Hell Bent

by Heather Killough-Walden

  “Was plannin’ on it.”

  Jack looked over at Sam and his gaze narrowed. “By the way, when did you learn to operate a bull dozer?”

  “Had to put myself through school, now, didn’t I?” Sam smiled at Jack and winked. Samuel Price had been a professional killer for more than thirty years. But before that? The truth was, Jack wasn’t at all sure what Sam had done in his youth.

  The two fell into a companionable silence then.

  After a few minutes, the Holland Tunnel floated over them. The sound of the boat’s engines echoed off of the cement of the bridge’s foundations.

  Jack instinctively looked up as the shadow engulfed the boat’s small captain’s cabin. Absently, he rubbed one of the bandages encircling his many wounds. He’d never liked tunnels. He’d never been overly fond of dark, wet spaces. But their trip was nearly done. One down, one to go. Lincoln Tunnel was next.

  They traveled the remaining four miles upstream and crossed under the second bridge. Jack faced this one as he had the first. Then he turned to glance back toward the opening to the boat’s deck and the approaching port.

  “Tools are in the cupboard,” Sam told him, gesturing to a cabinet against the wall of the cabin. Jack moved to it, opened it, and stood looking over the guns, ammunition and other implements of their trade. There were at least a dozen to choose from. He considered them a moment and then took what he needed.

  “I want one.”

  Both Sam and Jack turned at the sound of the female voice.

  Annabelle stood in the doorway, watching Jack place a second gun in a hidden holster just above the inside of his motorcycle boot.

  He watched her for a moment and then straightened and turned his full attention on her. As they stood there, appraising one another, she was joined by Dylan, Cassie, Beatrice and Clara, who came to stand behind her.

  “So do we, Jack.” Beatrice said, her tone deadly serious for once. All Five of them stared at the two men in the captain’s cabin. Again, the occupant of the chest snickered loudly. “Shut it, ya manky shite-hole!” Beatrice directed at the chest’s closed lid. The snickering stopped.

  Sam cut his gaze to Jack, and Jack took a deep breath.

  He chewed on the inside of his cheek for several long, silent moments, and then sighed. “Very well.” He addressed Annabelle and his daughter first. “Bella, Clara, you know what to use.” He nodded to each of them in turn, and Annabelle and Clara moved into the room, toward the open cabinet of weapons. Jack turned back to the other three still standing in the doorway.

  “Dylan, you and my ex-wife will have to decide which of you two wishes to carry the stun gun and which of you prefers the mace. Both are in the cabinet as well.”

  Dylan and Beatrice eyed each other for a moment and then, respectfully, Dylan gestured into the room, allowing Beatrice to enter before him. She nodded her gratitude and, saying nothing, joined the others.

  Jack turned back to Cassie. She still couldn’t quite meet his gaze. He wasn’t sure what to make of her as far as weapons were concerned. She’d thus far proven herself to be more than capable of quite a lot of intelligent deeds, but could she fire a gun? He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose.

  “Cassie,” he started. “I-”

  She saved him from any further deliberation on the subject by raising her hands in a defensive gesture. “I don’t want anything, Mr. Thane. I’d probably shoot myself in the foot or spray myself in the eye. I’m basically the little kid from A Christmas Story when it comes to weapons of any type.” She was rambling a little nervously, but she managed a smile. “I’m fine.”

  He watched her for a moment and then nodded. “Good.”

  Jack turned then and strode to Annabelle as she chose the gun he knew she would select. A Smith and Wesson .357 magnum revolver, the spitting image of the one she kept in a chest in her apartment. It was a tried weapon for her, so despite the fact that it only held six rounds, it was a wise choice. She was fortunate that it happened to be Samuel Price’s favorite brand.

  “Let me,” he told her softly, as he bent to help her strap on a shoulder holster and tighten it down. His fingers lightly brushed against her collar bone as he adjusted the straps and, ever observant, he didn’t miss the shiver that went through her at the brief contact. Something decidedly old-brain and male within him reared its head to smile a terribly satisfied smile.

