St Patrick’s Day is fast approaching, the
largest and most popular event in Savannah, but for the members of Gordonston’s
dog walking club their priority is recruiting a glamorous new member and
defending their beloved park from encroachers and a rival dog walking
club.
Meanwhile, a hitman is headed to town with orders to kill. But just who is his target?
For the last time we return to Gordonston, where secrets are finally revealed, lies and untruths exposed, and once again, as the plot thickens, the residents of Gordonston find themselves entangled in a web of deeply hidden agendas, deception, and vengeance. Forget what you thought you knew....nothing was ever what it seemed.
Filled with twists and turns, the Gordonston Trilogy, a series of revenge, retribution and dog walking, that has gripped readers worldwide comes to a fitting end. Prepare for the ultimate sucker punch ending and a conclusion so shocking and unexpected, it will leave you breathless.
Meanwhile, a hitman is headed to town with orders to kill. But just who is his target?
For the last time we return to Gordonston, where secrets are finally revealed, lies and untruths exposed, and once again, as the plot thickens, the residents of Gordonston find themselves entangled in a web of deeply hidden agendas, deception, and vengeance. Forget what you thought you knew....nothing was ever what it seemed.
Filled with twists and turns, the Gordonston Trilogy, a series of revenge, retribution and dog walking, that has gripped readers worldwide comes to a fitting end. Prepare for the ultimate sucker punch ending and a conclusion so shocking and unexpected, it will leave you breathless.
EXTRACT
From his vantage point on the roof of the Union Bank
Building, he could see the parade turning onto Bay Street. The procession, led
by four officers of the Savannah Police Department motorcycle division, who
sped in front of the crawling parade, lights flashing and their sirens blaring,
was the signal to the excited crowd that the parade was approaching. The long
stream of floats, cars, marching bands and representatives of police,
firefighting departments, military units, schools and colleges; many dressed in
kilts of assorted tartans, led by bagpipers and drummers, was now only minutes
away. He could sense the crowd’s anticipation and excitement, and he had never
seen so much green in his entire life.
Both sides of the procession route were filled with
revelers; many dressed in green hats, green jackets, green t-shirts, or a
combination of all three. It was as if a sea of green had flooded the city
streets. Everyone, it seemed, dressed in the color associated with the Irish
and Ireland. He estimated that there must be over one hundred thousand people
on this part of the parade route alone, and his estimation was probably low.
He had read that Savannah’s celebration was
the second largest Saint Patrick’s Day gathering in the United States,
something he had found to be odd considering that the city itself had no real
Irish feel about it. From what he had seen and heard so far, the event reminded
of him Mardi Gras in New Orleans, an excuse for a party, and, of course, a
drink and a reason to get drunk. He had also read that the festivities lasted
several days, with Irish themed celebrations and events dominating the historic
city for a week. The parade itself would be shown live on local television channels.
Many of the visitors and parade watchers would have arrived a few days before
the actual procession, drinking, partying, and enjoying life and all things
Irish well into the early hours.
Reaching into his duffel bag, he retrieved a pair of
binoculars. Through them, he could now clearly see the procession approaching.
The open-topped car, which he could see was a Mustang, carried the mayor and
his wife. It would be the third car in line that would be heading the parade.
The car following the mayor’s vehicle would be that of the city’s police chief.
Again, that would be an opened topped vehicle, and the car behind his would
carry the previous chief of police who had retired last year.
Apart from the officers on motorcycles, who now ensured that
the road ahead was clear of encroaching spectators, the parade was led by the
St. Patrick’s Day Grand Marshall. He would walk the route on foot, followed
closely by the preceding year’s marshal.
He had accessed the roof of the unoccupied bank building
three hours previously. As he had been told it would be, the door was unlocked
and the building deserted. It was the perfect position; if his only reason to
be in Savannah that day were to just watch the parade, he would have had the
best seat in the house. No one had seen him enter the building and he was more
than confident he could not be spotted from the streets below, or from any of
the other buildings that lined the route along Bay Street.
Numerous food trucks and stalls had invaded Savannah to
cater to the million or so people who would witness the parade. The smell of
barbecued pork, deep-fried turkey legs, and other fast food filled the air,
causing a rumbling in his stomach. However, he did not allow his hunger to
distract him.
After placing the binoculars on the ground, he raised his
rifle to his shoulder and lay prone on the building’s roof. He adjusted the
telescopic sight of his weapon and scanned the crowd; he focused his sights on
an attractive girl, dressed in shorts and a tight green tee shirt and wearing a
collection of green beads around her neck. She was cheering and was obviously
enjoying herself. His gaze lingered on her before he shifted the weapon and set
his sights on the third vehicle, which was now within shooting range of his
high-powered .308 sniper rifle, fitted with an ACC sound suppressor.
