Blood Line (A Tom Rollins Thriller Book 1) Read online

  Blood Line

  A Tom Rollins Thriller

  Paul Heatley

  For Aiden

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Epilogue

  WRONG TURN

  About the Author

  Inkubator Newsletter

  Rights Info

  Prologue

  The warlord’s name is Aaban Ahmadi.

  For six months, he’s been organizing hit-and-runs on US bases and convoys. He and his men have killed more than twenty American soldiers, caused millions of dollars’ worth of damage, and severely derailed advances into Helmand Province.

  Two days ago, the CIA received intel as to his whereabouts.

  Tom Rollins is one in a team of five. A CIA black ops unit. Best of the best. The chopper drops them off under cover of darkness. They continue the rest of the way on foot. Five clicks across the cool night desert. They take it at a light run, strapped with weaponry and supplies, M4A1s in their hands.

  Captain Robert Dale leads the way. To his left, Simon Collins, and on the right is Nathan Sapolsky. Nowhere else they’d rather be, right there beside their vaunted leader.

  Tom is bringing up the rear, Ezekiel Greene by his side. The only man he trusts in this team, the only one he considers a friend.

  The house comes into view. Villa-style, seemingly smack-bang right in the middle of the desert. The sand beneath their feet turns to jagged rock.

  There are men on guard. The team can’t see them at this distance, but they know they’re there. The five men huddle together. Captain Dale gives his silent instructions, using hand signals to communicate. They’ve been briefed; they know what to do.

  Tom and Zeke peel off right, Simon and Nathan left, the captain straight down the middle. They duck low, hurry across the terrain, eyes up, watching ahead. Tom goes first, a three-second burst of travel while Zeke stays behind him, covering. Tom stops, takes a knee, raises his rifle. Zeke overtakes him. They’re heading for Ahmadi himself. This time of night, it’s assumed he’ll be in bed. Intel provided the layout of the house, too. His bedroom is at the very back. They’ve memorized the route and every facet of the estate. Tom and Zeke are going in through the front. Simon and Nate will take the rear. Captain Dale will hold back, observe the outside. He’ll join them when it is clear no alarm has been raised.

  Within a stone’s throw from the building, they duck lower. They monkey run. Keep their heads up, scanning the wall, freezing when they see a patrolling guard. There’s one up top, on the roof, and another on the ground. Tom takes out the one on the ground. Waits for him to pass his position, gets him from behind, clasps the guard’s face in the joint of his elbow, wrenches back and down to snap his neck. They scale the wall while the guard up top is heading the other way, his back turned. This one is Zeke’s. He takes him out with his KA-BAR.

  They’re inside. They take a moment, just a flash, to get their bearings. Strap their M4A1s to their backs, raise their Colt 1911s and surge on, Tom leading the way. They want things to be quiet. They don’t want to have to fight their way out. As well as the guards, there are women and children in the compound. Their target is Ahmadi, Ahmadi alone.

  Inside, the way is clear. The lights are off. Tom and Zeke put on their night-vision goggles, keep moving. They stick to the walls and creep along the corridors. Pause at every little sound, listen. Hear no footsteps, only the stirring from within rooms.

  Ahmadi’s room is in the center of the house. It’s the only one guarded. They expected this much. They make a noise, a tap-tapping, get his guard’s attention, draw him out, bring him to investigate. Tom and Zeke hide around a corner, wait for the guard to come find them. Eventually, he does. Zeke grabs him, silences him. Tom leaves them to it, heads down the hallway, to the bedroom door. Ear to the wood, he listens for movement. Hears nothing. Opens the door, just a crack, peers in. He’s looking into a deeper darkness. Spots the bed at the other end of the room. The vague outline of a sleeping shape picked out with the night vision. Hears the gentle snores.

  Tom pulls his knife, creeps forward, scanning the room as his eyes adjust. Ahmadi is alone. Tom gets to the corner of the bed, shines a torch briefly into his face to make a visual ID. It’s their man, his face memorized from the one photograph they had that wasn’t blurry.

  The encroaching movement stirs Ahmadi. His eyes flicker, but he doesn’t wake. Tom presses the tip of the knife to his chest, pushes it down into his heart, clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle his cries. Ahmadi’s eyes widen; then they close.

  At the door, Zeke is keeping guard. Tom nods that it’s done. Mission halfway accomplished. Now they just need to get out, return to the extraction point.