  But he said nothing, instead pretending to ignore her reaction and concentrating on buckling the gun down securely in its holster. “Good?” he asked her once he’d finished.

  She licked her lips and didn’t seem to want to meet his gaze. This brought back the smile to his lips as the self-satisfied monster within him grew considerably larger.

  She nodded. “Yes. It’s fine.”

  He straightened and, with some difficulty, tore his gaze off of her in order to face his daughter. Clara was stuffing a Colt .45 into the back of her pants, as Jack had done with Sam’s gun earlier. Jack shook his head at her, pulling the gun back out.

  “Get a holster and wear it right.”

  Clara rolled her eyes and turned back to the cabinet. Then she smiled, pulling a thigh holster from its hook and placing it against her upper leg.

  Again, Jack shook his head. “Guess again, Clara,” he ground out, beginning to lose patience.

  Annabelle chewed on her lower lip to keep from smiling. With the thigh holster on, Clara might have been the spitting image of the Tomb Raider, which was undoubtedly the effect the teenager was going for. Clara Croft.

  But Annabelle supposed that walking around a university campus wearing such a thing might draw just a tad bit of unwanted attention.

  Of course, Jack was right. Clara needed a holster that would fit beneath her jacket, and a gun small enough not to leave a giant bulge.

  Another two attempts and Clara finally had it right.

  Jack helped her strap on the weapon while Dylan and Beatrice outfitted themselves with their own equipment and Sam pulled the boat into an available dockage space.

  Sam excused himself from the captain’s cabin and went above to tie the boat down. Clara turned to face her father. As did everyone else.

  “So,” she said, as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Wha’s the plan, da’?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “A’right, everybody,” Clara began as she approached. “Here’s the run-down.” She handed Annabelle a few pamphlets and sheets of paper. Annabelle turned them over and studied them as Clara continued. “If we’re gonna bird-dog this fella, Brandt, we’ll have to do it at night,” the teenager told them, her thick British accent reminding Annabelle of Sean Bean even more than her father’s did.

  “Registrar was particularly hush-hush about ‘im an’ I could tell she remembered the name.”

  “Which means there is a negative connotation there,” Annabelle supplied, thinking it over. Clara had gone onto the campus posing as a prospective student. As a side, she’d decided to check up on a distant relative, one Craig Brandt, who apparently went to school there “somethin’ like six or seven years ago, eh?”

  However, if the registrar remembered his name, out of the thousands upon thousands of students they’d had in the years since his enrollment, then it could only mean one thing. Brandt’s name was associated with something significant. Most likely something significantly bad.

  “I’m assuming she told you such information on prior students was confidential,” Jack said.

  “Ri’. But ‘er eyes were buggin’.” Clara answered.

  “This is a map of the subway, bus, and shuttle routes,” Annabelle stated plainly, changing the subject.

  “Ri’,” Clara nodded again. “An’ that’s the schedule.” She pointed to one of the papers in Annabelle’s hands.

  “The last route is run at twelve-ten a.m. from Harlem Hospital to the Medical Center on campus. After that, there’s no further transportation until six-thirty.” Annabelle said.

  “That gives us six h
ours.” Jack checked his watch. “Did you get the campus map?”

  “It’s here,” Annabelle said, shuffling through the papers Clara had given her. She took the campus map, unfolded it, and laid it out on the navigation table.

  “While I was at the University of Michigan,” Cassie began as she came forward to peer down at the map, “I remember a group of students once talking about underground coal tunnels that existed beneath various universities across the country. Some are at Columbia.”

  “That’s right!” Dylan exclaimed, coming forward to join them. “I read something about it online once – even saw a video on You Tube. They used the tunnels and train tracks to run coal between each individual building. One of the buildings on Columbia’s campus used to be part of an insane asylum, and the tunnel beneath it still exists and connects to some other tunnels.”

  “Buell Hall,” Annabelle said, calmly.

  Dylan’s eyes widened. “Yeah, that’s the one! How’d you know that?”