He could see that his target was smiling and waving at the
excited crowds that lined both sides of the sidewalk. He did not feel any
sadness, remorse, or pity for his victim. It was purely business and nothing
personal.
The driver of the mayor’s car, probably a local government
employee or an eager volunteer, remained focused on his task, ensuring that the
car did not exceed ten miles per hour. He did not appear to be distracted by
the crowd, which was a good thing. The last thing he needed was the driver, once
the shot had been fired, to careen into the sidewalk and innocent bystanders.
He had one target only, no one else needed to die today.
The target was now in perfect range. He could press the
trigger at any time, confident that the bullet would enter his victim’s
forehead, resulting in immediate death. He once again shifted the weapon, this
time his sights trained on the mayor’s wife. She was attractive, there was no
disputing it. Stunning even, and she seemed to be reveling in the attention she
was receiving. Like her husband, she was smiling and waving to the crowd, as
well as dispensing green beads from a bag placed in her lap. The crowd seemed
desperate to catch the cheap plastic trinkets.
He moved his weapon again, this time his sights trained on the
chief of police. He looked odd in his uniform, out of place. He appeared to be
uncomfortable being in the spotlight, as if the whole parade was an enormous
chore for him and if he could, he would be anywhere else than sitting in front
of hundreds of thousands of cheering people. It also appeared that he was
preoccupied and maybe even a little nervous.
Again, shifting the weapon, he took aim at the former police
chief. He was sitting alone, as was the current chief, in his open topped car.
It seemed that only the mayor had the privilege of having his wife accompany
him in the parade. The former chief looked far more comfortable with the
proceedings than his successor. He appeared how a police chief should
look--confident, authoritative, and relaxed.
He took a deep breath and retrained the telescopic sight of
the rifle onto the mayor. He could now hear the music of a marching band in the
distance, probably a few places behind the politician and further back in the
procession. He steadied himself and exhaled.
He had planned his escape earlier. By the time anyone
realized what had happened, he would be long gone. Even if the police were able
to work out where the kill shot had come from, he would already be half way to
Miami.
What a crowd, he thought, an amazing sight, and this was
just a small part of the parade route. Visitors just for the day, both locals
and tourists who just happened to have planned their vacation on Savannah’s
busiest day of the year. No matter, this would be one Saint Patrick’s Day none
of them would forget.
Once again, he scanned the crowd with the telescopic lens of
his rifle. He paused as he spotted a couple he estimated to be in their
fifties; the man was dressed in a blue business suit, not the popular green
that others wore, while the woman wore a blue, flowered-patterned dress. Moving
the sights once more, he rested his view on an older looking woman on the
opposite side of the street. She appeared to be alone, and unlike others in the
crowd, did not seem to be enjoying the parade. It seemed that she was scowling
at the procession as it passed by, seething with apparent anger. He couldn’t
help but notice that her anger seemed to be directed at the mayor’s vehicle.
Scanning the crowd one last time through the sights of his
weapon, he spotted a middle-aged couple holding hands. Both men were laughing
and dressed entirely in green, including matching green trousers. They appeared
to be enjoying the parade and it looked as though they were trying to get the
attention of the police chief as he drove by. The chief, however, continued to
seem uncomfortable with the proceedings and the attention he was receiving.
He rubbed his right eye, adjusted his baseball cap, and
tucked the butt of the rifle into his shoulder. Maybe he would grab a turkey
leg before he left the city, they smelled delicious. Finding his target, he
took a deep breath before he gently pressed on the trigger… and fired.
Award Winning Writer, Duncan Whitehead, was
born in England and is the author of the best-selling and award-winning
GORDONSTON LADIES DOG WALKING CLUB Trilogy. The series, inspired by the quirky
characters and eeriness in the real life Savannah neighborhood in which he once
lived is a humorous mystery, which boasts an assortment of characters and plot
twists.
He has also written over 2,000 spoof and comedy news articles, under various aliases, for a variety of websites both in the US and the UK.
He has written further novels; a comedy set in Manhattan, THE RELUCTANT JESUS, published in April 2014 and republished in July 2015 & three short stories.
Duncan is well known for his charity work, kindness to animals, children and old people; and, of course, his short-lived bullfighting career and his hideous hunchback.
In February 2045, he invented time travel and now spends much of his time in either the future (where he has won the lottery an astonishing 117 times) and the present day.
He has also written over 2,000 spoof and comedy news articles, under various aliases, for a variety of websites both in the US and the UK.
He has written further novels; a comedy set in Manhattan, THE RELUCTANT JESUS, published in April 2014 and republished in July 2015 & three short stories.
Duncan is well known for his charity work, kindness to animals, children and old people; and, of course, his short-lived bullfighting career and his hideous hunchback.
In February 2045, he invented time travel and now spends much of his time in either the future (where he has won the lottery an astonishing 117 times) and the present day.
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Thanks for sharing,
Tina
