Trigger point, p.1
Trigger Point, page 1
TRIGGER POINT
A TOM ROLLINS THRILLER
PAUL HEATLEY
Published by Inkubator Books
www.inkubatorbooks.com
Copyright © 2025 by Paul Heatley
Paul Heatley has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-83756-518-4
ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-83756-519-1
TRIGGER POINT is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
For Aidan
CONTENTS
Inkubator Books
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
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1
Tom Rollins has been off-grid for three months. He wanted some time to himself. To get back to nature. He’d found work with a logging company in Oklahoma after a busy few weeks in San Francisco and Texas. His body had been put through a lot with fights and explosions, and the logging work didn’t give him much time to heal. He was always so busy.
After he’d made a little money and he left Oklahoma, he drove north-east until he reached Green Mountain National Forest in Vermont. He needed to get somewhere quiet, somewhere he could be alone. Somewhere for his body to rest and for his mind to clear. It was late February when he arrived, and there was snow on the ground. He’d bought equipment on the way – a thermal jacket and trousers with ratings high enough to withstand up to minus twenty Fahrenheit, along with a couple of sweaters. He bought a bigger backpack to carry his new equipment, including an insulated sleeping bag, and a portable propane stove, along with a pot and a pan to cook upon it. He got a small tent, too, and a camo tarp to drape around the perimeter of his camping site, making him harder to spot. He bought copious amounts of dried mushrooms and berries. Ordinarily, if it were spring or summer, he’d live off the land, but with snow covering everything that wasn’t going to be an option.
He put his car into storage and hitched a ride to the forest. He walked out into the trees, most of them barren, their branches empty, but still thick and overgrown enough to conceal him. He spent the following three months alone. Just himself and his thoughts. He caught fish from the rivers, and set traps for the rabbits and wild turkeys. He cooked them over low, controlled fires, always careful and vigilant not to set the whole forest ablaze. When he wasn’t concentrating on food, he took in the nature that surrounded him. He swam and floated in the cold, cold waters, emerging feeling refreshed, his aches and inflammations numbed and reduced. He watched moose through the trees, and fed a deer berries from his hand. When spring came, he avoided the black bears emerging from hibernation. He stayed away from their trails and they never gave him any trouble. He sat upon a fallen bough and breathed deep the clean, crisp, sweet air, meditating for hours on end.
Through it all, he stayed hidden from the rangers. He regularly moved his campsite. He cleaned up after himself and never left any sign that he’d been present. They never searched for him. They never even knew he was there.
It’s May now. The days are still cold, but they’re milder now than when he first arrived. The trees are slowly turning green again. Tom doesn’t know where he’s going next, but he’s decided it’s time to move on. He’s walked down through the forest and back to the main road, thumbing while he walks alongside it. Down here, the snow is mostly gone.
Tom has lost a little weight, he knows, and his hair and beard are both longer, but he feels better. He feels lighter, and he feels stronger. Nothing hurts. His head is clear. His thoughts are ordered. His lungs are full of clean air.
He manages to get a ride and they drop him off in the next town, where his car is. It’s late evening by the time he reaches the storage, and it’ll be dark soon. There’s no one working the front gate, but he has a key. He lets himself in and goes to see the security guard. He fills out a brief form and pays for his three months of storage. He retrieves his car from where it’s parked in a gated enclosure at the rear. It’s a black Toyota Corolla. He picked it up in Lubbock after his Ford was totalled. As with most cars he buys, he picked it up pre-owned and cheap. Tom has never been a car guy. All he needs a vehicle for is to get him from A to B. He does a lot of driving, and taking care and pride in his vehicle would be next to impossible. Too much rough ground. Too many miles. Plus, quite often he sleeps on the backseat. Finds a quiet spot and curls up when he doesn’t feel like spending money on a motel.
He takes advantage of the electrical outlets in the storage area and charges up the cell phones that were in his backpack. As they come to life, he checks them over, each of them marked up with who has the number for it. He had them in the forest with him, but there wasn’t any signal and they all soon ran out of battery. Looking now, he sees that no one has tried to get in touch. This is good. No news is good news.
The car starts when he turns the ignition. The battery is still alive. He’s pleased. There’s still a full tank of gas. While the engine warms up, he looks at his reflection in the mirror. His hair is longer than he usually keeps it. He’s bearded, and that’s longer than he’d usually wear it, too. This is the first time he’s seen his reflection in anything other than a pool of water in three months. He grins at himself then leaves the storage area and stops at a nearby Goodwill to drop off his camping equipment, including the bigger backpack. He doesn’t need it now. He has his smaller backpack, with which he has criss-crossed the country. Next, he goes to a drive-thru to get food. He sits in the parking lot and eats it as the light fades and it gets dark. It’s a clear night. He looks up at the stars. They’re not as bright here, in civilization, as they were in the forest where there were no other lights.