  Annabelle pointed to a bulleted paragraph on the map, which was paired with a number designating a small red building. She read aloud, “‘Historic Buell Hall is the last remaining remnant of the Bloomington Insane Asylum, established in 1808 as Bloomington Lunatic Asylum. In 1894, the asylum was moved to the Westchester Division of the New York Hospital in White Plains. All but the Administrative offices of the asylum were torn down to make way for new construction by McKim, Mead and White.’”

  “The administrative offices were in Buell Hall?” Cassie asked.

  Annabelle shrugged. “Apparently so. It goes on to say that the land’s sale to Seth Low, the founder of Columbia, was contingent upon leaving that one building standing.”

  “Why?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “This is all quite interesting, but what does it have to do with the tunnels?” Jack asked, bringing them back to the point at hand.

  “Nothing,” Annabelle shook her head. “And, to be honest, I don’t think we could use any tunnel system to get into the registrar’s office, since I know that’s where this conversation was originally headed in the first place.”

  “Okay…” Dylan shuffled on his feet and then shoved his hands into his front pockets. “Why not?”

  Cassie crossed her arms over her chest and leaned on one foot. “Yeah, why not?”

  “Because they probably don’t lead to every single building,” Annabelle told him, gesturing to the many buildings of the campus spread out across the map. “And this map doesn’t show us where they begin or end anyway.”

  “And, wherever they do start, they’re probably blocked off, ri’?” Beatrice added, her thick accent only slightly less strong than her daughter’s.

  “Probably. Besides,” Annabelle sighed. “If something significant happened with Craig Brandt, shouldn’t we be able to find it in public records somewhere? Like, on micro-fiche or something?”

  “Public information will only take you so far,” Jack said. “It won’t give you anything useful.” He crossed his arms over his substantial chest and leaned casually against the door frame. “You’ll get dates and whatever story the powers that be wanted believed at the time. However,” he smiled, “specific details – especially controversial details – will be withheld. In essence, you’ll know squat.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Then Annabelle shrugged. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to know what the public story was. Would it?”

  “It might,” Sam said, from the doorway. They turned to face him. “Not a good idea to get your intel mixed up. Go for the truth and call it good.”

  Annabelle looked from Sam to Jack. They both stared back at her. It was somewhat unnerving.

  She looked away and continued to think. “If the real story of Craig Brandt is somewhere on campus, how do we know for sure that it’ll be found in the Registrar’s office? If it’s hush-hush, wouldn’t it be kept somewhere more… hush-hush-ier?”

  The chest in the corner gave a derisive laugh.

  Annabelle shot it an evil glance.

  “It’ll either be there or in the big-wig’s room,” Cassie supplied after a few moments of thought.

  “Who’s the big-wig?” Dylan asked.

  Annabelle looked down at the pamphlets in her hands. After a few seconds of reading quietly, she said, “I’m guessing it’s Dr. James Beckman.”

  Jack pushed away from the wall and gently took the pamphlets from Annabelle’s hands. He flipped through them for a moment, and then pulled a cell phone from his front pocket. “This Dr. Beckman is the one in charge of who is accepted into the medical school?” he asked, softly.

  She looked at the pamphlet in his hands, reading the doctor’s descriptor again, then nodded. “Yep, basically. ‘Executive Vice President for Health and Biomedical Sciences and the Dean of the Faculties of Health Sciences and Medicines.’ I’d guess he has the final say on who gets to enroll and who doesn’t.”

  Jack nodded and looked down at the phone in his hand. Annabelle watched as he dialed a number, reading it off of the pamphlet. She frowned. “I thought Reese made you leave your stuff on the front doorstep of the manor in Forest Hills.”

  “He did. This is a new phone.” Jack put the device to his ear and waited. “Feel like going to med school, Anderson?” Jack directed the question at Dylan.

  Dylan’s eyes widened again and his mouth opened.

  Then Jack smiled. “Yes. Hello, Ms. Mason. I need to speak with Dr. Beckman as soon as possible.”

  The group waited as Jack listened to someone speak on the other end.

