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

Tom grunted. “I’m sure you can guess why.”

“Oh, I’ve been reading all about your recent exploits,” she said, smiling. “Should I be hailing you as a national hero, Mr. Rollins? Seems everyone else is.”

“Not everyone,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

Cindy went to her computer, sat down with one leg tucked under herself. “I figured.”

“You said, last time, that you can forge documents, create new identities.”

“I’m not sure I said that second part.”

“I read between the lines. I watched you work. I have faith in your abilities.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Rollins.” She winked at him. “What’re we talking here – new driver’s license? Passport?”

“Yes, and yes.”

“You’re going overseas?”

“I’m crossing a border.”

Distracted suddenly from these memories, Tom sees something up ahead. Cars parked in the middle of the road. Flashing lights. Looks like an accident. So far his journey has been uneventful, the road mostly devoid of other vehicles. He slows in preparation.

When he gets close enough, he can see what’s happened. A crash. Looks like two cars were racing each other, both of them pointing the same way, the direction Tom is going in. The one on the wrong side of the road has sideswiped the other while overtaking. Tom sees the passenger-side wheel has popped, causing the driver to lose control, to swerve across the road, hit the other, cause his front end to buckle. There are skid marks on the road where the two cars, entangled, have dragged each other forward, the drivers’ feet slammed down on the brakes.

The Highway Patrol is present. Tom can see them on either side of the crash, one on the left and one on the right, directing traffic. On the opposite side of the crash, there are two other cars waiting to get by. The road is blocked, and they have to go onto the desert, directed by the patrolman waving them on.

The drivers of both cars are unharmed. Tom spots them standing way off to one side, sheepish, heads bowed and hands clasped, while another of the patrolmen admonishes them, questions them, takes their details. It could have been worse, Tom knows. There could be blood baking on the asphalt right now.

Tom gets close. There is a plain black baseball cap on the passenger seat. He brushes the hair back off his forehead, pulls the cap on. He’s already wearing sunglasses. Wants to cover as much of his face as possible.

The patrolman directing traffic on Tom’s side motions him to stop, points where to go. When he sees Tom’s window is open, he calls, “Take your time – it’s rough there.”

Tom nods, drops a gear, makes his way slowly round the crash. The uneven surface below rocks him side to side. Stones scrape the bottom of his car. He can hear sand thrown up by his spinning wheels. He goes slower. Hits a big rock, judging by the almighty thud he hears underneath, from the front, throwing him forward. Tom grits his teeth, expels air through flaring nostrils, is glad to get off the desert sand and crawl back up onto the road. The patrolman on the other side, seeing him emerge, tips the brim of his hat, salutes him. Tom raises a hand to wave in response. He drives on. Puts distance between himself and the crash scene.

It’s far behind him when the knocking starts. Tom isn’t sure he hears it at first. Thinks it might just be something carrying on the wind. But then he starts to feel it, the way the car jerks in his grip. The way it shudders. The knocking gets louder.

Tom remembers the thud as he circled the crash, briefly crossed the desert. “Shit.” Whatever it is, he’s going to have to check it. There’s no way he’s going to make it another seven hundred miles with something knocking under the hood of his car.

There’s a sign for the next town. He has to turn off for it. Brenton, ten miles. This is not a detour he wants to take, but it is necessary. He manages to make it eight before smoke starts billowing out from the front of the car, from under the hood, obscuring his view through the windscreen. The engine dies.

Tom pulls to the side of the road, doesn’t attempt to restart the engine. It would only cause more damage. He takes a deep breath, remains calm. Gets out of the car. It is no cooler outside than it is in. The smoke, at least, is settling. It is not billowing out as it was.

Hands on hips, he looks up and down the road. There are no cars coming. He wipes the sweat from his face, flicks it onto the road, half-expecting it to sizzle. He waits until the smoke dies to a faint rising wisp, and still nothing has passed him. Nothing he can wave down, nothing to give him a tow.

In the distance, through the haze in the air, he thinks he can see Brenton. It’s not too far. He could leave the car, just pick up a new one, but it looks like a small place, doubts it has a dealership. There’s bound to be a garage in Brenton, though. Somewhere that can fix him back up, send him on his way.

Tom kicks a stone off the road. “Well, fuck.”

He reaches into the car, releases the handbrake, takes it out of gear, and starts pushing.

GET WRONG TURN NOW

About the Author

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Paul Heatley left school at sixteen, and since then has held a variety of jobs including mechanic, carpet fitter, and bookshop assistant, but his passion has always been for writing. He writes mostly in the genres of crime fiction and thriller, and links to his other titles can be found on his website. He lives in the north east of England.

Want to connect with Paul? Visit him at www.PaulHeatley.com or