  Down the corridor, they pause. Listen. The sound is unmistakable. Zeke turns to Tom; they exchange concerned looks.

  Gunfire.

  It’s coming from inside the home. They move fast. They expect the guards have been alerted to their presence, that a firefight has broken out with the other members of their team.

  That isn’t what they find.

  They find Nathan first, filling a room with gunfire before moving on to the next one. Tom grabs him by the arm. Nathan hasn’t heard their approach, almost turns his gun upon them. “Jesus Christ, boys,” he says, almost laughing. “Don’t spook me like that.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” Tom says, eyes darting from Nathan’s face to his hot gun and back.

  Nathan shrugs. “Orders.”

  “Orders? What’re you talking about? Ahmadi is dead. Those were our orders.”

  Nathan
rolls his eyes. “Go see the captain.” He shrugs them off like this isn’t his concern; then he kicks down the door to the next room and goes in firing. The action is too sudden for Tom to try to stop him. He hears the screams of terrified women inside the room. Children too, he thinks. Tom and Zeke look at each other, then take off running.

  Tom has never turned a blind eye to Captain Dale’s past indiscretions, nor those of his two sycophantic followers. When they smuggled poppy seeds back to the US, he reported them. When they went trigger-happy on a past mission – as they are tonight – he reported them.

  The CIA and the US government, however, have always seemed more than happy to turn a blind eye.

  Yeah, sure, we’ll look right into it. Don’t worry about it.

  Tom knew he was being brushed off. They didn’t try to hide it. They weren’t interested. So long as the dirty jobs were getting done, they didn’t care what else happened, what other extracurricular activities Captain Robert Dale and his friends were getting up to.

  They find the captain and Simon together, rummaging through a room. Two dead men and a woman lie sprawled upon the bed and the floor. Simon is admiring a brooch. Tom wonders if he has taken it off the dead woman. As he goes to put it in his pocket, Tom grabs it from him, holds it up close to his face. “Is this what all this shooting’s about?” he says. “You’re killing everyone off so you can steal a few damn trinkets?”

  Simon grins, pulls his arm and the brooch back out of Tom’s grip. “Think you’d better tell him, Captain.”

  Elsewhere, they can still hear gunfire, Nathan moving from room to room.

  Robert steps forward, both hands resting on the gun strapped across his chest. The captain is powerful looking, a deadly mix of speed and strength. Tom has seen him work. Lesser men would be intimidated by him. Would cower in his presence.

  Tom steps forward, defiant.

  “Orders are we kill them all,” Robert says, his face unchanging.

  “Orders are we kill Ahmadi,” Tom says. “Just him. Nothin’ about women and children, nothin’ about the whole damn household.”

  Robert raises his eyebrows, just a little. “That’s the part we kept from you, Tom. You and your buddy.” He flicks his chin past Tom to Zeke.

  “What the hell?” Zeke says.

  “Didn’t wanna have to listen to y’all pissing and moaning about what needs to be done,” Simon says, sounding like he’s laughing.

  “We kill them all, make it look like the work of another warlord,” Robert says. “Those were our orders. Couldn’t have the two of you compromising that, so we kept you busy elsewhere.”

  Tom’s mind races. They kept this from him. The prime details of the mission. Kept them from him and Zeke, knowing they would object.

  And now it’s too late. They can’t object.

  It’s already done.

  “You son of a bitch,” Tom says, taking a step forward.

  “Uh-uh,” Simon says, stepping in front of him. “Don’t you and your boy go doin’ somethin’ stupid, now.”

  “Who you callin’ boy?” Zeke says, and from the sound of his voice, Tom knows he has come forward, too.

  Simon doesn’t respond, just grins.

  Robert watches them all, impassive. Tom notices his finger is close to the trigger.

  Behind them, Nathan has filled the doorway. His gun is pointed at them. “Took it exactly how we thought they would, huh?”

  Tom takes another step forward. Robert’s finger inches closer to the trigger. Simon’s smile fades.

  “Don’t do it, man,” Nathan says.

  Tom’s eyes are locked on Robert’s.

  This is it. It’s happening. In a way, he always knew it would.

  Zeke places a hand upon his shoulder. “Easy, man,” he says.

  Tom takes a deep breath.

  “Listen to your boy,” Simon says.

  “Call me ‘boy’ one more time, and I’m gonna break your jaw,” Zeke says.

  Simon acts faux scared.

