Deadly Alliance

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’ 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.

Les is alive. After cheating the Irish mob, he became their target. Mistaken identity took the life of his disabled twin brother. Now Les makes another deal—trading Amy and stolen drugs for their forgiveness. Stakes are high as Finn tracks assassins across the San Bernardino Mountains. If he gets her back, can he trust her?

DEADLY ALLIANCE

Kathleen Rowland

Published by Tirgearr Publishing

Author Copyright 2016 Kathleen Rowland

Cover Art: Elle J. Rossi (www.ejrdigitalart.com)

Editor: Sharon Pickrel

Proofreader: Barbara Whary

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you for the purpose of review, then please log into the publisher’s website and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting our author’s hard work.

This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my encouraging husband, Gerry Rowland, and to all the men and women who serve in the Armed Forces. You are our heroes.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’m fortunate in this book’s supporters to whom I remain deeply grateful. Of particular importance are Tirgearr Publishers, Kemberlee and Peter Shortland, and my editor, Sharon Pickrel. All are gifted writers, each impressive in what they know, and generous in what they share.

Special thanks to cover artist, Elle Rossi, for creating the perfect mood with characters’ likenesses.

As I worked to create a realistic foundation for this commercial fiction, appreciation goes to David L. Phillips, Director of Columbia University’s Peace-building and Human Rights Program. Serving as a adviser to the United Nations Secretariat and to the U.S. Department of State, this foreign affairs expert holds many other positions as a scholar for Middle East Studies.

DEADLY ALLIANCE

Kathleen Rowland

Chapter One

“You know I love your sportswear designs, right?”

“I’m glad you do.” Amy Kintyre sat opposite a buyer, none other than Kira Radner, at a coffee shop in Lake Arrowhead, California. This sudden opportunity to re-launch her sportswear designs gave rise to the jitters, and Amy clutched her hands under the table.

Kira pressed her face forward, Amy’s sketches drawn on figures in action poses. With the portfolio spread between them, she flipped it sideways to examine the fabric swatches stapled along the sidebar. Their earthy tones blended with the marred wooden table.

Amy stilled the chatty urge.

“You know your presentation is in two weeks.” Kira was giving her the green light with Recreational Sportswear, Incorporated.

“I appreciate this, Kira.” To get her business back on track, she needed blocks of time to sew mockups. Amy inhaled the spicy aroma of the raw cedar wood. The under-construction décor of wide, timber planks on the walls made her think of her new self. Crazy how thirty felt like seventeen when embracing life and freeing her artistic side.

“Then I beg you,” Kira said, “please, please, please have your product samples ready. Deadline is the first Monday of November.”

“Got it.” Fear over the tight time frame tasted sour in her throat, but this break called like no other.

Kira leaned forward. “Impressive functionality with the shorts. Who would have thought this pocket holds a Swiss Army Knife!” The buyer’s fingertips traced the pick-stitch hem, made with thread matching the fabric, appearing invisible. “Nice detail.”

Amy’s only mockup kept their face-to-face meeting running like the hum of the fluorescent lights above.

“Oooo,” Kira said and raised both her eyebrows. “Classic nostalgia with a twist. A pocket knife for hikers!”

“Useful, I think.” The bright light flickered over associates who’d worked together in the past, but Amy didn’t share the difficulty of making the deadline. Her breathing shortened, and panic carved a hole in her chest.

Kira rested her chin on her open palm. “If RSI accepts your spring line, I’ve got a manufacturer in Los Angeles. So, I’ll handle production, okay?”

“It’s a deal.” Amy trusted she would do right by her. If Kira benefited by handling the step, she had another reason to bring Amy’s brand to completion.

“Great, Amy. Gotta bounce. Glad our evening meeting worked.” Kira, a Los Angelino up for the weekend, viewed Thursday as the new Friday.

“Your timing fit my schedule.” Amy’s taxi driving shift had ended ten minutes before meet time. Driving a cab gave her flexibility, ideal for taking care of her near-comatose ex-boyfriend. Her dedication ended with his death, but stagnation set in. After Kira’s phone call, Amy’s backbone solidified.

“Coming?” Kira gathered Amy’s portfolio and slid it into her valise.

The bell on the café door jingled, and Amy looked up. A suited man wearing a fedora low on his face stormed in.

About to stand up, Kira braced a hand on the table, but Amy grabbed her sleeve and yanked. “Don’t look up.” She placed a finger over her lips.

Kira whispered, “I take it the dude’s not fueling a cookie binge.”

