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

she’s doing. None of it makes any sense to him.

“So who called you?” she says without turning.

“It wasn’t to me.”

“No? Then why do you care?”

“It concerns me.”

She leaves the computer doing something, turns back to him. She studies him again. “Are you AWOL?”

“You are good.”

“I told you as much. You’ve got the look – though I’ll admit, you don’t look as shifty as some of the fugitives I’ve dealt with.”

“You deal with many fugitives?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“What do they need from a hacker?”

“Well, I also forge documents.” She winks at him.

Tom stores this information away, keeps it in mind.

“What are you running from?”

Tom shrugs. “I saw a lot of things I didn’t agree with, and I was the only one who ever seemed to care. Well, me and Dark Claw 89’s cousin. I guess he could stomach it more than I could, though. What are you doing there?”

“Tracing the call,” she says without looking back. “Searching for pingbacks from cell phone towers. It’s gonna take a while. I might have to decipher some noise yet.” She looks around the room. “You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“Then go down the block to the deli on the corner and get us a couple of sandwiches. I’ll take ham and swiss on rye. Your treat, right?” Her eyes sparkle.

“How could I say no to that smile?” Tom says, getting to his feet.

When he gets back, Cindy is leaning back in her chair, looking very satisfied with herself, victorious. “Found it,” she says, holding out her hands.

Tom reaches into the bag, pulls out her wrapped sandwich. He hands it over. “Where is it?”

She tears open the paper, bites into it. “Narrowed it down to a street in Dallas,” she says, chewing. “But I can’t get a specific house.”

“Have you written it down?”

She holds out a piece of paper. “Everything you need.”

Tom pays her, then goes to leave.

“You’re not gonna eat?” she says as he reaches the door.

“I’ll have it in the car,” he says.

“Gotta jet, huh?”

He nods.

“I’m sure I’ll see you again some time, Tom Rollins.” There’s a playful tone in her voice, and her eyes are sparkling again.

Tom looks back at her. She swivels side to side in her chair. He winks. “I reckon you just might.”

21

The team still need a few items to go with all the fertilizer they currently have. Chuck puts Dix on the case. Sends him out to make some enquiries. Dix is gone a full day and night. When he returns the next morning, he has a seller.

“Russian,” he says, talking with Chuck in the back office of the former warehouse they have commandeered. “Goes by the name of Vladimir.”

“And he has what we need?” Chuck says, leaning back in an old chair that looks like it might fall apart at any moment, a leftover from when the warehouse was still operational.

“Says he does,” Dix says.

The others are killing time throughout the building. Waiting for some action. Al is taking a nap. Jimmy and Pat are playing cards, gambling with bullets.

“You get anything else on him?” Chuck says.

“He asked a lot of questions. Who we were, why we needed it, but I think he was just busting balls for the most part.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“That he didn’t need to know. He just laughed at that. He didn’t give a shit, not really. Like I say, busting balls.”

“You arrange for a buy?”

Dix nods. “Tonight.”

Chuck smiles. “Good. The boys will be happy. Give us something to do.”

Chuck and Dix will approach the meeting. They’ll have the cash. Al, Jimmy, and Pat will be nearby, geared up, ready in case anything goes down.

The meet happens downtown, not far from the warehouse district where they got the fertilizer. Chuck and Dix wear jeans, leather jackets over their T-shirts. Vladimir is dressed in a suit. He hasn’t come alone. Flanked by three goons, each one a carbon copy of the others. Big, hooded-brow guys with shaved heads and mean eyes, tattoos on their knuckles, the backs of their hands, and their necks. Vladimir is the only one of them smiling. He’s the only one with hair, slicked back. Chuck recognizes his type. An arms dealer, splashing his cash on leather jackets, fancy shirts, rings and necklaces.

“Mr. Dix,” he says as they approach, “so good to see you again.”

Dix nods. “Vlad.”

“You brought a friend,” Vlad says, looking Chuck over.

“You brought three,” Dix says.

The three men bristle, as if they’re supposed to be unseen.

“This is the man you work for, I assume,” Vlad says. He holds out his hand.

Chuck takes it, gives his name.

“Chuck,” Vlad says, trying it out, grinning at how it feels in his mouth. “Mr. Chuck, you would like to see the goods now, yes?”

“Sooner the better,” Chuck says.

Vlad clicks his fingers, says something in Russian. One of his men goes into the car behind them, takes out a bag. Brings it forward, open.

“Feel free to look with your hands as well as your eyes,” Vlad says.

Chuck does just that, reaching in and rummaging through. There is a detonator on top. Underneath, there is everything else they need.

The heavy snatches the bag back, steps behind Vlad again.

“To your liking?” Vlad says.

“It’s all there,” Chuck says.

“Excellent! Now, the cash?”

Dix has their bag. He opens it up, holds it out.

“I will, of course, need to count it,” Vlad says.

“Count away,” Chuck says.

Vlad motions to another of his goons. He comes forward, takes the bag, steps back. He places it on the ground to count the money. While he does so, Vlad rocks back and forth on his heels, smiling at Chuck all the while.

Finally, the counter stands, bag in hand. He nods at Vlad, then takes another step back.

“Very good, my friends,” Vlad says. “It is all there.”

Chuck holds out his hand for their bag.

“Not so fast, Mr. Chuck,” Vlad says. “It’s very clear to me that you are planning on making a bomb. A big one, by the looks of things. Now, call it professional curiosity if you will, but I must ask – why?”

Chuck