The Road To Hell
The third Surf City Mystery
From the journals of T. R. Macdonald:
I was standing in the desert, in the sun, outside of a semi-abandoned church, and I had a gun. My girlfriend, the lovely blonde Kandi Shaw, and I were registered in the Maiden’s Blush Suite, one of the finest in Las Vegas’ lavish Bromeliad Resort and Spa. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the suite. I was standing in the sun, waiting for my brains to finish boiling.
I’m T. R. Macdonald, a semi-unemployed broker-anaylst from Huntington Beach, California—Surf City, USA. And I was here instead of sitting on my short tri-fin outside the break line at the Huntington Pier because the casino offered me money to assist in security for WillieFest One, the richest slot tournament in history.
But so far I’d been mainly a moving target or punching bag—I was run off the road, chased by pit bulls, mixed it up with a vicious pimp, and was nearly trampled in a club stampede. Not to mention the part where I was poked in the nose. With a sawed-off shotgun. All of that led to the church, and my gun, and Kandi standing next to me with her gun in her hand—and she wanted to shoot somebody.
And if the two men inside the church didn’t listen to reason, I was very much afraid she was right—I’d have to shoot them.
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