A car pulls into a space a couple over from Tom. A couple of teens, a boy and a girl. They don’t have any food. They leave the engine running, and as soon as the car has stopped they set upon each other, kissing with wide, wet mouths. Tom starts the Toyota and pulls out of the lot, dropping his waste in the trash on his way out.
It’s dark when he hits the road. He heads west. He’s spent enough days in Vermont. It’s time to go somewhere else. He’ll need to find work. Something to bring in money and, more importantly, to fill his days until he’s ready to move on to the next place.
He drives along a road lined with trees, and deep, dark woodland beyond on either side of him. He can’t see the stars here. The only light comes from his headlights stretching out before him. It’s quiet. There’s no one else on this road, and no sign of any other headlights either ahead or behind.
Tom is about to reach for the radio, to put on some music, when he notices something up ahead at the periphery of his headlights’ reach. At the right side of the road, the bushes are trembling. Tom slows, foot tapping the brake pedal, expecting an animal to emerge and run across the road. He doesn’t want to hit it.
Except, what emerges isn’t an animal. It’s a woman.
She falls through the bushes and lands on the road on her hands and knees. She stops, her head turning, looking toward Tom’s car. She pushes herself up, unsteady on her feet. Her blonde hair is wild. Her make-up is streaked and running down her face. The headlights light her up, and Tom can see scratches on her cheeks. Thin trails of blood run from them. She’s frantic, waving her arms trying to get him to stop. Tom opens the door and steps out.
The wom an is crying out to him. She looks young, late twenties maybe, and she’s clearly in trouble. Tom has heard about women emerging on dark roads, pretending to need help as a setup for men lying in wait nearby to jump the concerned passerby and jack their car, but he doesn’t think that’s what’s happening here. The woman’s bruises and cuts are too convincing. She’s not trying to set him up for anything. She needs help.
“Please!” She’s calling to Tom. She draws closer, falling onto the hood of the car, bracing herself with both hands. “Please, help us!” She looks back the way she came, down the road and toward the bushes and trees. “My son,” she says, turning back to Tom, coming to him now. “I’ve lost my son! He was with me. I had his hand, but then he fell, and then I fell, and I got all turned around, and I don’t know where he’s gone –”
“Try to calm down,” Tom says, placing firm hands upon her shoulders. “You’ve lost your son? He’s in the woods?”
The woman doesn’t calm. She’s almost hyperventilating with panic. “They’re coming,” she says. “They were right behind us.”
Tom’s eyes narrow at this. He looks to where she emerged, but he doesn’t see anyone there. “Who’s coming?” he says. “I need you to make sense. I can’t help you if you don’t make sense.”
There’s a rustle from the bushes behind him. They both hear it. The woman peers past him. Her eyes go wide. She’s scared. Whoever is there, it’s probably the person she was running from. This is enough for Tom. He lets go of her and he spins, ready for action. A squat man with a shaved head in overalls. In his right hand, Tom notices he’s carrying a flashlight, but it’s not turned on. The man sees Tom. He sees the woman. His face is grim.
“My sister’s off her meds,” the man says, holding out his hands. He continues to step forward, taking his time like he’s not wanting to pose a threat. Tom notices how tightly he holds the flashlight. “I need to get her home before she can hurt herself.”
“I’m not his sister,” the woman says to Tom, sticking close to him. “I’ve never seen this man before today. He and his brothers took me, and they took my son. They killed –”
“Come on now, Ella, that’s enough,” the man says, still coming. “You’re talking crazy. You’re saying upsetting things. This nice man doesn’t need to hear none of that crazy.”
Tom remains between them. He eyes the approaching man, keeping one eye on the flashlight.
“Mister, if you just step aside, I’ll get my sister and we can go on home.”
“She said she’s lost her son,” Tom says.
“I’m sure she did,” the man says. “She says a lot of wild things. Truth be told, she don’t have a son. She don’t have any kids.”
“Please don’t believe him,” the woman – Ella – whispers to Tom.
The man is close enough for Tom to reach out and touch now. Tom doesn’t. Not yet. He waits. Watches. Tom believes the woman more than the man, though he knows he has to entertain that either one of them could be lying.
