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

and a few other members. He can’t remember who took the pictures. There are shots of Peter and Ronald, Peter and Michael, Peter and Harry. Harry is with Michael. They were all hanging out in the bar where Peter was killed. They were having a party. Harry can’t remember what for. Celebrating some kind of victory, maybe a big sale. It might’ve been after a successful hunting trip out at Michael’s cabin. They hold up beer bottles. They’re all smiling, laughing.

Harry’s eyes are burning. He closes the pictures on his phone. He clears his throat, presses his palms into his eyes, then takes another draw on his cigarette.

His phone begins to ring. He looks at it, surprised. It’s Michael. “Hey.”

“What’re you doing?” Michael says.

“Nothing,” Harry says, confused, feeling as if Michael can see him, can see his near-teary state, is demanding to know what has gotten him so worked up. “I’m still in bed.”

“In bed? You sleeping? I wake you?”

“No, I wasn’t sleeping. What’s up?”

“I’ve been trying to call Ronald. He ain’t answering. You heard from him?”

“I ain’t tried to get in touch today. What d’you need him for?”

“You know what I need him for.”

Harry grunts. “You’re bringing that forward, huh?”

“I don’t see any point in holding out any longer,” Michael says. “You saw him yesterday.”

“That’s right.”

“How was he?”

“Fine. He was fine.”

“You live closer to him – how long’s it gonna take to get dressed, get over there and check in?”

“It’ll take two minutes to pull on some jeans and a shirt, about twenty to get over there.”

“I don’t like not hearing from him. Not with what’s going on, what’s happened to Peter. Go check on him, make sure he’s all right, then get back to me. And if he is all right, kick his damn ass and ask him why the hell he’s left me hanging.”

Harry is already getting out of bed, reaching for his jeans crumpled on the floor. “I’m on my way,” he says. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

Harry pulls on his clothes, then hurries from the house. He doesn’t run, but he’s walking faster than he ordinarily would. Drives a little faster than normal, too. When he gets to Ronald’s house, he sees his car parked in the driveway. Harry parks behind it, knocks on the door. There’s no answer. He tries the handle. It’s locked. Harry has a key. Ronald gave him his spare in case anything ever happened to him and Harry needed to get inside to get at their goods. He unlocks the door, enters.

“Ronald,” he calls to the house, “it’s me. You home?”

Ronald doesn’t respond. The house is eerily silent. Harry pulls his gun from his waistband, from under his jacket. He holds it down low, in both hands, feeling on edge. He glances into the front room, but he’s not there. Harry sucks his teeth, aware of how loud his footfalls are on the bare floorboards.

He goes upstairs, checks the rooms there. They’re empty, too. On the way back down, he picks up on a smell. It’s familiar to him. It worries him. It’s the smell of death. The smell of a body voiding itself.

Harry goes to the back of the house, to the kitchen. The only room he hasn’t investigated. He should have checked it before he went upstairs, but he thought for sure Ronald would just be sleeping. He hoped Ronald was just sleeping. If he was in the kitchen, he would have responded to Harry’s calls.

Ronald is in the kitchen. He’s tied down on the table, a wet towel over his head, some water still dripping to the floor. His face is covered, but Harry knows it is him.

He makes sure the room is clear, that there’s no one else here, or outside the window, before he steps into it, goes to Ronald. He presses two fingers to the side of his wet neck, searching for a pulse. There isn’t one. He’s dead, but Harry already knew this, really.

He backs out of the room, still clutching the gun. He leaves the house, hurries back to his car. Drives away from the house, from the killer who may still be lurking. He parks down the road, looks around, checks his mirror while he pulls out his phone and makes a call to Michael. “Ronald’s dead.”

“Shit,” Michael says after a sharp intake of breath. “What happened?”

“Looks like he was tortured.”

“Tortured?”

“Waterboarded.”

“What the fuck? Who we dealing with, here?”

“If they’re friends of Anthony’s, they were probably asking about us. Trying to find out who was involved, where we’re at.”

Michael is silent while he considers this. “You’re right,” he says. “Ain’t nothing else they could’ve been asking him about.”

“They’re picking us off,” Harry says. “First Peter, now Ronald. What we gonna do? We can’t just sit around, let this happen.”

“No. Fuck that. We strike back. Get yourself over here. We’re gonna have to do this alone.”

49

Ben goes to Carly’s home.

All day, he has had to be near her with the suspected knowledge of who she really is, and what she has done. He’s had to force smiles, small talk, to act comfortable. To be himself, how he usually is. And all the while, he’s been watching her, searching for some kind of clue that would give away her true nature.

Nothing. She hides it well. She looks the same to him as she always has.

“What’s wrong with you?” she said, coming up on him from behind, surprising him.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got that look on your face, when you’re thinking about something; you’re getting yourself all worked up.”

The inside of his mouth tasted like blood. He’d been chewing hard on his cheek, so much so he’d had to move to the other side of his mouth. “Just work stuff,” he said.

She nodded, made a face like she understood, because she was living it too. “Are you free tonight?”

“No,” he said, almost too fast. “I’m not, sorry. I’ve got work to do. I’m swamped.”

“Sure,” she said, like no big deal. “Maybe tomorrow,