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

is forced to detour into the small town of Brenton, Texas, a place whose glory days are far behind it. A powerful criminal family, the McQuades, runs things now and they don’t take kindly to strangers.

When some of their thugs try to intimidate Tom, he pushes back – hard. The McQuades can’t stand for that - they have Tom beaten, arrested, thrown in jail.

If that was all they did, he’d probably let it slide, just leave town. But tough guy Earl McQuade makes a fatal mistake – he steals a pendant from Tom, a piece of jewellery given to him by the woman he loved.

Tom wants that pendant back and he’ll do whatever it takes to get it.

The McQuades have powerful allies – corrupt politicians and law enforcement, a lethal biker gang, a small army of foot soldiers. They’re not worried about Tom – one guy against all of us, what he can he do?

They’re about to find out.

Read on for a sneak preview of Wrong Turn.

PROLOGUE

It’s hot in the trunk of the car. Ike Thoreau gasps, feels like he can’t breathe. He calls for help with a dry and burning throat. He headbutts the lid, his arms bound behind his back with what feel like cable ties. There’s a bag over his head. The bag doesn’t help with the heat. Makes him feel hotter. Sweat gets in his eyes. His legs are free, though, and he uses them to kick out. The car is moving. He doubts they’re still in Kirkwood. Doubts there’s anyone out there can hear him.

They must’ve been waiting for him. He’d just got home when it happened. Just pulled up and parked his car after another late night at the offices of the Cullingworth County Times, trying to tell a story seemingly no one wants to hear. It was dark. He wasn’t looking around, wasn’t checking the streets, because why would he be? Despite everything, despite what he’s been looking into, what he’s found out, he never thought he was in any danger.

They came from behind. He still doesn’t know where they parked their car, where they lay in wait for him to approach his front door. He had his keys out, was looking down, when he heard the footsteps. They came so fast he didn’t have a chance to turn around. They body-checked him from behind, banged his forehead off his front door, one of them – he thinks there were two, thinks there are two – snuck in a kidney shot; then they dragged a bag down over his head. A burlap sack. It blocked out the world. Then he was dragged to the car, given another kidney shot every time he faltered. If he dragged his feet or made himself heavy, he was dealt a kick in the ass, a slap in the back of the head, anything to keep him moving. On the way, his arms were pulled back. His hands were clasped together, his wrists bound.

The two men were strong. Ike is not. Ike is tall, but he’s rail thin, has never put on the mass his father promised him always came to Thoreau men later in life, when they hit their thirties. He’s thirty-three now. He has a horrible feeling he might not make it to thirty-four.

When they bundled him into the car, they struck him in the back of the head. He doesn’t know what they used, but it was hard. He thinks it was more than just a fist. The narrow lens of the world within his burlap sack began to spin. His eyeballs swam. He went dizzy. Thinks he blacked out for a bit; he isn’t sure how long. Everything has happened so fast. As soon as he came round, he started hollering, started thrashing.

The car moves steadily. It doesn’t slow. No one tries to pull them over, to stop them. No one has heard his cries. Ike settles. Gulps. Breathes hard. The fibers of the sack get drawn into his mouth when he sucks in air. He coughs and splutters, and that makes things worse. The only sound, other than the engine and his ragged breathing, is the beating of his heart. It gets louder, deafening in his ears, until it’s all he can hear.

Then the car stops.

Ike freezes. After a journey in which he was so desperate for breath, he finds himself holding it in. Grits his teeth. Braces himself.

Car doors open and close. They’re coming to the back of the car. They’re coming to him. Ike wants to play it cool. He knows they’ll have heard his screams, heard his thrashing, but now, as they come for him, as they look upon him, he’s going to be tough. He won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him weak.

As the trunk opens, a whimper escapes him.

Two pairs of strong arms reach into his blind world, announce themselves by sound and touch. They haul him bodily from the car, drag him round the vehicle, the bag still over his head.

“Please,” Ike says. “What’s this about – come on, please, take the bag off, please. I don’t even – what’s this all about?”

His desire to be strong, to be cool, to be tough, it has faded quickly away. Now, all he wants is to end this night alive.

Only when he’s in front of the car, forced down to his knees, is the sack removed from his head. The headlights are on behind him, casting his shadow long across the desert floor. Something scuttles away at the furthest reaches of the light. Somewhere, far away, a coyote howls.

Ike understands. He hasn’t been kidnapped, brought out to the desert, and forced down to his knees with the headlights of a car behind him just to talk.

“Please,” Ike says, still begging. He doesn’t see what else he can do. “I don’t understand – is this because of –?”

“Will you just shut your fuckin’ mouth,” one of the men says, tired of the pleading. “Christ.”

Something connects in