Blood Line (A Tom Rollins Thriller Book 1)

by Paul Heatley

  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 it. This road leads to Dallas.

  Tom knew, when he went AWOL, that he needed to avoid big cities. CCTV everywhere. A much bigger chance of being seen, reported, caught. He had to stick to back roads, small towns. He knows, now, that if he goes to Dallas, if they make it all the way there, he will be seen. His image will be captured. Stopping them will not be quiet. It will draw attention. It will bring cops.

  If he goes left, it’s like he was never here.

  He doesn’t know what’s in the van. Doesn’t know what they have planned.

  There’s no other option, not really. He knows this. There’s no other choice.

  He puts his foot down, goes right, cuts into and through the traffic the same way the van did. Horns blare. He hears curses, sees some birds flipped in his direction. He doesn’t lose sight of the van. It’s cutting and weaving through the traffic. It nudges one car to the side to make space for itself. It moves fast for a van. Tom struggles to keep up. The van’s been worked on, he guesses. It’s been modified. Possibly for just such an occasion.

  Tom can’t keep up, but he stays close enough he doesn’t lose sight of it. Follows its trail. He goes between cars, too, his foot flat to the floor, pushing the engine for all it has. He spots a gap and takes it.

  Getting too close won’t make a difference. He can’t stop them, not here, not without causing destruction. At least if he can see them, he can follow them, potentially cut them off if he finds an opening.

  The passenger leans out again. He’s holding the assault rifle. Cars see it; they slam on their brakes. They skid, go sideways. The passenger starts shooting, aiming for wheels and vehicle bodies. The cars hit each other. The passenger is creating a barricade, stopping Tom from following.

  Tom’s eyes scan, thinking fast. A verge, to the left. A way around. He mounts it, feels all four wheels momentarily leave the ground. The car kisses asphalt again, on the other side of the crash. It throws him around in his seat. Smoke rises from the tires, burning rubber.

  He continues the chase.

  66

  Chuck watches in the mirror, sees how their pursuer gets around the pile-up Dix has caused. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “This guy don’t fuckin’ quit, huh?”

  “Shit,” Dix says, getting back inside. “How far out are we?”

  “Not far. Five more minutes, tops.”

  Wind whistles through the bullet holes in the windshield. The shots that killed Al, Jimmy, and Pat. The smell of their death is thick in the cab. Their blood is on the steering wheel, sticky on Chuck’s gloved hands. Glass crunches beneath them whenever they move on the seats. One of the bullet holes is right in front of Chuck, at eye level. He has to duck down a little to avoid the hard wind blowing through.

  “Try it again,” Chuck says.

  “Get some more cars behind us and I will,” Dix says.

  Chuck starts nudging through vehicles, forcing them aside. The front of the van must be a mess of dents and scratches. “How many more do you want?”

  “He got around the last one,” Dix says. “Give me some more.”

  The car that Chuck and Dix were originally in was supposed to be the getaway. They park the van, drive off, get a safe distance and hit the detonator. Now, without the car, they’re going to have to improvise. No problem – it won’t be the first car either of them have stolen.

  Chuck is going straight down the middle of the road now. Dallas is in sight. Its buildings loom up before them. He checks the mirror again. The car is gaining. Chuck can’t get enough vehicles between them. “Now!” he says. “Do it now! At this range, you can blast him. Get it done. We ain’t got much longer left!”

  Dix reloads the rifle, looking in the mirror. “I see him. Slow down a little. Don’t make it obvious.”

  Chuck understands, does as he says. He eases off the accelerator, doesn’t tap the brakes, doesn’t want the lights to give away what they’re doing.

  Dix lets him get a little closer. “I got him,” he says. He stands to lean out the window. His legs brace against the door, but he is still dangerously precarious. He brings up the rifle, moving fast.

  There’s a shot, but it isn’t Dix.

  He goes limp, falls from the moving van. Chuck feels the back of the van rise as the wheels go over him. “Shit.”

  He’s on his own now.

  He looks to Dallas again. So close. He’s never failed a mission yet. Today ain’t going to be the day.

  He stamps hard on the accelerator again. “Come get me, motherfucker,” he says through his teeth. “Just you and me now. Try and stop me, you son of a bitch.”

  67

  They’re in Dallas. Early Saturday morning, and the streets are busy but not crammed, not yet. Tom sees the way people on the sidewalks look at the van, at how fast it is going, at the damage it has sustained. Some of them start pulling out their phones, dialling numbers, suspicious. Others pull out their phones and start filming. They can sense that something is up, that this van isn’t right. Tom stays right on its tail, keeps his head low. The people film him, too. The pursued and the pursuer. They don’t know who’s of more interest.

