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

Anthony calls after him, shouts his name, demands that he come back.

Jeffrey and Sylvia wait for him outside the room. They have been listening in, as he thought. Sylvia’s face is ashen. Jeffrey’s is hard. “What are you going to do?” he says after Tom has closed the door.

Anthony is shouting, still trapped in his bed. “Tom! Tom, get back here, damn it!”

Jeffrey speaks to Sylvia. “Go make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

She nods, slides past Tom into the room, goes to Anthony, tries to calm him.

Tom and Jeffrey walk away from the door, from the shouting. “I’m going to find the people responsible,” Tom says, “and I’m going to kill them.”

“How you going to do that?” Jeffrey says. “He wouldn’t tell you anything.”

“He told me enough.” He pulls the phone Jeffrey gave him out of his pocket, holds it up. “As for the rest, I’ll find a way.”

Jeffrey looks at the phone, raises a doubtful eyebrow. “I hope you do. When are you leaving?”

“Now. But I’m gonna need some things first. Equipment. Weaponry.”

Jeffrey nods. “You know I can supply.”

17

Tom is back on the road in an hour. He drives to the nearest town, still adhering to the speed limit, but wanting to go faster. He pulls over at the first pay phone he spots, gets out of the car and goes to it. The area is clear, no one to overhear. It’s still early enough in the morning that the sidewalks and the road are quiet. Some of the stores haven’t yet opened.

He slides in some coins, calls Zeke Greene.

Zeke is at home. “Hello?” He sounds confused, no doubt wondering whose number this is, possibly recognizing the area code.

Tom doesn’t waste any time. “It’s Rollins.”

“Tom? Holy shit, man,” Zeke says. “We shouldn’t be talking. You’re a wanted man.”

“I’ll make it quick.” In the past, Zeke has told Tom about his cousin. His cousin spends all his time locked away in his room, designing websites, or wasting time on message boards, in chatrooms. And he hacks. “I need to know if your cousin has any contacts in either New Mexico or Texas. They’ll have to be on a similar skill level as himself, or better.”

“I can ask him,” Zeke says, not asking him why or what for. Zeke trusts him, his judgement in whatever he is doing, and he knows Tom trusts him, too. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have called.

“Call me back on this number,” Tom says. “I’ll wait by this phone for twenty minutes; then I’m gone.”

“I wouldn’t do you like that, Tom,” Zeke says.

“I know you wouldn’t. You’re not the problem.”

He hangs up. He checks the time, then gets back in his car. Sits with the window down so he can hear all the better. He watches the street before him, this main stretch of road as it slowly comes to life. As people go into the diner for breakfast, as people cross over to get from one store to another. Cars begin to roll by. A worker comes out of the hardware store, goes two buildings down into the bank.

Tom keeps one eye on his watch. It’s closing in on twenty minutes. His fingers are on the ignition as it hits exactly twenty, but before he can turn it, the pay phone begins to ring.

“I’m here,” Tom says.

“Sorry it took so long,” Zeke says. “He was searching.”

“He get anyone?”

“Only one good enough, like you asked for. They’re in Texas. I got a number here. You ready for it?”

Tom has one of the burner phones from his bag at the ready. “Go.” Zeke reads it out. Tom punches it into the contacts.

“When you call, he says to tell them you’re a friend of Dark Claw 89.” His cousin, he meant. “You got that? They won’t talk about whatever it is you wanna talk about if you don’t. So maybe open with that.”

“Got it. Thank you, Zeke.”

“Don’t mention it, man. Good luck.”

Tom hangs up, gets back in the car, and leaves the small town.

He’s going to Texas.

18

Ben sleeps. Carly isn’t surprised. He was tossing and turning all night, struggling to settle. She leans over from her side of the bed, checks he’s out. “Ben?” He doesn’t stir. He breathes softly. His eyes are closed tight, his brow furrowed.

Carly leaves the bedroom on light feet, creeps down the stairs. Her jacket hangs from a hook by the door. She goes into the pockets, pulls out her cigarettes and her phone. Heading for the back door, she pauses at the foot of the stairs, listens again. Ben is not moving around, is still asleep. Carly goes out back, lights a cigarette. The early morning air is cool against her bare legs. She ignores it.

Phone in hand, she dials a number. The door is closed behind her, but she glances back through the glass, watching the foot of the stairs.

The cigarette is an excuse. She came out here to make a call. A man answers. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, gets straight to business. Knows that Carly cannot talk for long. “What do you have?”

“He was on the phone last night, just after midnight,” she says. “He was talking to one of the analysts.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. If he said the name, I didn’t hear it.”

“What did you hear?”

“That whoever it is, he doesn’t have anything. Can’t find a thing.”

“Anything in the house?”

She blows smoke. “Nothing. I’ve looked around. He’s not getting close, nowhere near.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

Carly grunts. She watches the stairs, antsy.

“What about the survivor?”

“Anthony?” she says.

“He was the only survivor.”

“He was off the books. Ben got him on drug dealing. He got a notification from a station in Harrow, strong-armed him into going undercover, or else he was facing a lengthy prison sentence. It wasn’t his first strike, and he had a pregnant girlfriend. So he took the offer. Didn’t exactly have a choice.”

“The dead Mexican?”

“That’s her.”

“Did Anthony find anything?”

“It doesn’t look like it.”

“Be sure.”

“I will.”

“We’re too close now for this