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

They leave him to it. Leave him alone.

Outside, Anthony tires sooner than he expected he would. He finds a place to sit and rest on a tree stump. He looks through the chain-link fence, out across the fields beyond. The grass is long. It sways to and fro in a breeze that feels cool and good upon his face.

He presses a tentative fingertip to the edge of the bandaging wrapped around his head. He goes higher, probes at the wound in his skull. It stings. He quickly snatches his hand back as a throbbing pain courses through his brain, sending a wave of nausea through his whole body.

His arm itches in its cast. He doesn’t feel sorry for himself. He’s too angry for that. Angry at his brother, off in Harrow. Angry at his father, for calling him in the first place.

Angry at himself.

Angry at Ben Fitzgerald.

Angry at the Right Arm Of The Republic.

Angry at the world.

When he tries to think about Alejandra, to remember what she looked like, all he sees is Peter standing above her, putting a bullet through her face. That is the face that comes to him. Holed and bloody.

He told her that he was undercover five months ago. Told her how it happened, too. How he’d been selling drugs, trying to provide for them, for the baby. She wasn’t happy, not about any of it. She looked like she wanted to hit him, ask him how he could have been so stupid, so careless.

Anthony had asked himself the same questions, so many times.

He’d had to keep her secret from the Right Arm. They never went out together anymore, not for a walk, not even for groceries. She had to attend all her birthing classes by herself; Anthony couldn’t run the risk. He told the Right Arm he lived elsewhere, gave them the address of a friend who would let him stay over on the nights that he needed to be there, whenever they needed to pick him up for something. Anthony spent all of his free time trying to comfort Alejandra, promising her that once it was over, they would flee, start over somewhere new. It would be done before the baby was born.

All he had to do was find out about the attack. What the Right Arm had planned. Once he fed that info to Agent Fitzgerald, that would be it, it would all be over.

He tried. He tried so damn hard. He got as close to the Right Arm council as he could without getting his own seat at the table. Tried to get closer. Even snuck around of his own accord, spied on them, taking his very life in his own hands. There was no hazard pay, but he did it to get it done. And what did he find?

Nothing.

There was nothing to find.

As close as he got, no one knew a thing. He was subtle about it, of course, but he always got his point across. Steve didn’t know anything, but then again, Steve wasn’t interested in that life. He was doing what he did to keep his brother off his back. As for Peter himself, Anthony reached out to him, too. Told him that if they ever needed him for anything heavy, if they ever had anything planned to go down, that they could rely on him. Peter had given him a sidelong look, raised an eyebrow. “Sure,” he’d said, as if overwhelmed by the newbie’s zeal. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

It was taking too long. No matter what he did, what he said, how much willing he showed, they kept him at arm’s length. A long vetting process – too long. He was getting frustrated. He was missing out on the pregnancy. If it went on much longer, he was going to miss the birth. He told himself, if he was still undercover when Alejandra went into labor, that was it. He was done. Fuck Agent Fitzgerald, and fuck his conspiracy theory – Anthony was out. Fuck the consequences. They’d flee, and they’d hide out. With the help of his father, they’d likely never be caught.

So he thought.

He thinks about the phone. He knows Agent Fitzgerald would have been the one to bring it. Knows now, too, that Agent Fitzgerald had anticipated his potential escape plan, had found out where Jeffrey was, was keeping tabs on the commune in case he ever needed to come calling.

And then Anthony was found out.

Anthony tries to keep his eyes open. When he blinks, he sees her. Dead. Her due date is coming up. Tears are running down his face.

One of the guards on the other side of the fence, weighed down with weaponry he doesn’t look strong enough to carry, stops as he gets near, sees Anthony. He comes up to the fence, looking concerned. “Hey,” he says. “Are you all right?”

Anthony wipes his face. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” The guard raises an eyebrow, not believing. He can see the tears still in Anthony’s eyes.

Anthony stares at him, doesn’t say another word until he backs down, has to lower his face. “I said I’m fine,” Anthony says. “Even if I wasn’t, I ain’t gonna tell you about it, toy soldier. Now get outta here. Leave me alone.”

The guard moves on, grumbling to himself as he goes. Anthony hears the word asshole. He doesn’t care. He’s been called worse.

43

Tom goes to Ronald’s house. He parks down the road, same place he has every other time he’s come here. Soon after he pulls up, Ronald emerges from the house. Tom sinks down in his seat. Ronald goes straight to his own car, gets in, pulls out. He heads the same way he did when Tom followed him. Tom doesn’t follow him this time. He wonders if he’s off to make another collection.

Tom gets out, goes to the house. He goes around the back, glancing in the windows as he passes. The house is empty. The furnishings and