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

though. He hears him take a seat. Hears it creak as he leans forward.

Anthony raises his arm a little, peers out at him.

“Tell me about Alejandra,” Jeffrey says.

27

The last time Ben read anything about Tom Rollins, it was only in passing. Now, in his office, he looks him up, reads the file properly. The first thing that catches his eye, catches him off guard, is the fact he’s wanted. He went AWOL from the CIA, though the details are sketchy.

Ben peers over the top of his computer, makes sure no one is approaching. If anyone finds him reading this, they’ll have a lot of questions, and he doesn’t want to answer any of them. He chews the inside of his cheek, peeling at the strips of already ragged flesh from the last time he was biting on it. Lately, his cheeks aren’t getting a chance to heal.

Ben goes to the beginning. Tom joined the army at twenty-one, served three tours of Afghanistan. He never rose above infantry, but it’s noted that he never strove to. However, during his third tour, he was commended for bravery when he rescued two fellow soldiers, one of whom was wounded, from behind enemy lines – their unit was attacked; they got separated. Tom kept them alive out in the desert for five days and nights, returned them to camp. This feat caught the attention of the CIA, who recruited him, though it’s not clear what they had him doing.

Ben is able to infer what this means. He was off the books. Doing the dirty work. Black ops. All the stuff they won’t keep a record of.

He worked for the CIA for five years before abruptly going AWOL. His current age is thirty, though Ben can’t help thinking to himself how he looked older. Wonders at the kind of things he has seen, that he has done.

Ben closes the report on his computer, deletes it from his history. As he finishes, there’s a knock at his door. It’s Carly. “How you doing?” she says.

“I’m good,” he says.

“Hope you didn’t miss me too much last night,” she says.

“No, I … I kept myself busy.” He thinks of Tom Rollins.

“That’s good to hear. Anything interesting?”

“Not particularly. TV, read a book, y’know.”

She tilts her head toward his computer, as if she knows exactly what he’s just been looking at. “How’s the investigation going?”

“Not great,” Ben says. He sighs. “I’ve got Jake breathing down my neck. He wants results on it yesterday.”

“But you’ve got nothing?”

“Nothing worthwhile.”

She nods once, looking solemn. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to bail on you again tonight.”

“Something up?”

“I have to go out of town. It’s my dad’s birthday, so I’m off to see the folks.”

“Oh, really? Where do they live?”

“Fort Worth.”

“Planned for a while?”

“No, it’s a last-minute thing. I was talking to them last night, called to say happy birthday in advance, and we thought, what the hell? Why don’t I go visit? I’ve got the time.”

“Well, have a good one.” Ben smiles at her. “I’d say tell them happy birthday from me, but I’m pretty sure they don’t know who I am.”

She laughs. “No, not yet. I’ll be sure to tell him a friend passed on his regards.”

“A friend, huh? I feel so special.”

She winks at him. “I’ll make up for it when I get back. Then you’ll feel special.”

28

Senior Special Agent Eric Thompson has checked into a motel room under a different name. He messaged the room number to Carly, told her to come straight to the door, and to make sure she’s dressed casual.

She knocks, and when he answers, she says, “Is this casual enough for you?” She wears jeans, a plain white blouse tucked into them.

Eric is in jeans too, and a black T-shirt, which throws her a little. She’s never seen him in anything other than a suit, even in his free time. He notices how she looks at him. “Suits me, don’t you think?”

“Going for the blue-collar look?”

“You trying to tell me I don’t pass?”

“Maybe I just know you too well.”

“Maybe. And yes, you look acceptable. Come on in.”

Carly steps into the room. She notices the bed is still made, unrumpled, like it hasn’t so much as been sat on. There is no sign of bags – Eric isn’t staying here long; he isn’t staying here at all. It’s just a meeting place for them, away from potentially prying eyes.

He goes to a seat in the corner of the room, next to the top of the bed. There is another chair in the opposite corner, next to the closet. He motions for Carly to take it. She pulls it out of the corner, brings it closer to him. Eric waits for her. He sits with one leg crossed over the other, his hands resting on his thigh.

Eric Thompson comes from money. He’s a native Texan, as is his whole family, going back generations. They come from oil money. Some of that money no doubt influenced Eric’s speedy rise through the ranks of the FBI. He’s in Fort Worth ostensibly investigating the murder of one of the killed informants from the Night of the Long Knives Part Two.

In reality, being here keeps him out of Dallas. It’s important he stays out of Dallas for a little while longer. Keeps him away from the scene of the coming crime, and gives him the space and distance to organize and coordinate things more freely.

“How are things going back home?” he says.

“They’re coming along,” Carly says.

Eric nods; then he seems to get bored all of a sudden. He looks around the room. He’s a tall man, lithe, looks like he does a lot of running, or swimming perhaps. His neck is long; his skin is smooth and pale. He begins to tap perfectly manicured fingers on the top of his knee. “I don’t like these places,” he says.

Carly blinks. “Fort Worth?”

“No, motels.”

“Occupational hazard,” she says. “I’ve lost count of the number I’ve had to stay in over the years.”

Eric nods