Deadly Alliance by Kathleen Rowland—
Finbar Donahue, former Army Ranger, walked on the wild side in Iraq, but now he lives in the shadows. After his evasive partner, Les, was shot in a random drive-by, Finn discovers cash is siphoned monthly. He fights to keep his investment company afloat. When the late partner’s girlfriend, Amy Kintyre, applies for his bookkeeping job, Finn suspects she knows about his company drain and hires her.
Amy needs a nine-to-five with free evenings and weekends to get her fashion design business back on track. She unearths Les’ s secret bank account and alerts Finn. Freezing of the money laundering account sets off havoc within an Irish gang. Amy witnesses a gang fight between a brutal ISIS fundraising organization and the Irish. Desperate to escape a stalker’s crosshairs, she seeks refuge with Finn. As danger heats up, sparks fly hotter.
1. Nickname: Finn. My
full name is Finbar Michael Donahue.
2. Job: I own my own investment company, but who’s the
chickenshit stealing money from me?
3. Level of schooling:
B.A. in finance, former Army Ranger. That was when I targeted the enemy.
Bio and
Links—Kathleen Rowland
Book
Buyers Best finalist Kathleen Rowland is devoted to giving her readers
fast-paced, high-stakes suspense with a sizzling love story sure to melt their
hearts. Kathleen used to write computer
programs but now writes novels. She
grew up in Iowa where she caught lightning bugs, ran barefoot, and raced her
sailboat on Lake Okoboji. Now she wears
flip-flops and sails with her husband, Gerry, on Newport Harbor but wishes there
were lightning bugs in California.
Kathleen
exists happily with her witty CPA husband, Gerry, in their 70’s poolside
retreat in Southern California where she adores time spent with visiting
grandchildren, dogs, one bunny, and noisy neighbors. While proud of their five children who’ve
flown the coop, she appreciates the luxury of time to write while listening to
demanding character voices in her head.
https://www.facebook.com/kathleen.rowland.50
Amy
entered the bathroom and faced a door opposite, the entrance to the Harp Hotel
on the Lake. No wonder this bathroom was elegant. Waffle towels and an
assortment of fragrance mists, lotions, and a milk-glass, soap pump sat on a
green-marble counter next to a vintage-looking faucet. If she weren’t in a
hurry, she’d spray herself with the cologne in the shamrock container.
There
were two large stalls, and she peeked under the shiny white doors to make sure
she wouldn’t intrude upon someone. After making sure it was empty, she headed
in and hung her little handbag on a hook. About to use the toilet, she heard
muffled voices. Wasn’t she alone?
Glancing
upward, she spotted a vent. The voices came from a room in the hotel. Did she
hear strong words? She stepped onto the
toilet seat and stood on tiptoes, straining to raise herself even higher. As
she peered through the vent, she realized she was looking over a balcony and
onto a large conference room. This bathroom, on the second level of the parking
structure, was level with the hotel’s mezzanine.
About
twenty feet below, the marble floor gleamed up at her, but the scene was far
from friendly business. A half-dozen men wore turbans and black, body armor
with the Takbir insignia embroidered on them. The symbol, hard to ignore this
year, was white Arabic writing on their rolling-sand motif flag and displayed
with every hostage crisis. Flowing robes extended half-way below their shins.
The
robed men surrounded four men seated with their hands on a round table. These men
were held captive, she was certain. The two facing her wearing Claddagh rings
on their third fingers had visited Les. The rings married them, molded them
into a brotherhood. Whether they wore suits or the Levis they’d worn on their
visit, they bound together by a code of violence
and silence. For years the Waterfront
Roached remained an impenetrable and unstoppable force. Until now.
The
Irish Mafioso appearance was as easy to recognize as the Takbir terrorists. In
her hometown of Long Beach, the Waterfront Roaches went about their business in
match-match suits. The Irish Kings of Cocaine ruled the warehouse district.
After scrutinizing the backs of the other two suits, one wore a fedora
identical to the Irish mobster at the coffee shop. Next she zeroed in on the
other man with slicked back, silver hair who’d visited Les at their condo. Was an
Islamic gang taking over the Irish mob’s territory?
Fearing
they’d see her, she cringed, but the thugs were far below. Concentrating, she
tried to make out what was happening down there. She looked through the
vent. A sword gleamed upward.
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