by Paul Heatley
“No, he didn’t.”
“I thought not. To be honest, I was hopeful he had, and you had chosen to keep it to yourself for the time being, but I can see now, looking at you, talking like this, that you’re telling the truth. You don’t know.”
“I wish I did.”
“As do I, and that’s why you’re here. You’re going to find him for me.”
Gerry blinks. “I am?”
“Indeed. Like I already told you, Mr. Davies, I’ve heard good things about your work, your prowess. I want you to get back to your desk, your computer, and find this man for me. Don’t worry, I’ll accompany you. We’re going to find our mysterious stranger together.”
“Huh-how can I do that?”
“Everyone agrees, it was as if he just disappeared from the scene of the attempted bombing, but we both know that can’t really be what happened, can it? He slipped away, but no matter where he went, a camera, somewhere, will have picked him up. And once one had him, then another will have seen him, and another after that, and another, and so on. Do you understand? I highly doubt he left Dallas on foot. We find the vehicle he took; then we find him. Come on, now, on your feet.” Eric stands, waves for him to do the same. “Let’s go find him together, shall we? Two pairs of eyes are better than one!”
72
Tom has not gone straight back to New Mexico, to the commune. He has remained in Texas, staying off the beaten track, making sure he hasn’t been trailed. It eats at him, knowing that he was caught on camera. Knowing that his face has been flashed across the news.
They haven’t given his name, though. They know it by now, no doubt, but no one’s saying it. They’re keeping it to themselves. More than likely, it’s at the behest of either the CIA or the dirty agents within the FBI – perhaps both. They don’t want to give his name away, not just yet. They know to do so will likely speed up the process of finding him, but at the same time they can’t take a risk of him exposing what he knows concerning members of both agencies.
For the time being, while his face is everywhere, Tom is growing out his beard. He wears a baseball cap everywhere he goes, pulls it down low. While he drives or walks around, he wears sunglasses, too. He’s swapped cars twice already, both taken from small towns with low populations.
He’s in a diner now, stopped for something to eat. His bag is on the seat beside him, containing all the few necessities of his life. Soon, he will return to New Mexico. To his father, stepmother, brother. He won’t be there long. He’ll move on again, keep moving, until all this has blown over and he finds somewhere he can lie low, somewhere he can easily hide himself.
The news is on above the counter. It’s talking about Senator Seth Goldberg, as usual. About his bill. It’s moving along, getting closer to fruition. This time, there is no mention of Tom, no flashing of his picture. He hopes this means it’s nearly over, that the news cycle is moving on to the next big thing.
The diner’s phone rings. The waitress behind the counter goes to answer it. Tom chews his burger, looks out the window to his latest car.
The waitress comes back to the counter, looking confused. “Any of y’all named Tom Rollins?” she says. There are only two other people in the diner; both of them look like truckers. No one says anything for a while.
“No?” the waitress says. “No one?”
Tom clears his throat, gets to his feet. Ignorance is not bliss. Whatever this is, he should answer it.
The waitress points the phone out to him, leaves him alone. Tom grits his teeth. “Who is this?”
The voice on the other end chuckles. “I’m more interested in who you are, Mr. Rollins.” The speaker doesn’t give his name. He talks in a mocking, singsong tone. “Enjoying your meal, are you? I assume it’s not easy to just kick back and relax while you eat, not when you’re on the run.”
Tom is silent. He watches the window. The diner is at the side of the road, surrounded by nothing. “Where are you?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not close. Not yet. Truth be told, by the time I’d be able to get any agents to your location, I’m sure you’d have the time to finish whatever greasy thing you’re eating and move on. No, this is just a personal call. I just wanted to hear your voice, Mr. Rollins, and I wanted you to hear mine.”
“So you’ve heard it,” Tom says. “And so have I.”
“And it was everything I imagined it would be. How is it for you?”
“You’re Carly’s employer, right? The guy who killed Ben?”
“Oh, I won’t deny I had a hand in what happened to Ben, but no, I didn’t do it directly. You already killed the man who did that.”
“So what makes you think it’s wise to try and fuck with me?”
The voice laughs. “Oh, my dear Mr. Rollins, I could ask you the exact same question. I’m going to find you, Tom. Enjoy your time on the run, enjoy what brief freedom you have left, as marred as it will be by your constant checking over your shoulder, wondering who’s behind you. Be seeing you, Mr. Rollins. Stay safe.”
Tom hangs up the phone.
He leaves bills on the counter to pay for his food, then grabs his bag from the booth. He leaves the diner. Doesn’t go to the car. Leaves it behind. Heads off on foot. He’ll find another car on the way.
And he’ll make sure this one isn’t on camera. Make sure this one can’t be traced.
Epilogue
Tom returns to the commune.
It has been a month since he killed the last of the Right Arm Of The Republic, the last of the men responsible for Alejandra’s death.
Anthony looks better, mostly healed. He’s out on the porch as Tom rolls the car to a stop at the foot of the steps. “You got some new wheels,” he says.
“Had to,” Tom says, getting out. “How you doing?”
“Fine.” Anthony comes down the steps. His hair is growing out. It hides what is no doubt a nasty scar from the fractured skull he suffered. “I’ve caught up on what you did in Harrow. Sounds like you cut quite the path of chaos.”
“What do they attribute it to?” Tom says.
“Rival gang activity,” Anthony says. “That what you were going for?”
Tom shrugs. “I didn’t care what they made of it.” He comes around the car and stands in front of his brother. There’s only a couple of paces between them.