To Amy’s left, the man’s briefcase lowered to the floor next to the counter. She recognized the distinctive signature clasp of the Irish Claddagh.

“Excuse me,” he said to the owner. “I lost the sheath for my knife. Know what I mean?”

The manager pushed a stack of bills forward.

“He’s an Irish mobster.” Kira spoke in a hushed tone. “This can’t be. Pacific waterfront, yes. Never here.”

Amy cringed. A few years before, her boyfriend had been shot in a Los Angeles drive-by. Was their high-end community no longer spared?

The mobster was counting the money.

The muscle in Kira’s jaw flinched. “This is as good a time as any.” In another second the buyer flew out the door without blowing her usual kiss.

The man in the fedora folded his arms over his chest as though he was king of the world.

Everything hinged on Amy’s ability to be nearly invisible. Looking down, squeezing her eyes shut, she froze. The bell rang. Air escaped her lungs.

Out the window, the mobster steamed around the corner in the neon haze.

Amy collected her keys and belongings, took a deep breath, and headed to the counter.

The owner tallied up the bill and then grumbled about Mafia protection. “I don’t make waves. If I did, I’d drown.” His face contorted in agony.

Amy stared at his wary expression. Her mood shifted from empathy to anger. His passiveness churned in her stomach. “Sir, it’s a terrible threat. That’s the truth.”

“Miss, do you know what truth is?”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s what a guy believes. If I want to be friends, I ask what he believes. He tells me, and I say, ‘Ain't it the truth?’”

“You can’t protest the mobster’s truth?”

“I foresaw a beating. A whacking would follow.” He shook his head.

“Oppressive.” Out the door to the empty street, she searched over her shoulder. Her knowledge of the area was absolute, but at this late hour she gritted her teeth at the thought of walking two blocks to her taxi. She froze with indecisiveness. Muted laughter and conversation came from the building next door. Instead of going home, she headed into Burlie’s Jazz Club for a glass of wine.

Inside, she waved to Burlie who was as friendly as her granddad with a talent for learning names. He waved back. “Here for the usual, Amy?”

“Sure am, Burlie.”

She made her way deeper into the club, passed couples, and found a solitary spot on the edge of a couch. With work to do, she willed the sax man, back on stage, to immerse her in a state of bluesy creativity.

Soon a waiter delivered a sparkling Cabernet. Between sips, she focused on her hiking shorts design and ripped a page from the back of her sketch book. It wasn’t long before blips of excitement added to the wine’s buzz.

As she hummed to the jazzy beat, she made a to-do list ending with the file with various size patterns. After a half-hour of regrouping and rethinking, Amy stopped tapping her foot. Kira Radner took a chance on her, but to turn this chance into a reality, she needed evenings and weekends to make the deadline.

Last Sunday while pouring over Craigslist classifieds, she’d zeroed in on Finbar Donahue’s bookkeeping ad. After her inquiry, his head accountant sent her a message. She still favored the toe she stubbed after her in-box pinged.

Thanks to what happened, the call from Kira, she needed Finn’s job. Her mind raced to her third interview for his nine-to-five. Tomorrow morning, if all went well, she’d land the regular-hours job, tailor made for her time frame. She ran a hand through her hair, picturing the arrogant know-it-all with a never-ending string of women hanging on his arm.

Handsome wasn’t the word to describe Finn, her late, ex-boyfriend’s partner. She’d been around Finbar Donahue enough to know he looked at his world as if he were the Almighty himself. The former Army Ranger made her way too nervous. She tensed up to such an extent, her voice broke.

Romance wasn’t part of this equation. Her dream to launch herself, stitch by stitch, came down to landing the job. On a mission, her goal was simple. She closed her eyes and prayed tomorrow she’d nail it.

* * *

Finn Donahue’s break at Burlie’s Jazz Club was about to end. Familiar lyrics from the sultry tune floated through his mind long after the saxophonist stopped playing. Hold on like leaves and fall to what is left. Like the song, Autumn Leaves, he spiraled downward, failed to identify the chicken shit stealing his company’s cash. For three damn years, ten percent of the monthly deposits were sucked into a mysterious thief’s cash cow.

The crowd wandered out. Time for him to return to gloom and doom. He pressed a hand over his throbbing forehead with enough force to leave marks. Had the thief hired a colleague? The colleague was not a car-stealing, knee-smashing, fire-setting knucklehead. His mouth went dry at the fuck’s covert method and zest for cheating him. He’d question his snake of a partner, Les Kelly, if he weren’t already dead.

