BLOG TOUR: The Revenge Trail - Book 4 by A.A. Abbott [Excerpt Included]
Blurb
Kat’s craft vodka brand makes it big, but a crazed murderer’s on her trail.
Glamorous blonde Kat White makes the best vodka in the world. At last, her craft vodka from Birmingham is going places, while the mother who abandoned her faces financial ruin.
So does vodka salesman Marty Bridges. Kat doesn’t trust him, but she has to save his business or hers will go under too.
That’s not her biggest problem. Crazed murderer Shaun Halloran wants to kill her, even if it means breaking out of jail to take his revenge.
Kat dreams of love, riches and success in her life - but shouldn’t she just focus on staying alive?
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Author Information
English thriller writer AA Abbott’s real name is Helen Blenkinsop, but like JK Rowling, she wanted to . She loves city life, having lived and worked in London, Birmingham and Bristol. Her crime thrillers, set in Birmingham and London, sizzle with suspense, twists and the evils of office politics.
Helen’s books are available in a dyslexia-friendly large print as well as standard paperback and Kindle editions.
Her Trail Series follows the fortunes of glamorous blonde Kat
White, a party girl who finds her purpose making vodka, shrewd
businessman Marty Bridges, and manipulative East End crime lord
Shaun Halloran
Excerpt:
Chapter - 1
Marty
Marty Bridges’ head pounded in time with the thumps on his office door. Whisking his wife to Paris for her birthday weekend had been fun, but had left him with a credit card bill and a hangover.
“Come in,” he shouted, hardly voicing the words before his son burst into the office.
“Dad, we’re in big trouble.” Dan had visibly paled beneath his summer tan.
“What ails you, son? Sit down.” Marty gestured to a meeting chair.
Dan remained standing. “I’ve rejected the latest shipment of Snow Mountain vodka.”
Marty gawped. “You’re joking. On what grounds?”
“We took delivery this morning,” Dan said. “A hundred cases. The rest of the shipment is still in bond. I tested a bottle.”
The procedure was usually a formality. “Go on,” Marty said.
“There was methanol in it,” Dan said.
“That’s not good.” Marty shook his head in disbelief. The pain in his temples intensified. Drinkers could go blind, or even die, if they ingested methanol. “How could it happen? Don’t tell me – Marina Aliyeva has sent the distillery to hell in a handbasket.”
“I emailed Marina to say we had to destroy the entire container-load, and wouldn’t pay for it,” Dan said. “I got a reply straight back. The gist of it was, either we pay up or she won’t supply to us again.”
The most plausible explanation was that Marina’s production team had cut corners. It was an amateurish mistake. Kat, her daughter, would never have done that. Even when Kat had made vodka in a small cellar with a Heath Robinson-type tangle of pipes, the spirit had been exceptionally pure.
Marty’s lips tightened. Tim, his eldest son, had persuaded him to invest in Kat’s new vodka brand. She was about to begin production in premises on the other side of the city centre. With a little more time, he could have asked Kat to make Snow Mountain for him. Still, vodka produced in Birmingham would be perceived differently by consumers than a spirit crafted in the tree-lined hills of Bazakistan.
Anyway, who knew whether Kat would agree? And how trustworthy was she?
“Come in,” he shouted, hardly voicing the words before his son burst into the office.
“Dad, we’re in big trouble.” Dan had visibly paled beneath his summer tan.
“What ails you, son? Sit down.” Marty gestured to a meeting chair.
Dan remained standing. “I’ve rejected the latest shipment of Snow Mountain vodka.”
Marty gawped. “You’re joking. On what grounds?”
“We took delivery this morning,” Dan said. “A hundred cases. The rest of the shipment is still in bond. I tested a bottle.”
The procedure was usually a formality. “Go on,” Marty said.
“There was methanol in it,” Dan said.
“That’s not good.” Marty shook his head in disbelief. The pain in his temples intensified. Drinkers could go blind, or even die, if they ingested methanol. “How could it happen? Don’t tell me – Marina Aliyeva has sent the distillery to hell in a handbasket.”
“I emailed Marina to say we had to destroy the entire container-load, and wouldn’t pay for it,” Dan said. “I got a reply straight back. The gist of it was, either we pay up or she won’t supply to us again.”
The most plausible explanation was that Marina’s production team had cut corners. It was an amateurish mistake. Kat, her daughter, would never have done that. Even when Kat had made vodka in a small cellar with a Heath Robinson-type tangle of pipes, the spirit had been exceptionally pure.
Marty’s lips tightened. Tim, his eldest son, had persuaded him to invest in Kat’s new vodka brand. She was about to begin production in premises on the other side of the city centre. With a little more time, he could have asked Kat to make Snow Mountain for him. Still, vodka produced in Birmingham would be perceived differently by consumers than a spirit crafted in the tree-lined hills of Bazakistan.
Anyway, who knew whether Kat would agree? And how trustworthy was she?
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