  His smile became predatory. “It is pertaining to a sizeable donation, Ms. Mason, and I’m afraid there is a deadline in question. The sooner I can speak with him, the better.”

  Jack fell silent again. The group held their collective breaths.

  And then Jack’s smile broadened.

  “Hello, Dr. Beckman.”

  “Wow.” Annabelle gazed at Jack and smiled. “You look… really nice.” Her voice cracked with the last word and she looked away, blushing furiously. He’s a married man, she told herself. He’s a married man. Over and over again, like a mantra. He’s a fucking married fucking man…

  “Thanks, luv.” Jack did his best to suppress the rising thrill of delight he felt at Annabelle’s approval. He watched her blush for several moments more and then forced himself to look away. He turned back toward the mirror in front of him and studied the reflection. He had to admit that Beatrice had once more done a very good job hiding his bruises. She’d always been good at that when they were married.

  The mirror reflecting his image was hung on the back of the master bathroom door in their temporary hidey-hole, a sixth-floor two-bedroom apartment in upper city Brooklyn. The apartment belonged to Sam and reflected his tastes. There was little décor on the walls but for a giant brass star of Texas and a painting of a native American woman on a hillside in the sunset. Annabelle guessed that professional killers probably had places to hunker down in most of the big cities.

  Reese had been left behind on Sam’s boat, along with two of Sam’s “employees,” whom Annabelle preferred to lump under what she considered the far more appropriate title of “thugs.” In a way, she sort of felt sorry for Reese, despite the whole house blowing-up ordeal. She knew the man probably wasn’t going to be treated with the most Geneva Convention type civility.

  “Damn,” Cassie muttered from the doorway as she entered the room. Both Jack and Annabelle turned to face her. Her eyes were on Jack. Which, to Annabelle, was perfectly understandable.

  “Cor, Jackie, you’re lookin’ mighty fitty.” Beatrice came in right behind Cassie.

  Clara was next. “Wow, da’. Nice clobber.”

  Jack looked to Annabelle, who was biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Clobber is clothing,” he supplied, and Annabelle nodded, still smiling.

  Jack did look good. The suit was Armani. Dark, dark blue pin stripes that brought out the stark sapphire in Jack’s eyes. The tie was a deep blood red and
stood out in stark contrast to the snow white shirt beneath it. His hair was combed back with flawless precision. His nails were manicured. His shoes were a shining black wing-tip, also Armani.

  He looked like a million bucks. Which was fitting, since he was worth that much. Actually, a lot more.

  “You clean up nice,” she told him softly, regardless of the others in the room.

  He turned away from the mirror to regard her once more. Something flashed in the deep blue depths of his eyes. She wondered what he was thinking.

  And then someone cleared their throat. “What, exactly, are you going to do with this guy again?” Dylan asked, a note of irritation in his tone.

  Jack turned back to the mirror and met the young man’s gaze in the reflection. He casually worked on adjusting his tie as he spoke. “I’m going to either convince him to tell me all that he knows about Craig Brandt, or I am going to retrieve the keys to his office and we can ascertain the information we need on our own.”

  “How are you gonna do that?” Dylan asked.

  Jack didn’t answer right away. He finished adjusting his tie and then bent to double-knot the laces of his shoes. The group watched him in silence and growing unease. When he was through with both shining shoes, he stood and opened his jacket to pull out a blue steel M1911 from its holster. The gun had been used by the US Army since 1911, hence it’s name. Annabelle knew this because it was Jack’s chosen weapon. He’d been using it for years. US armed forces now used a newer model of the weapon, but Jack kept the older model.

  She eyed the gun from where she stood. Something was different. Her brow furrowed. The gun wasn’t as shiny as it usually was. She moved forward and, without thinking, gently took hold of his hand to get a better look. Jack stopped moving, allowing her to turn the gun over in his hands.

  There was a worn, shapely “K” carved into the side of the slide, with a crown carved over it. She had never seen that before.

  “What’s this?”

  “It designates the gun as a Kongsberg Colt,” he said softly.