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

He parks the car, gets out. Tom sees how he carries himself, the way he is dressed. The black trousers, jacket, white shirt, thin black tie.

Then the wind catches him just the right way. Pulls the jacket tight. Tom sees the outline of his gun, the bulge of his holster.

Now he’s convinced. It all goes together. The look, the gun.

He’s found his man.

23

Peter’s shift comes to an end. It’s been a quiet night save for one incident. Some antifa agitator-type asshole, looking to cause some trouble. This happens every couple of months or so. Some liberal in town gets themselves all worked up, comes out with the intent of causing chaos, a fight, spraying some graffiti. The guy tonight was trying to sneak inside. Peter made him, was familiar with him from the past. Had caught him red-handed, spray cans at the ready, a stencil that read NAZI PUNKS FUCK OFF.

Tonight, his head was down; he avoided eye contact. He wore a cap that covered his face and hid how long his hair was. Very few people with hair visit the bar unless they’re women, and not many women come here. Peter reached down, took him by the scruff of the neck like he was a small animal, and pulled him to one side. Got a good look at him. Confirmed it was his man. Dragged him around the back of the building, gave him a beating, then sent him on his way.

After the bar closes, Peter hangs around, has a couple of beers with some of the boys. The staff and a couple of his close friends who get to stay behind after the doors lock. It’s a tradition. They do this most nights, get a buzz on and shoot the shit. Peter doesn’t hang around long enough for a buzz, not this time. He has two bottles, then says he has to go.

“What’s the rush, man?” one of his friends says. “We’re just getting started here.”

Peter doesn’t tell him the truth. Doesn’t tell him that he’s got something on his mind and a bad feeling in his gut, and try as he might, he can’t shake either of them. “I got somewhere to be,” he says, winking, implying that he’s off to get some action.

The friend nods in understanding. “I get you, man.” He raises his drink in a salute. “Have the time of your fuckin’ life.”

“I intend to,” Peter says, then leaves the bar. His smile fades as soon as his back is turned.

Peter doesn’t go straight home. He doesn’t go to see any girl. He goes to Steve’s.

Steve lets him in. “Wasn’t expecting to see you tonight,” he says. “You should really start calling ahead. I was about to go to bed.”

Peter notices, as they go through to Steve’s room and his brother takes his usual seat at his computer, that the monitor is still on, still blaring, and he has his doubts that Steve was planning on sleeping any time soon.

“What can I do for you?” Steve says.

“I’ve been thinking,” Peter begins, and already Steve is rolling his eyes, can guess what this is about.

Anthony.

But despite Steve’s prior belligerence the last time Peter came around to ask these questions, something still feels off to him.

Put simply, he doesn’t trust his brother.

“All I’m saying is,” Peter says, “I was right here, like we are right now, sitting like this, when I got the call from Michael saying Anthony was a rat. I was with you. I told you that. I told you exactly what Michael had told me.”

“Yeah, you did. Looked like you were gonna have a hard time keeping it to yourself. You were about to blow.”

“Uh-huh. And I told you exactly what we were gonna do to him.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So you knew.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “We ain’t getting anywhere like this, Peter.”

“I ain’t accusing you, Steve –”

“It sure as hell sounds like you are.”

“I just gotta be sure, that’s all. If it was you – I ain’t saying it was – but if it was, I can help. I can keep you safe. If you don’t tell me, though, I can’t help you. If the others find out for themselves, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

Steve looks back at him, still defiant, still adamant, and says nothing.

“You know what they’ll do,” Peter says. “They’ll cook you, man. They’ll put a blowtorch to your balls.”

“Do I look worried?” Steve says.

Peter has to admit that his brother does not. “No.”

“So what’s that tell you?”

“That either you had nothing to do with it, or else you’re a great damn actor.”

“I ain’t taken any lessons.”

Peter folds his arms, grits his teeth. It hurts him to doubt his brother, yet he continues to do so. He can’t think of anyone else it could have been. Anyone else who would have known, anyone else who would have been able to contact Anthony, to warn him.

“Who do you think it was warned him?” Peter says.

Steve blinks. “How should I know? But how about this.” He leans forward in his seat, hands clasped, brows narrowed. “Whoever it was, you got a more likely chance of finding them than you do Anthony, right? So you get hold of them, you bring them to me instead of him.”

“We find them, there’s no reason to ever think it was you.”

“Exactly, but at the same time, the motherfucker’s got you doubting me in the first place, and I’d say they’ve gotta pay for that, right? So bring them to me. I’ll show you on them what I’ll do to Anthony if we ever get him back.”

Peter looks at his brother for a long time, almost like he’s waiting for him to falter. He doesn’t, though. Remains steadfast.

Finally, Peter stands. He doesn’t feel any better now than he did before he came. “I’ll see you later, Steve.”

“Sure,” Steve says. “And I hope to hell that the next time you come around, it’s to talk about something