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

able to help him. But he’s lied to him, right to his face, twice now. Like he thinks he’s an idiot. Like there’s anyone else could have helped Anthony. Like Steve truly is loyal to the cause.

Peter knows what they will do to Steve. They’ll get the truth. He won’t lie to them, not when they’re doing to him what they didn’t get to do to Anthony. When they’re setting upon him with blowtorches, when they’re prying off his kneecaps with a claw hammer, when they have his balls in a vice. Peter won’t take part in it, but he can’t deny what his brother has done any longer. Steve has betrayed them all. Peter is loyal to the Right Arm, loyal to the cause of white supremacy. To keep his suspicions to himself is just another form of betrayal.

“You gonna play,” the man to his left says, “or are you gonna daydream the night away?”

Peter forces a grin, looks at his cards for the first time. “Let’s play,” he says. “I hope y’all brought enough cash, boys, ’cause I’m feeling lucky tonight.”

Before he can play his first hand, the lights go off.

“God damn it,” someone says.

“The hell’s going on?” someone else says.

“You gonna go deal with that, Peter?” the man to Peter’s left says. “Could be the fuse box.”

Peter doesn’t think it’s the fuse box. He’s on high alert. He opens his mouth, about to bark orders, to get the others prepared, to let them know something is about to go down, when a window breaks. The sound of shattering glass fills the room. Something rolls across the ground. Peter jumps to his feet. He turns to it, sees it moving. Small and round. Like a grenade. He turns just as it goes off. It’s not a grenade, not exactly. It’s a flash-bang.

The others cry out, blinded. Their chairs scrape back as they either get to their feet or fall to the ground.

Peter is on the ground. He managed to close his eyes, avoid the worst of the flash, but not all of it. He’s perhaps not as badly blinded as the others, but he is momentarily sightless, the flash still going off behind his eyes. He can’t see anything.

But he can hear.

He hears just fine as the shooting starts.

31

Tom wears the night-vision goggles loaned from his father, is armed with the M4 Carbine. He enters through the back door, runs around after he throws in the grenade, kicks it down. There should be eight men inside, including Peter. He kept track of the men coming and going as he waited in his car. Is prepared to allow for one or two extras that may have slipped by. A quick glance of the room, he sees eight.

He starts firing. Headshots, takes them out. The men panic, scream, run blindly, trying to feel their way out and to avoid the gunfire. Tom picks them off, one by one. He sees their swastika tattoos. Their 88s. Their Norse gods and their crossed grenades, their eagles. He focuses on the ones who have guns, who reach for them. Puts them down before they can cause trouble.

One of them dives over the bar, takes cover behind it. He re-emerges with a shotgun in hand. He fires carelessly into the darkness. Tom kicks over the table the men were gathered around, scatters their cards and their cash, takes cover behind it.

The shotgun blasts are wild. He hears another of the Nazis cry out, wounded by his own friend. None of the shots come anywhere near Tom or the table. Tom turns, aims over the top of it. He shoots the shotgun-wielder through the mouth. He drops the gun, goes down.

It’s quiet now.

Tom looks around, through the goggles, counts up the bodies. Seven. One is missing.

Peter. There is no sign of Peter.

Tom turns in time to see him charge. Tom is tackled to the ground by the immense bulk of the man. Peter was more prepared than his friends. He got out of the way, took cover while Tom was shooting. Spotted him in the dark, waiting for the shots.

Tom uses his momentum against him. Rolls through with the attack. They hit the ground. Tom holds onto the front of Peter’s shirt, pulls him in close, is able to flip him over the top of his head. Peter rolls with it, is quick to his feet, attacks again as Tom reaches for the M4. He swings a punch, but Tom is able to block it. He hits hard and fast, tags Peter with a couple of shots to the ribs, another to the solar plexus to drive the wind from him, then raises a leg and kicks him away, creates some separation.

Peter spits out the side of his mouth, catches his breath. Tom can see him clearly through the goggles. He wonders what he looks like to Peter. Just a dark shadow, faster and stronger than expected.

“Who are you?” Peter says, keeping his eye on the shadow, circling.

Tom doesn’t answer. Peter attacks again. He manages to land a glancing blow to the side of Tom’s head, but Tom travels with it, is able to quickly shake it off. He lands an uppercut right under Peter’s jaw, shatters his teeth. He doesn’t go down, but he does stumble back, spitting blood and broken teeth.

“Fuck!”

Peter’s getting frustrated. He’s never had this happen to him before, especially not with someone smaller than him. He’s used to having his way, throwing his weight around. He’s never been in a fight he hasn’t won. This has made him careless, made him think he’s invincible. He cannot conceive of an opponent he may not be able to defeat.

He attacks once again, determined not to be undone. He’s careless now, though. He comes in swinging wildly, desperate to land a punch, sure that at least one heavy punch will put this interloper down, allow him to have his way.

Tom doesn’t give him the chance. He ducks, blocks, does not allow him