  Robert calls beyond them, finished with this situation, to Nathan, “It done?”

  “It’s done.”

  “We gonna stand here all night staring at each other,” Robert says, “or are we gonna get the fuck outta here?”

  Robert leads the way back to the extraction point. Tom and Zeke are made to walk in the center of the group, Simon and Nathan behind them, watching them. They don’t trust them not to try anything stupid. Mostly, they don’t trust Tom.

  They won’t have to worry about Tom for much longer.

  He’s made up his mind, his resolution growing stronger, firmer, with each step across this night’s cold desert.

  He’s done.

  Once they’re back in America, the second their plane hits the ground, he’s out.

  It’s over.

  1

  Anthony and Alejandra are at home when he gets the messages. They’re watching TV, sitting together on the sofa, engulfed in its glow, one of his arms around her shoulder and his other hand resting upon her pregnant belly.

  His phone buzzes in his pocket. His work phone. He keeps it in his left pocket, his personal in his right, so he always knows which is which. Whenever that left leg vibrates, he tenses up. He grits his teeth. He knows that whatever it is, he’s probably not going to like it.

  It buzzes again, a second time in quick succession.

  Alejandra looks at him, raises an eyebrow. “That you?”

  He nods, wordless, pulls the phone out, glances at the screen.

  He goes stiff.

  His stomach drops.

  Alejandra is still looking at him. She sees the changes. “What’s wrong?”

  He can hear the panic in her voice.

  The first message: we know

  The second: RUN

  “Shit!” He leaps to his feet, grabbing Alejandra by the hands, pulling her up as gently but as quickly as he can. “We gotta go.”

  She didn’t see the messages, but she understands. This is the situation they feared. This is what they have wordlessly dreaded, but always been prepared for.

  Alejandra heads for the front door, grabbing the car keys on the way, while Anthony races to the bedroom, ducks down the side of the bed, grabs the bag he’s had packed for this emergency. He’s sweating. It’s burst upon his skin; it’s running down into his eyes. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his chest, can hear it in his ears, drowning out everything else.

  Alejandra is outside already, in the car, in the passenger seat. She’s put the key in the ignition. Anthony leaves the house door open behind him. They won’t be coming back here. He dives into the driver’s seat, throws the pre-packed bag into the back. The engine roars into life, and he swings out onto the road, slams his foot down on the accelerator.

  “Where we going?” Alejandra says, breathless.

  “My dad’s,” Anthony says. “Only place we can go. It’s the only place that’s safe.” He’s cursing under his breath, thinking how they should have gone to his dad’s a long time ago, right at the start of all this shit. It was out of the way, off-grid – most importantly, it was safe. His father could have protected them. His father and all his friends.

  Instead, he continued to take this stupid risk. Now it’s coming to bite them in the ass. All he can hope is they’ve gotten out in front of it.

  They reach Harrow’s town limits. Anthony has one eye on the mirror all the way. There’s nothing behind them but darkness and streetlamps. No headlights. No cars. This doesn’t make him rest easy, but he’d be far more tense if there was something there. He needs to keep the space behind them empty. He presses his foot down harder.

  Alejandra is watching the side mirror. “There’s nothing there,” she says, like she wants him to slow down. Both hands are resting protectively upon her stomach. She’s thirty-eight weeks pregnant. This is a high-stress situation. Anthony hopes it doesn’t shake her loose inside, put her into early labor. They can’t go to a hospital. They’ll have to wait until
they reach his father.

  “I know, baby,” he says. “But we can’t slow. We can’t stop ’til we get where we’re going.”

  Then, out of the shadows, their world turns upside down.

  Another car, out of the darkness, its lights off, waiting for them outside the town. Slams them in the side. Sends them rolling. Anthony hears the crunching of metal, the shattering of glass. Feels shards of it cutting his face and his arms. He hears screams – Alejandra’s and his own.

  Then the car stops. It’s still, resting on its roof. The world is still spinning wildly in his head. Then there’s a creaking, a groaning, something being forced open. His door. He looks up, but everything is blurred. Beside him, there’s another creaking, another groaning; then he hears Alejandra being dragged from the car, scraping through the broken shards of glass. He hears her cries, her shouts, her protestations. This snaps him back to attention. He reaches out, trying to crawl through the open door, from the wreckage, but he’s still strapped in. The belt is loose suddenly, cut. Hands are upon him, strong, they drag him out. They dump him in the middle of the road.