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

approaching you on sight,” Jake says. “Old, young, cop – I don’t give a shit. If there’s a risk of you being exposed, of the alarm going up, of anyone trying to stop you, blast the fuckers.”

Chuck’s grin broadens. “You ain’t gotta tell me twice, boss man.” He pats the assault rifle across his chest.

“Well,” Jake says, “you certainly look like you’re going to enjoy yourself.”

“If you ain’t happy in your work, you’re in the wrong line. Ain’t that right, boys?”

Chuck’s men, standing nearby, similarly strapped and armored, laugh and grunt their agreement.

Jake is pleased he has men of his own standing nearby. Here, alone, he’d feel outnumbered, uncomfortable. He has three inside the warehouse with him, another two outside, on the roof, keeping guard.

Jake checks his watch. “Then I won’t keep you,” he says. “It’s time to go. This is where we say goodbye. I doubt we’ll ever see each other again.”

“Sure you don’t wanna give us an escort? Make sure we get there nice and safe?” There is a joking tone to Chuck’s words, something of a taunt to them. Like he thinks it’s a joke they might need babying.

“Can’t be seen anywhere near you, not when you’re getting close to the target,” Jake says, not rising to the mockery, pretending like he hasn’t picked up on it.

“Please yourself,” Chuck says. “Enjoy the fireworks on the six o’clock news.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll make the midday news flash,” Jake says, stepping back, giving Chuck some space.

Chuck turns to his men. “All right, boys, showtime! Al, Jimmy, Pat – in the van. Dix, in the car, with me.” He pounds the side of his fist against the van. The van filled with explosives. Jake tries not to flinch, though he can’t help the grimace that forces its way onto his face. “Let’s go!”

The one called Dix goes to the warehouse door, pulls the chain to roll it up and open. Al, Jimmy, and Pat get in the van, all of them up front. Al drives. Chuck gets into the car behind them. They pull forward. Jake watches them go, a swelling in his chest, an increasing of the butterflies in his stomach. This is it. It’s like Christmas. So long planning and preparing, feeling like the day will never arrive, and now it’s finally here.

The van is outside. It’s on its way. Chuck stops the car so Dix can get in. He leaves the warehouse door wide open. They’ve left other items scattered around the warehouse, further proof that the Right Arm Of The Republic is responsible for what is about to happen, for the thousands of people about to lose their lives.

Jake turns to his men, ready to tell them to move, it’s time to go.

A shot rings out.

Jake spins around, looks to the van. It veers to the side, hits the chain-link fence enclosing the warehouse. Stops. Another shot. Jake hears glass shattering. He pulls out his gun, runs to the open door, remaining in cover. He sees the passenger door of the van open, one of Chuck’s men jumping out, pulling up his assault rifle. Before he gets a grip on it, there’s another shot. His head snaps to the side; there’s a spray of blood. He hits the ground.

“Shit!” Jake can’t see the shooter, where he’s firing from.

Chuck pulls the car to the back of the van, for cover. He and Dix jump out, duck low, get to the back of the car. He shouts to Jake, “Give us cover! We’ll get to the van. You make sure we get out of here!”

Jake nods, looks out, still can’t see anyone. He starts shooting blindly into the distance.

One of his men, on the other side of the open door, calls over, “Where are we firing, sir?”

“Anywhere!” Jake says. “Just fucking shoot!”

Jake’s men open fire too, bullets going in all directions. Jake prays one of them is heading the right way, prays harder that it finds its mark. He notices the men he had outside, the ones keeping watch, they’re not shooting.

Chuck and Dix make it to the van. They roughly drag out the bodies of their dead comrades, get in. The van jerks, spins its wheels as it twists to the side, getting out of the fence. Jake keeps shooting. The sniper isn’t firing back. Wherever he is, someone must be firing in the right direction, pinning him down.

The van is free. It gets away. It’s heading down the road. He prepares to pull back, into cover, to tell his men to do the same. They need to get out of here.

Then another shot rings out. The man to Jake’s right, on the other side of the door, goes down, then the one beside him. Another is hit in the knee. As he falls, another bullet takes him in the face.

Jake watches it happen in slow-motion. He’s never seen shooting like it. His men are dead. No doubt the ones on the roof are, too. He still hasn’t seen where the shots are coming from.

Then, as he pulls back, a bullet tears through his eye and out the back of his skull.

65

The van has a head start. Tom is in pursuit.

He doesn’t shoot at the van. He doesn’t know what’s inside, but he has a suspicion it can’t be anything good. Explosives are his guess. Why else would they be so determined to get it wherever it’s going? Everything hinges on the van, its contents.

He puts his foot down, tries to get alongside. The van swerves across the road, blocking him. This road is quiet, but soon they will reach one far busier.

The passenger leans out, raises an assault rifle. Tom’s window is down, the Beretta in his lap. He snatches it up, fires in that direction, knowing he won’t make the shot, but hoping to spook the passenger back into cover. It works.

The van reaches a crossroads. Without stopping, without looking, it swerves to the right, forcing the oncoming traffic to brake hard to avoid