Across the room, a female patron gathered her belongings. As her ankle boots tapped toward him, a pair of shapely legs came into view.

His head snapped up. . Amy Kintyre, the late Les’ girlfriend, in the running for his bookkeeping job, spotted him.

“Finn.” She swerved his way. “What a coincidence!” This chick lacked a pick-me-up line.

“Hello, Amy.” He didn’t offer her a seat.

She tilted her head to one side, studying the expression on his face. “Are we still on for nine?” She spoke with an annoying squeak.

“We are.” He watched her lips form a tight smile as she fumbled with her little purse. Turning away, she headed for the pink-windowed door to the ladies’ room.

His stomach did a quick, discomforting twist at the thought of working with Les’ former girlfriend. As time went on, karma between the partners slipped. Les held back. Enigmatic people had motive to protect inconsistencies. He assumed Amy hid a few. He sighed and gazed blankly around the club.

Pendant lights offered a fuzzy softness except for the bar. Behind it, opaque glass shelves were lit with violet light. The warm personality of the owner gave the establishment a comfortable feel. Burlie was closing up. With more oil to burn at his office, he stood to cross the mosaic tile dance floor.

The front door opened. “Sorry, we’re closed.” Holding a broom, Burlie swept behind the bar.

Finn stepped closer. Drunken merrymakers, they were not. His heart hammered like it was stuck in overdrive.

“We offer protection
.
” Speaking with a Spanish accent, the shortest of the trio dressed like the others, donned the ISIS-style full face black mask.

“I have protection.” Burlie’s big mouth nailed his coffin.

A second thug grabbed the bartender’s hand and pulled out clippers. “You’ll change your mind, one finger at a time.”

“I just paid the Irish.” Panic burrowed into Burlie’s high-pitched cry. He thrashed his arms as he tried to pull his hand back.

“Us you pay”. His utterance with the object in the first position identified him as an Arab speaker. Light glinted off shiny metal. The thug pulled a combat knife, grabbed Burlie’s arms, spun him, put the blade to his neck. Finn dialed 911 and then shouted, “Finn Donahue here. Gang trouble. Burlie’s Jazz Club,” To grab their attention even more, he heaved in a breath and released a long whistle. His distraction worked.

Burlie broke from the hold, and Finn thanked God for the curious.

“Where are you?” Heavy boots pounded toward him.

Finn’s phone vibrated, but he killed the call and darted into the first door he saw, the one with the frosted pink window. He spotted Amy at the sink and pointed his index finger up.

He took off his coat and wrapped it around his fist. After rapping on the glass, he wound up and threw a hard punch through the window. Glass splintered as he connected with the thug’s nose. Prepared to jump aside, he opened the door.

Amy followed and jumped over the guy spread on the floor, holding a hand over his bleeding nose.

He struggled to stand. Finn patted him down, took his gun, and pointed it at him. After the guy stood, Finn walked him to a chair. “Don’t move.”

“I’ll phone the police.” A high-pitched squeal came from the back of her throat. “Never mind. Police are here.”

From the street, the blue light of a cop car radiated across the club’s interior like a strobe. Uniforms burst through the door.

The first officer made radio contact with homicide, and the second, much younger, rushed to the nearest thug and pulled out flex-cuffs.

“Stand over there, Amy.” Finn motioned toward a corner.

She rolled her eyes and dashed toward Burlie who wrestled with the Arab and tried to keep him from moving toward the young rookie. Amy pulled an item from her purse. A Swiss army knife? Out came a miniature cork screw.

The rookie cop turned the Arab around to be handcuffed and leaned him against a wall. The thug used the hard surface as leverage to throw himself against him.

Finn saw it coming. A switchblade sprung from the Arab’s sleeve. In a split second, he drove it into the cop’s shoulder, but Amy stabbed him in the back with the wine opener.

The Arab spun and pulled a knife from his jeans’ pocket. Amy dodged, but he thrust it into a cop’s gut before running.

Finn waited for an opening and shot him in the hip.

Howling about uncivilized barbarians, he dropped.

Up from his chair, the loser with the broken nose swung his fists, raining blows and a kick to the nuts which Finn deflected.

“Don’t make me shoot you.” Finn stunned him with a chop to the neck, caught him in a headlock. With a gun at his back, he marched him forward.

Amy broke into the center of the room and turned around, taking in the menacing scene. The girl-next-door had street smarts, competency with the corkscrew, and fearless determination.

He walked over and touched her weapon-holding hand. “You didn’t have pocket-knife experience on your resume.” It didn’t make her invincible. Nor did it mean he should hire her.