Blood Line (A Tom Rollins Thriller Book 1) Paul Heatley (10 best novels of all time .txt) 📖

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