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

Alejandra heads for the front door, grabbing the car keys on the way, while Anthony races to the bedroom, ducks down the side of the bed, grabs the bag he’s had packed for this emergency. He’s sweating. It’s burst upon his skin; it’s running down into his eyes. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his chest, can hear it in his ears, drowning out everything else.

Alejandra is outside already, in the car, in the passenger seat. She’s put the key in the ignition. Anthony leaves the house door open behind him. They won’t be coming back here. He dives into the driver’s seat, throws the pre-packed bag into the back. The engine roars into life, and he swings out onto the road, slams his foot down on the accelerator.

“Where we going?” Alejandra says, breathless.

“My dad’s,” Anthony says. “Only place we can go. It’s the only place that’s safe.” He’s cursing under his breath, thinking how they should have gone to his dad’s a long time ago, right at the start of all this shit. It was out of the way, off-grid – most importantly, it was safe. His father could have protected them. His father and all his friends.

Instead, he continued to take this stupid risk. Now it’s coming to bite them in the ass. All he can hope is they’ve gotten out in front of it.

They reach Harrow’s town limits. Anthony has one eye on the mirror all the way. There’s nothing behind them but darkness and streetlamps. No headlights. No cars. This doesn’t make him rest easy, but he’d be far more tense if there was something there. He needs to keep the space behind them empty. He presses his foot down harder.

Alejandra is watching the side mirror. “There’s nothing there,” she says, like she wants him to slow down. Both hands are resting protectively upon her stomach. She’s thirty-eight weeks pregnant. This is a high-stress situation. Anthony hopes it doesn’t shake her loose inside, put her into early labor. They can’t go to a hospital. They’ll have to wait until they reach his father.

“I know, baby,” he says. “But we can’t slow. We can’t stop ’til we get where we’re going.”

Then, out of the shadows, their world turns upside down.

Another car, out of the darkness, its lights off, waiting for them outside the town. Slams them in the side. Sends them rolling. Anthony hears the crunching of metal, the shattering of glass. Feels shards of it cutting his face and his arms. He hears screams – Alejandra’s and his own.

Then the car stops. It’s still, resting on its roof. The world is still spinning wildly in his head. Then there’s a creaking, a groaning, something being forced open. His door. He looks up, but everything is blurred. Beside him, there’s another creaking, another groaning; then he hears Alejandra being dragged from the car, scraping through the broken shards of glass. He hears her cries, her shouts, her protestations. This snaps him back to attention. He reaches out, trying to crawl through the open door, from the wreckage, but he’s still strapped in. The belt is loose suddenly, cut. Hands are upon him, strong, they drag him out. They dump him in the middle of the road.

“You fuckin’ piece of shit,” Anthony hears. Then he feels spit spatter upon his face.

The voice is familiar. He hears a few other voices. They’re all familiar.

He can’t shake the dizziness. It passed, briefly, when he heard Alejandra cry out, but it has returned. His vision flickers in and out of clarity. Just enough time to see who is here, gathered around them.

The Right Arm Of The Republic. All the elders. Here to deal with him personally.

Michael Wright, Harry Turnbull, Ronald Smith, and Peter ‘Terminator’ Reid. Peter’s brother is not here. Anthony is glad.

Harry kicks him across the face.

“Anthony, Anthony, Anthony.” It’s Michael’s voice. Michael is in charge. Leader and founder of the Right Arm Of The Republic. “You thought we’d never find out, huh?”

Alejandra is struggling. On the road, grit in his mouth, Anthony looks toward her. Peter has her. He holds her by the hair, bats away her hands, bloodied from the crash, while she struggles.

Michael crouches in front of Anthony, obscuring his sight. “Gotta admit, she’s real pretty for a beaner. I can see what made you so weak.”

Anthony takes a lunge, but he falls short. Realizes his arm is bent at a bad angle, that it dangles uselessly, that as it makes contact with the ground, it screams with pain.

Michael laughs at him. “And she’s pregnant, huh? Well, congratulations to you, Mr. Rollins. And here you’ve been hiding her away from us all this time. What’s it been, six months? That sound about right to you, Harry?”

“Far too fuckin’ long, whatever it’s been.”

“That’s true,” Michael says, nodding. “But here’s what really gets in my craw, more than your pregnant spic girlfriend.” He spits. “It’s that you’re a goddamn narc, you piece of shit.”

“We oughtta wrap this up,” Ronald says, out of sight. “This ain’t exactly out of the way. We ain’t been quiet, either.”

Michael waves him off. “Don’t you worry none, my man. We’re coming to the end. Ain’t much more I wanna say to this scumbag. Plenty I wanna show him, though.”

He stands back up, steps aside, so Anthony can see Alejandra and Peter again.

Peter catches his eye, makes sure he’s looking. Makes sure he sees the gun in his hand.

He’s not holding on to Alejandra anymore. Doesn’t have a handful of her hair. She’s lying flat on the road, her face bloodied, like she’s been struck. She lies, prone. Anthony sees her. Sees Peter. Sees the gun.

Peter raises the gun. It’s pointed at her belly. He pulls the trigger.

Anthony screams.

Peter raises the gun higher. He shoots Alejandra through the face.

Anthony screams harder. Screams until his throat burns, until his voice is gone.

Michael gets back in front of him. “Don’t