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

was asked to ask. But apparently y’all are planning some big kind of attack, a real case of domestic terrorism, something big and dangerous like this country hasn’t had for decades.”

Ronald is confused. “Who the hell told you that?”

“Money trails, security cameras.”

“What?”

“What about Michael and Harry? They gonna do something? Maybe they’ve left you outta the loop?”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Ronald says, adamant. “They wouldn’t leave me out of anything. There’s never been a decision they made they didn’t bring me in on first.”

“That so?” Tom says. “Then let’s forget about the attack for now, because I believe you when you say you don’t know anything about it. Look at that, Ronnie, I believe you. We’re making real progress here, aren’t we?”

Ronald doesn’t respond to this.

“Let’s go back to the night you found out Anthony was working against you, shall we? Let’s go back to when you ran him off the road, and you found he wasn’t alone. His girlfriend was with him. You remember all this, right, Ronnie? It wasn’t all that long ago. So you find him with his girl – her name was Alejandra, by the way, Alejandra Flores, I want you to remember that – and you see that Alejandra is pregnant. You couldn’t miss it. She was real far along. I mean, you must have seen, right? Did you notice, Ronnie?”

Ronald looks scared to answer this.

“Sure you did. So here’s a question. If there’d been a child with them, an actual living, breathing, out-of-the-womb child, half-white, half-Latino, what would you have done then? Put a bullet between its eyes?”

Ronald doesn’t answer. Doesn’t want to answer. But Tom knows. He knows that this is exactly what they would have done. Tom raises the watering can.

“Hey, hey – what’re you doing?” Ronald is panicking. “I told you everything you wanted to know! I answered all your stupid questions!”

“You didn’t answer the last one,” Tom says without turning.

“Fuck you,” Ronald says. He chooses to be angry instead. He knows how this night ends for him. “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” He starts screaming for help.

Tom puts the towel back over his face, shoves it into his mouth. He starts pouring the water. He doesn’t stop. Ronald’s body spasms; it struggles; it strains at the bonds. The movements begin to slow, become languid. Tom empties the can. He fills it again, leaves the towel in place. By now, Ronald is still. There are choking, gagging sounds coming from the back of his throat. Tom returns to the top of the table, empties the can into his face once more. Ronald moves a little, but it’s not long before he’s completely still. Tom watches him choke to death.

46

Ben is sleeping.

As far back as he can recall, he’s never been able to remember his dreams. He’s always put it down to falling into too deep a sleep, tired and weary from the busy events of his daily life. Lately, however, he has been plagued. Nightmares. Visions of death and destruction. He finds himself running through the night, pursued. Eventually, it’s like he’s running in place; he can’t go fast enough. The person chasing him catches up, runs him down.

It’s Anthony. It’s usually Anthony, out for his blood.

Sometimes, it’s Tom.

Ben wakes in a cold sweat from these dreams. He wakes with the inside of his cheek chewed ragged, the taste of blood in his mouth and burning in his throat. Of course, this is only when he’s able to sleep at all. Some nights he just tosses and turns. He stares at the ceiling. He goes downstairs and paces the floor, fretting.

Tonight, he wakes to the sound of his buzzing phone.

He reaches for it, but doesn’t answer it immediately. He pauses, glances back, then remembers he is alone. Carly only returned from visiting her family in Fort Worth earlier tonight. She said she’ll be tired; she’ll stay at her own place; she’ll see him tomorrow at work.

The caller is Tom Rollins. Ben feels a lump in the center of his chest. He coughs, then answers. “Hello.”

“I’ve spoken to Ronald Smith,” Tom says.

Ben clears his throat, breathes through his nose. “Is Ronald still capable of speaking?”

“No.”

“Color me surprised.”

“Do you want to hear what he had, or not?”

“I’m listening.”

Tom tells him. Tells him how Ronald doesn’t know anything about a planned domestic terrorist plot, and doubts the others on the council do, either. Tom tells him that he believed Ronald.

“How can you be so sure?” Ben says.

“He wasn’t lying,” Tom says. “I know.”

Ben feels a cold chill run through him.

“I asked him about the mole.”

The chill intensifies. Ben’s throat is dry. “And?”

“He didn’t have a name.” Tom tells him how the call came unexpectedly. They didn’t have the number. The caller didn’t introduce themselves or explain who they were. All they did was tell them the truth of who Anthony was, and they had knowledge of the other undercover murders happening that night.

“He said it was a woman’s voice,” Tom says. “When they asked who she was, she told them they had friends in places they don’t know about. I assume she was referring to the FBI.”

Ben isn’t sure if his heart is still beating. He turns his head to the side of the bed where Carly usually sleeps. The pillow there is still indented with the shape of her head. His eyes go across the room, to the closet where he has hidden his old laptop, the one that was hacked.

His stomach sinks.

“You still there?” Tom says.

Ben grits his teeth. “I’ve been so blind,” he says.

“What?”

“All along. I’ve refused to see it, but it was right in front of me. It’s her. It was her all along.”

“You know who the mole is?”

“I …” Ben doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but at this point, he doesn’t think that is what he’s doing. “I think so.”

The laptop. It was never hacked. Gerry said as much. She watched him. Saw him type in his password. She accessed it for herself, either while he