Anthony’s jaw works. He looks like he has something he wants to say, but is having trouble getting the words out. He clears his throat, spits to the side. “Thank you for what you did,” he says. “I’d rather have done it myself, but I thank you regardless.”
Tom nods.
“But you can’t fight all my battles for me forever,” Anthony says. “You’ve done that long enough now.”
“And I won’t,” Tom says. “This was as much for Alejandra as it was for you.”
“Oh, I know that,” Anthony says, a knowing look in his eye, something almost aggressive.
Jeffrey comes out onto the porch with Sylvia. “Well, look who’s back,” Jeffrey says. He comes down the steps, embraces Tom. “You gonna come on inside?”
“Sure,” Tom says. “But I can’t stay for long.”
“I figured as much,” Jeffrey says. “We’ve seen your pretty face plastered all over the news. Guess that was what took you so long getting back to us, too.”
“I like the beard, Tom,” Sylvia says.
Inside the house, the first thing Tom notices is the urn on top of the fireplace. The Polaroid picture propped in front of it, almost like a small shrine. In the picture, Alejandra is smiling. It’s just her in the shot, no one else. The urn contains her ashes, Tom knows. “You went to get her,” he says.
“We did,” Anthony says behind him. “Wasn’t anyone else could claim her.”
Tom turns to him. “What you planning on doing with the ashes?”
“What do you mean?” Anthony says, striding across the room and leaning against the fireplace, almost protective.
“Well, where you gonna spread her?”
“I ain’t,” Anthony says. “I’m gonna keep her. I’m gonna keep her with me.”
“All right,” Tom says. He hesitates. “It’s just that she told me she always wanted to go back to Mexico. She wanted to be buried there. She wanted to be buried there; I’m pretty sure she’d want her ashes scattered there, too.”
Anthony grits his teeth. “She never told me any such thing.”
“She told me she tried to. You just didn’t wanna hear it.”
“I ain’t got any memory of that.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Tom says.
“I know,” Anthony says, looking annoyed. “And that’s what pisses me off. She’d tell you that, but not me.”
Tom tries to calm the situation down. “You weren’t going off to war, Anthony,” he says. “Ain’t like talk of death came up in everyday conversation between the two of you, I’m sure.”
“She’s staying right here,” Anthony says.
“Sure, I just think you should honor her wishes, is all.”
Jeffrey and Sylvia stand between the two brothers, clearly uncomfortable.
“This urn is all I’ve got left of her,” Anthony says. “It’s all I’ll ever have of my kid. I ain’t throwing them away like that. I ain’t parting with them.”
“Then compromise,” Tom says. “You keep half. I’ll take the other half down to Mexico, do as she wanted.”
“Oh, you will, will you? Such a hero, ain’t you, Tom? Everyone’s fuckin’ hero. America’s fuckin’ hero, according to the news. ’Cept they don’t even know your name! They don’t know what you done in Harrow, neither. They don’t know why you done it. But I know it, Tom.” He jabs a thumb back into his own chest. “I know exactly why you did it. Because you were in love with your own brother’s girlfriend. You were in love with the mother of my child.”
He’s not leaning on the fireplace anymore. He’s coming forward, across the room, his eyes filled with menace. Jeffrey holds out an arm to stop him, but Anthony bats it aside, never taking his attention off Tom. “The ashes ain’t going anywhere. Not half of them, not a quarter of them, not even a fuckin’ eighth of them, that clear? They’re staying with me. Wherever I go, they go. This is my family. They weren’t nothing to you, you get it? You mighta loved her, but she didn’t love you! She loved me! They were my family, not yours!”
“Calm down, Anthony,” Tom says, standing his ground.
“Fuck you, calm down!” Anthony says. “You oughtta leave. You oughtta get the hell out of here right now.”
“I’m going to say my goodbyes.” Tom’s eyes flicker to the urn.
“What, to her? Get out! You ain’t saying nothing to her! Get outta here!”
Anthony tries to push Tom. Tom shoves his hands aside. Anthony takes a swing. Tom easily blocks it. He ducks the next.
“Anthony, stop it!” Sylvia says.
“That’s enough, now,” Jeffrey says.
Anthony throws another punch. Tom catches it.
“Well?” Anthony says, unable to extricate his fist from his brother’s grip. “What you gonna do? You gonna hit me? Come on, hit me. Hit me.”
Tom doesn’t hit him. He lets go of his fist, pushes it back into his chest.
Anthony looks like he’s going to swing again. Jeffrey gets in between them, forces him back. “That’s your brother, damn it,” he says. “You need to calm your ass down.”
“Anthony, please,” Sylvia says. “This isn’t what she would have wanted. And think of your head. It ain’t fully healed.”
They back him up, force him through into the next room to calm him.
Tom is alone.
He goes to the fireplace, to the shrine. The door is closed to the kitchen, where they have forced Anthony. Tom can hear him shouting, cursing, demanding to be let out.
Tom looks down at the Polaroid. Alejandra is smiling. She’s smiling back at him.
He stares at the picture.
He stares at the urn.
He can hear his brother calming, the shouting subsiding. They will return soon. They’ll be back in here, with him, with the urn, with the picture.
Tom pockets the Polaroid, slides it in next to his Santa Muerte pendant. He picks up the urn. He leaves the house.
He will go to Mexico.
He will spread her ashes.
He can deal with the consequences later.
WRONG TURN
If you enjoyed Blood Line you’re going to love the next book in the series, Wrong Turn.
A lost town controlled by a ruthless family. Now one man stands against them.
Fugitive ex-special forces operative, Tom Rollins, is en route to Mexico when he 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 the
m 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.”