Blood Line (A Tom Rollins Thriller Book 1) by Paul Heatley (book recommendations based on other books .txt) 📗

find us? That’s the bigger story. Someone must’ve called them. Told them where we’d likely be, how to find us.”

“Could be. Maybe y’all just got unlucky; it was a random patrol.”

Peter shakes his head. “They came straight for us, lights flashing, sirens blasting. They were looking for us. Nothin’ unlucky about it.”

Steve looks at him, his face impassive.

“Was it you?” Peter says.

Steve’s eyes narrow; he gets belligerent. “You fuckin’ kidding me right now?”

“I gotta be sure.”

“You wanna be sure? Then I’ll tell you what you do – you go find that motherfucker, bring him back here, and I’ll put a bullet through his head my own damn self.” He stares, defiant. Peter notices how his fists have closed.

Peter tries to stare him down, see how well he holds it. Steve doesn’t back down. Peter isn’t entirely convinced, but he feels better than he did when he first got here.

“All right, then,” he says. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“You bring him to me, you ain’t gonna have to take my word,” Steve says, still flaring. Looks like he’s ready to spit, but they’re indoors. “I’ll show you.”

Peter checks the time. “I gotta go,” he says.

Steve takes a deep breath through his nose, settles back, calms himself. “Work?”

“That’s right.” Peter is a doorman. The bar is mostly frequented by supremacists and allies. On occasion a black or a Latino will wander in, not understanding the situation, but they quickly get the lay of the land, drink up and leave.

Moreover, the bar is unofficially owned by the Right Arm. It cleans their money, the money they make from the likes of Steve, and many others dotted around the town of Harrow, selling drugs.

Peter straightens up. He looks at his brother one last time before he leaves, like he can find the truth of his questions in one final glance, like it will be written upon him, or on the walls. Steve has been convincing today, but convincing enough? Peter isn’t so sure. Perhaps he’s blinded. This man is his brother. If it was one of the others – Michael, or Harry, or Ronald – would they feel the same way? Or would they see straight through him, know whether he was telling the truth or lies?

“I’m out of here,” he says.

“Have a good night,” Steve says. “I won’t walk you out. You know the way.”

7

Tom has reached New Mexico, still has a few hours to go before he reaches his father’s home. All the way out of Arizona, he’s felt sick. Can’t shake the feeling that something bad has happened.

If Anthony’s gotten himself into trouble, it won’t be the first time Tom has had to pull him out of it, clean up his mess. Growing up, their whole lives, Anthony always seemed able to find mischief, to fall in with the wrong crowd, or to simply piss off the wrong people. And every single time, Tom has been there for him. Tom has talked down the angry shop owner Anthony was caught stealing from. He’s paid bail, he’s paid fines, and he’s kicked ass on more than one occasion.

Way more than one occasion.

There are scars on his body that rightfully belong to his brother.

What concerns Tom the most this time around is the presence of Alejandra. She’s mostly been a calming influence in Anthony’s life, or at least so Tom believed. If he’s been falling back into old habits, this worries Tom. With Alejandra so close to him, has she been dragged into it?

She’s pregnant, though … surely Anthony wouldn’t be so stupid? He wouldn’t put himself, or her, at risk when they have a child on the way.

Right?

Tom puts the radio on, trying to distract himself. The news is on. Senator Seth Goldberg talking about his anti-oil bill again; then the airwaves are filled with the voices of his detractors. The DJ takes calls from people, both for and opposed, and Tom can’t take it as they spit their vitriol, whichever side of the fence they’re on. He turns the radio off, thinks about putting in one of his CDs, decides against it. Decides instead to just drive in silence. The noise wasn’t helping anyway, just making things worse.

He remembers the last time he visited Anthony and Alejandra, down in Texas. It had been a while back, maybe half a year, still a while before he’d made the decision to go AWOL. Remembers how the atmosphere in their home had been fraught, how something had seemed off, like their smiles and their laughter were forced. It felt like they were worried about something, something they were keeping hidden from him. He’d asked them, enough times, if everything was all right, but they just kept nodding, kept forcing their smiles, and assured him that yes, everything was fine, never better.

One thing he’d picked up on was the way Anthony kept checking his phone. He tried to be sly about it, to slide it out of his pocket and hide it behind his thigh while he regularly inspected the screen, but Tom noticed. Whoever it was, Anthony didn’t respond much. Only once or twice. He kept looking, though. It got to a point, eventually, where it felt like he was eager for Tom to leave, like Anthony all of a sudden had somewhere he needed to be.

He remembers how they saw him off, Alejandra walking him to the door while Anthony held back, checking his phone again. “It’s been lovely to see you, Tom,” she said. She smiled at him, and it was the first time that day it had felt genuine, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but notice how tinged with sadness it appeared.

“It’s been good to see you too,” he said. He had the Santa Muerte pendant on him, wearing it like a necklace so she could see it. It had been a gift from her. To keep him safe.

Alejandra hesitated then, looked back inside the house, searching for Anthony, checking if he was approaching. She turned