good book. I recommend. Give it a try. You will probably enjoy it as much as I have.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 16, 2012

    Clearing

    ~ Gunstar

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 10, 2012

    Slow but entertaining

    The book moves slowly but if can stick it out becomes a good story

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