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

Tom breaks in through the back door, picks the lock. He steps into the kitchen, onto the linoleum, and stops, listens. The house is still. He walks through it, looking into the rooms. He sees pamphlets of white supremacist literature in piles on the coffee table in the front room, looking like they’re waiting to be distributed. Tom goes up the stairs. A couple of the steps creak. The house is uncarpeted. Tom is aware of every sound of every footstep he makes.

There are three rooms upstairs. One is the bedroom, the bed unmade. Above the bed is a poster of two blue-eyed and blonde-haired naked women. They give Nazi salutes, their other arms around each other’s waists. The other room is a spare, filled with detritus. There are some unused weights gathering dust and cobwebs, more of the pamphlets that Tom spotted downstairs, and piles of clothes, a couple of old pairs of boots. The room between the two is the bathroom. There is a wet towel dumped in the corner, filling the air with a potent smell of dampness. The spaces between the tiles above the bathtub are filled with black mold.

Tom goes into the spare room. He looks out the window. It has a view of the street where Tom has parked his car. The car is beneath a tree, the view through the windshield obscured. Tom goes into the corner of the room. He takes a seat, and he waits.

A few hours pass. Tom watches the sky out the window opposite. He listens to the road outside. Only a couple of cars go by. Finally, Ronald returns. His car pulls onto the driveway. The door opens, the house’s front door opens, then the trunk opens. Ronald has been on another run. Tom hears him moving around downstairs, footfalls on the exposed wood.

Ronald doesn’t come upstairs. The footfalls stop. He starts talking, but Tom can only hear his voice. He’s on the phone. The brief conversation ends. The footfalls do not resume. Tom assumes he has taken a seat.

Twenty minutes later, another car pulls up out front. There’s a knock on the door. Ronald lets whoever it is in. Tom listens closely. Their voices are muffled. One of them laughs. Finally, he hears that it’s Harry. Ronald says his name.

They make small talk. Harry has come to make the collection. They talk about the drugs and about money. This isn’t of interest to Tom, but he continues listening in case they say something he might want to hear.

They talk about Peter. Ronald asks if there’s a funeral date yet. Harry tells him no, but he’ll let him know as soon as he hears something. Finally, Harry leaves. Ronald moves around downstairs; then finally he falls silent again. The television comes on. He settles in. Tom could likely make his move now, creep down and take him out. He waits. The evening is coming in. The darkness is deepening. The later it gets, the less likely it is Ronald is going to receive any unexpected visitors.

Tom’s eyes adjust to the dark. He familiarizes himself with the room. Marks out objects that are a trip risk. It gets late. The television abruptly falls silent. Ronald yawns, then groans as he gets to his feet. Tom hears him cross the floor; then he’s coming up the stairs. Tom gets ready.

Ronald reaches the top. He groans again, catches his breath, then goes into the bathroom. Tom gets to his feet. He goes to the wall next to the door, presses himself against it. He can hear Ronald pissing. It goes on for a while. Finally, the toilet flushes. There’s the sound of running water, of Ronald splashing it over his face. He leaves the bathroom.

Out on the landing, Tom makes his move. He grabs Ronald from behind, wraps an arm around his neck, pressing down on his carotid. Ronald tries to struggle, tries to swing him around, to force him back. Tom stands firm. Cuts off the oxygen to Ronald’s brain. Ronald goes limp. His body sinks to the floor. Tom lowers him, makes sure he’s out; then he scoops him up, puts him over his shoulder, and carries him back down the stairs.

44

Carly goes to a warehouse in downtown Dallas. Ostensibly, the warehouse is abandoned. It went out of business years ago; it should be empty. She knows it’s not.

As she approaches, she spots the faint outline of a man on the roof against the night sky, watching her approach. If she didn’t know he was there, if she hadn’t been looking for him, she’s not sure she would have seen him. Her throat feels dry. Her heart is pounding. She grits her teeth, takes a deep breath. She’s a professional. She won’t be intimidated by them. They work for the same person she does, and, more than that, they’re just a bunch of mercenaries. She’s an FBI agent. They’re nothing.

She pulls the car to a stop, kills the lights and the engine, but she remains inside. She pulls out her phone, dials a number. A gruff voice answers. It’s Chuck Benton. “You here?” he says.

“I’m outside. One of your boys on the roof has seen me.” She feels satisfied letting him know she picked out one of his guards.

Chuck grunts, then hangs up. Ahead, she sees a door open at the side of the building. He stands there, lit from behind by weak light, sliding his phone back into his pocket. Carly gets out of the car, goes to him.

“Agent Hogan,” he says once she’s close enough, looking her over and smiling.

Carly does not like the feel of his eyes running over her skin. “Eric wants to know how things are coming along.”

“Inside,” Chuck says, stepping aside to let her through. He closes the door, says, “Things are coming along well. He didn’t hire some two-bit operation – he hired the best, and he knows that.”

Carly glances around