Unholy Alliance by Kathleen Rowland

Author:Kathleen Rowland
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romantic suspense, kidnapping, contemporary romance, romantic thriller, missing person, irish mob, contemporary suspense, taco truck
Publisher: Tirgearr Publishing

Chapter Nine

From Tori’s vantage point from the rooftop of her truck, the yard’s Oktoberfest celebration was winding down. Across the lot, she watched entrepreneurs pick up trash around their trucks. She’d forgotten how hot October could be. The air was thick, unforgiving, the familiar scent of eucalyptus masked by the acrid stench of hot garbage. “Adam, you missed that paper plate,” she called out.

“You see everything from up there,” he said, sounding amused.

In two weeks, she’d reopen Deep Fried to Taste. Her insurance came through with a complete truck replacement.

“Enjoying the sunshine?” shouted Elena, the owner of Veracruz Tacos. She leaned back to speak to her while cradling Goodie on top of a bag of cat chow.

“Sure am.” Tori adjusted the brim of her sunhat as she leaned over the edge. “How’s business at your new spot?”

“Pretty good, frankly,” she said. “Now that no protection money is required, we’re keeping a bigger percentage. I need to say it again. Thanks for putting some fire under the squad.”

“Gives me a sense of purpose, believe me.” Tori expected a light breeze on top of her truck, but the late afternoon winds had taken a vacation from the SoCal paradise. The air was stifling, made worse with the sun reflecting off the roof of her truck.

Goodie squirmed in Elena’s arms. “Gotta go. It’s getting dark.”

“That’s when things go bump in the night,” Tori called after her, and then found a spot to lay flat on a beach towel. On her elbows, she faced the shopping center. All had quieted down. Sherlock snoozed inside her truck.

Earlier, her rooftop was a sun deck, complete with a beach umbrella and lounge chair. Now she settled at her sniper post. Her index finger hovered near her new rifle’s trigger. With a Winchester Model 70, she’d get only one shot at McGinn. The caliber 308 would be heard miles away. The rifle looked like a deer gun but had the range she needed. She ran her hand along the polished walnut, focused through the scope, and waited.

Her location overlooked the row of shops across the street. Store windows were painted with Halloween décor. Around the parking lot, trees glowed with fairy lights, but this was a grim party of mobsters. Two she recognized, Seamus McGinn and Timothy Noonan.

Through the scope, cross hairs marked her target’s chest. Seamus McGinn wore a matching black shirt and suit. Noonan and three nameless thugs flanked him.

A lock of hair escaped from under her hat and itched her cheek, but she didn’t brush it off. She focused on other senses. Seeing men she hated, her vocal cords tightened. Her pulse kicked up. McGinn moved, and she shifted the cross hairs on him. When he tipped his head back to laugh, she aimed for his throat.

Her finger touched the trigger without pressure as she looked through the scope. Since the horrendous night at Rhubarb and Ginger, his hair had grayed and his wrinkles had deepened. The epitome of evil was almost buoyant in the way he stood.

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