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

“For now, go back to your department,” Jake says. “Do not say a word to anyone about what you have told me here. I’ll deal with this. The situation is well in hand, now. You’ve done the right thing.”

Gerry nods, getting to his feet. “Thank you, sir,” he says. “Thank you. Please, I’m sure Ben thinks he’s doing the right thing. I just think he’s doing it the wrong way.”

“I understand,” Jake says. “And you’re right. And it breaks my heart that he didn’t think he could trust me enough to come direct to me himself.”

Gerry nods again, smiles with relief, then leaves the office.

Jake watches the door after he has gone. He rests his hands flat on his desk and counts to ten in his head. When he’s sure Gerry will be gone, will have strode off to his office with an extra spring in his step, he reaches into his top drawer, pulls out a phone. He dials a number.

It’s answered by Senior Special Agent Eric Thompson.

“We have a problem,” Jake says.

59

Ben is in the basement. His gun cabinet is kept here, under lock and key. He brings out an assault rifle, ammunition, body armor.

Tomorrow, early, he is going to war. As soon as Tom arrives, he will tell him what is happening, and then they will move. From what Ben knows Tom has been doing in Harrow, he assumes he is already prepared for battle.

In the center of the basement there is a small table directly below the one hanging light bulb. There is one chair. Ben places his weapons here. The assault rifle, his handgun. He strips them both down, cleans them, loads them back up.

His mind is empty while he works, distracted. He’s glad for the calm. Before this, his thoughts were racing. He doesn’t know how he is going to explain what he has found out, the unofficial – and illegal – paths he has taken to get this information. That doesn’t matter right now, though. It can be dealt with after. His career pales in significance to what is being planned.

Another part of him believes the FBI will not fire him. They can’t. They’ll need to get to the bottom of who else within the department is dirty. After this, the only person they’ll be able to trust is him. They’ll need him. Him and Gerry. They’ll have to clean out the ranks.

Prior to cleaning the guns, Ben did his research. The sight of what they found planned on Carly’s laptop is burned into his brain. He checked locations, routes. He has it all committed to memory. He knows exactly where he needs to go first. If that fails, he knows where he needs to go next, and so on. He has mapped out every possibility in his head.

What cleaning the guns distracts him from most, however, is Carly herself.

He feels a mix of emotions. Mostly, sadness and betrayal. Occasional flashes of anger.

When he’s done, Ben leaves everything on the table. He sits back, looks over the weaponry he has cleaned and prepared. Thinks about holding it tomorrow. About using it.

He realizes he can’t taste blood. He’s not chewing his cheek.

He takes a deep breath and leaves the basement, goes upstairs. Now he has to wait for Tom. This will be the hardest part. He doesn’t know how long he will be. Hours yet. Ben will have to try to pass the time. It will be torturous.

As he reaches the top of the basement steps, the doorbell rings.

Ben freezes. Doesn’t move. The basement comes out into his hallway. He’s not far from the door. He peers around the corner of the wall, watching.

There’s a knock; then the doorbell rings again.

Ben goes to the door, checks through the spy hole. It’s Jake Lofton. He’s looking right back at the spy hole. He’ll have seen it darken, know that Ben is looking through it.

Ben’s heart races. Jake has never come to his home before. His thoughts go immediately to Gerry, wondering if he’s said something.

“I know you’re there, Ben,” Jake says. “You gonna leave me standing out here all night?”

Ben opens the door. “I was just wondering to what I owe this unexpected pleasure,” he says, playing it cool.

“Can I come in?” Jake says. He wears an overcoat, both hands plunged deep into the pockets, protection against the cold.

Ben steps aside. Jake strides through, the bottom of his coat flapping. Ben hesitates once he’s inside, checks the road for anyone else, for suspicious cars, then closes the door. He turns.

Ben hears something; then he’s flung back against the door. He’s been hit in the chest. He looks down. He’s bleeding. He looks up. Jake is holding a smoking gun.

“We’ve come too far now,” Jake says, “for it to be screwed up by a dirty operative like you.”

Ben coughs blood. It tastes thick in his throat. He knows this isn’t good. He goes limp, slides down the door. He lands on his backside, then rolls over. He lets his eyes close, lies very still. Holds his breath.

Jake comes closer, crouches down beside him. Shakes him. “Who’s your friend, Ben?” he says. “Who are you working with? Where is he?” He shakes Ben harder. Ben keeps his eyes closed, stays as limp as he can. It’s not hard to do. Even now, playing dead, he can feel death creeping up on him. He hasn’t got much longer left.

“Shit,” Jake says. He stands. Pulls out his phone, dials a number. “It’s done,” he says, speaking into the phone. “No, I didn’t get a name. He wouldn’t talk. Look, don’t worry about it. It’s only supposed to be one other guy; we can deal with it. Listen, it’s done, there’s no point getting worked up over how it happened. We don’t have time for this.” He hangs up the phone. Ben can feel him looking down at him.

Finally, he leaves the house. The door remains