  Suddenly, the van twists to the side, down a road. Tom is too close behind, he misses it, overshoots the turn. He slams on the brakes, but there are cars behind him, coming up fast, blaring horns. He can’t turn around. He goes forward, to the next intersection. He runs a red light, hangs a right, races down to the next turn, trying to find the van. He spots it at the next crossroads.

  It’s outside a synagogue.

  68

  Abigail grabs Seth’s hand, squeezes it. “What was that?” she says.

  Seth looks up. His head was lowered, his eyes 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, conc
ealing 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. There is a woman standing close to him, eyes wide. There are two children, two little girls. They all look at Tom.

  He leaves, runs back to his car. He’s going to have to ditch it as soon as he can. For now, it will get him away from here.

  71

  On the outside, Eric is cool. He’s calm. He’s collected. Doesn’t look any different to how he usually does.

  Inside, he is in recovery mode. He’s back in Dallas, cleaning up the mess Jake has left behind.

  It’s for the best Jake is dead. Eric can fix things easier this way, especially with Senator Seth Goldberg pressing for an investigation into what has happened. The dead bodies of the mercenaries have been recovered, and their tattoos discovered to be rub-on fakes. Yet they have no known identities, no known accomplices, no connections. Goldberg can read between the lines. No doubt he has been told about the fake ink.

  Eric is in his office. He sent agents to the warehouse to retrieve the bodies of Jake and the others. It didn’t take him long to work out where they were. He already had the story planned out in his head – brave agents attempting to stop these mysterious domestic terrorists, gunned down in the line of duty.

  He had them move Ben Fitzgerald’s body, too. Took it from his home, cleaned up to eliminate any sign of his dying there, and transferred his body to the warehouse. Made sure to spread his blood around a little. Another dead hero.

  Eric can spin this, all of it. He can make it work.

  Carly Hogan’s whereabouts, however, remain a mystery. No doubt she’s dead. It’s possible they’ll never find her body. They don’t have the first idea where to look. Eric won’t be able to cover for her disappearance, but he won’t have to. He’s as in the dark as everyone else as to what has happened to her.

  The amount of explosives found in the back of the van has caught a lot of people’s attention. The potential destruction it could have caused.

  Now everyone is looking for the mystery man who saved the day. His face was caught on multiple cameras, on many phones, yet he still managed to slip away. People want to know who he is, what he was doing there. They want to know his name. Goldberg, in a press conference, was careful not to call the man a hero, but Eric could tell he wanted to. Could tell he wanted to fawn and gush over the man who saved his life and the lives of his family and so many others in the vicinity.

  They’ll know his name soon enough. Eric already does. Jake knew it, too, before he was killed.

  Tom Rollins.

  Eric has to try to find him now before anyone else does. He’s put the word out among his agents – the ones he can trust, his men – to keep their ears to the ground, to watch out for indications of him. No doubt he’s out of the area by now. Has likely left the state, too.

  Now, Eric waits for Gerry Davies to arrive at his office.

  When he does, he looks sick. Pale. Holds his stomach like it’s giving him trouble.

  “You don’t look well, Mr. Davies,” Eric says, holding out a hand and motioning for him to take a seat.

  Gerry clears his throat. “Stress, I think,” he says.

  “Oh my. Well, I certainly hope it passes soon.”

  “Me too,” Gerry says, looking like he’s trying not to throw up.

  “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Eric clasps his hands on the desk, smiles at Gerry. “I’ve heard good thin
gs about your work, Mr. Davies. Jake spoke very highly of you.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Gerry says. “I was sorry to hear of his death. I just, I wish there were something I could have done …”

  “You did all you could, Mr. Davies. Try not to beat yourself up. Without your assistance, Jake would not have known about Ben. He and the others would not have been able to follow him to the warehouse, to try to help him.”

  “It didn’t help anything, though,” Gerry says. “They’re all dead.”

  “If anyone’s to blame for that, Mr. Davies, it’s Agent Ben Fitzgerald. If he’d come to Jake sooner himself, this could have all been averted. Jake and his men had to play catch-up. It put them at a severe disadvantage, and all because of Ben’s rampant paranoia.”

  “Do you know who it was Agent Hogan was talking to yet?”

  Eric shakes his head. “Unfortunately we don’t, but I’m sure with your assistance, we’ll be able to get to the bottom of this mystery soon enough.”

  “Does anyone know where she is?”

  Eric shakes her head. “No. And Ben didn’t say anything?”

  “No. But I have a bad feeling …”

  “I’m sure we share it.”

  Gerry purses his lips, nods solemnly.

  “Anyway, I haven’t called you here today to discuss what has happened. I’ve brought you here today to talk about the future, and what we’re going to do about it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Our unknown benefactor is still out there, Mr. Davies,” Eric says, raising his eyebrows. “The man who saved the day. The man who Senator Seth Goldberg is so high on, so desperate to shake the hand of. Off the bat, I don’t suppose Ben ever told you his name?”