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

closed in contemplative prayer. Now, he realizes, everyone is reacting much like his wife. They’re murmuring; they’re all asking the same questions. They turn toward the entrance.

“Daddy?” Danielle says, tugging at his jacket.

He knows what the sound is, the first sound. They all do.

It’s gunfire.

Then it’s screaming. Panic. People are fleeing.

Abigail holds him tight. She looks at him. “This is it,” she says. She looks terrified, but she sounds resigned, as if she’s been waiting for this moment. Here it is. It’s arrived, as she always knew it would. “They’ve come for you.”

69

The bodyguards move on the van as soon as it comes to a stop. Chuck is ready for them. He sees how they reach inside their jackets, to their holsters.

Chuck is faster. He has the assault rifle. He blasts them, drops them fast. Behind him, on the other side of the street, the gathered reporters scream. They start to run. Chuck has pulled up his face covering, concealing everything but his eyes and his shaved head. He pumps the rifle in the air, screams, “White power!” As instructed. At least one of them will have heard it and gotten a good look at the ‘tattoos’ adorning his bare arms.

He has the detonator. The van is in place. He starts to move, to get away from it. Get to a car, hot-wire it, get the few blocks away necessary before he hits the button, blows this whole neighborhood to kingdom come.

It’s been louder than he would have liked so far. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’s had to park closer than he was supposed to. Still, he’s got the head start. He’s got the advantage. Senator Seth Goldberg will never clear the area in time. With how many explosives they’ve got packed into the back of the van, it’s gonna be a broad radius.

Chuck is crossing the road. A car is coming for him. It’s the one that’s been chasing him, the one he thought he’d finally given the slip.

It’s coming right for him.

70

The driver dives out of the way just in time. Tom manages to clip his boot on the windshield. Not as much as he would have liked.

Tom stomps on the brakes, skids to a halt. He jumps out of the car, heads for the man.

He’s rolled through, got back to his feet. He reaches for a gun. Tom is faster, kicks it out of his hand. The guy reacts quick. Jabs with his left hand, catches Tom in the mouth, bloodies him.

Tom stumbles back. There was force behind the blow. He gets a good look at his opponent. He sees the tattoos on his arms, the way they have smeared. They’re not real. Tom guesses he’s ex-armed forces, more than likely a mercenary now. He has the hard-edged look, similar to Tom’s own. Tom sees the way the merc is appraising him, too, coming to the same conclusions.

“I ain’t got time for you,” the merc says.

There are sirens in the distance, coming their way.

“I ain’t got the time for you, neither,” Tom says. “Yet here I am.”

The merc reaches down to his boot, pulls out a knife. A KA-BAR. Tom pulls out his own. The merc sees it. “I ain’t surprised.”

“Neither am I.”

They don’t circle, don’t feel each other out. No time. Straight down to business. The merc slashes first. Tom is able to avoid it, but the merc is fast. He cuts again, this time catching Tom across the chest, then down the arm.

Tom feels the blood running warm down his body. He’s aware, all the while, of the encroaching sirens. Knows the merc is, too.

“What d’you say we pick this up at a later date?” the merc says. “I can’t wait here for those cops to arrive, and I don’t reckon you can either.”

“I ain’t letting you leave,” Tom says. “What’s in the van?”

The merc has a twinkle in his eye. “You’ll know soon enough.”

The merc stabs, going low. Thought Tom wasn’t expecting it, wasn’t ready for it. Sloppy. Tom catches his arm. He drives the point of his elbow down into the meat, then twists the arm, does it again near the wrist. It snaps.

The merc drops the knife. Tom hits him in the face with his elbow. The merc stumbles, goes down. The merc pushes himself back, looks down at his broken wrist, at the knife out of reach. At Tom above him. He looks at the van. At the synagogue.

“Shit,” he says. He reaches into his pocket, pulls something out. He pulls down his face covering so Tom can see him smile with bloodied teeth. “Fuck it,” he says, grinning.

Tom sees what’s in his hand. It’s a detonator. He was right. The van is filled with explosives. The merc grins wider, seeing it dawn on Tom what is about to happen. The merc won’t be beaten, won’t fail his mission, even if it means taking himself out, too.

Tom throws the knife. It sinks into the merc’s wrist. He cries out, drops the detonator. Tom is on him before he can recover. He snaps his neck.

He takes back his knife, wipes off the blood on the merc’s shirt. He picks up the detonator. Looks around. Realizes there is a crowd filing out of the synagogue. They’re all looking at him. They’ve been watching. They’re all tense. They don’t know who he is, what side he’s on. Some of them have seen the Nazi imagery on the other man’s arms, though. They understand.

Tom realizes he recognizes the man at the front of the crowd. He’s seen him on the television. He’s heard about him, too, on the radio. The senator. The one with the Jewish name. He is one of the few who have seen the merc’s arms. He understands.

Tom goes to him. He holds out the detonator. “The van’s a bomb,” he says. “Don’t let anyone else have this.”

The senator takes the detonator. He looks down at it, eyes narrowed, understanding. He looks at Tom, and he nods.