But then the man decides to take a swing. He brings the flashlight around, aiming it for Tom’s face. Tom blocks the attempted blow with his left forearm. He sees the man’s eyes widen, shocked at the speed of Tom’s reflexes. Tom slips his left arm around the man’s right, pinning it to his ribs, controlling him. Tom jabs him in the centre of his face, and again, harder, in the chest. He lets go and the man stumbles back, the flashlight dropped, one hand to his chest while he coughs and gasps for breath. He drops to a knee, looking like he might throw up.
Then, from behind, the woman lets out a muffled cry. Tom spins. Two more men have emerged. One of them has Ella from behind, a thick arm wrapped around her waist and a meaty hand clamped down over her mouth. The two new men look similar to the one Tom has just dealt with. The one who isn’t holding Ella, however, is much bigger than the other two.
And he’s already in motion. He’s bringing down a flashlight of his own. This one is turned on. It connects with the side of Tom’s skull. He hears the batteries rattle inside it. The light momentarily blinds him. As he goes down, he sees that the blow has broken the flashlight.
Tom hits the ground, landing on his back. He manages to keep the rear of his skull from bouncing off the road. He tries to roll onto his side and get back up, but his limbs are suddenly leaden. The bigger man is looking down at him.
“Tyrus,” he calls to the man Tom put down. “Get your ass up and help Billy-Ray haul this bitch back to the house.”
Tyrus stumbles back into view. The two men are circling in Tom’s vision. “What about the kid?” Tyrus says, his voice rough from Tom’s blows.
“Cyril’s got him,” the bigger man says.
Tyrus looks down at Tom. “You all right on your own with this one?”
The bigger man smirks. “He ain’t no trouble at all.” He raises a boot and brings it down into Tom’s face. This time, his head bounces off the road. Darkness soon follows.
2
Tom awakes to the sound of laughter.
It pierces through his skull like a knife. The front and back of his head throb mercilessly. He opens his eyes only a little, not wanting anyone to notice he’s regained consciousness, but even this is enough for the light to blaze and burn across his retinas. He closes his eyes again and breathes long and slow, settling himself and the sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wonders what time it is – if it’s still night, or if it’s early morning. The lights are on, which means it must still be dark. When he feels better – as good as he’s going to get in the current circumstances – he half-opens his eyes again.
He’s in a cabin. The smell of wood is strong in the air. It’s a good smell, and it reminds him of his time in the forest, but he knows this is not a good place. It’s a big cabin. The main area is all open-plan. There are a few rooms running off it, but the kitchen and living room are all in one large connected space. Turning his head just slightly, Tom takes in the area where he is. It’s an annexe at the rear of the cabin, probably used for sitting in a rocking chair and looking out the window. Tom wonders if they’re still near the woodland, surrounded by trees, or if he’s been taken further afield. From where he is on the ground, he can’t see much out of the window. Only darkness – either it’s still night, or it’s the very early hours of the morning.
The annexe does not have a door. It connects to the rest of the living area. Tom, however, is tightly bound – his wrists and ankles are tied tight with rope, and a length of it is wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms to his side. Tom realises he’s not alone here. He sees a familiar mane of wild, dirty blonde hair laced through with twigs and leaves. A woman dressed in jeans and flannel. The woman who emerged from the woods. The woman he stopped to help. A name comes back to him – Ella? The first man who appeared after her called her that. He wonders if it’s really her name.
She’s tied up, too, but she’s not on her back. She’s propped upright, looking in the direction of the raucous laughter. Under it, Tom can hear the rattle and spin of something metallic being dropped. Before he can raise his head to see what is happening, Ella turns toward him. She sees that he’s looking back at her, even through his half-closed eyes. Tom opens them all the way to see her properly. The make-up that was running down her face when he first saw her has been roughly wiped away. She opens her mouth to speak but Tom shakes his head. He makes sure no one is looking their way, then mouths, Don’t make a sound. He doesn’t want the men to know he’s awake.
She nods that she understands, then she turns away from him, back toward the noise.
Tom looks that way, too. He sees the back of a young boy with dark hair in need of a cut. He sits at a desk and his back is to Tom and Ella. From behind, unable to see his face, it’s hard to guess his age. Tom thinks he looks less than ten. He wonders, too, if this is Ella’s missing son. In front of him, on the other side of the desk, four men stand close. They’re the ones doing the laughing. Tom recognises three of them. He saw them on the road last night. He sees the man in the overalls whom he beat up, and there’s bruising across his nose and under his eyes, and crusted blood on his nostrils. He sees the big guy who knocked him unconscious with the flashlight and his boot. He’s laughing the loudest. He sees the man who grabbed Ella. Tom notices that they all look alike. The fourth man, the man he hasn’t seen before, looks just like the others. They’re all too close in age for one of them to be the father, or potentially an uncle. They must be brothers.
