Hell Bent

by Heather Killough-Walden

“Oh?” She had no idea what that meant.

  He smiled. “Made in World War Two at an armory in Norway.”

  She nodded, pretending that that explained everything. What she didn’t understand was why he was using a seventy-year-old weapon all of a sudden.

  “They used rubber grips in World War Two?” she asked, incredulously.

  “No,” Jack chuckled. “Sam changed out the grips.”

  Sam. That would explain it. She realized, at once, that it must have been one of the weapons available in Sam’s cupboard on the boat.

  “What was a World War Two gun doing in Sam’s cabinet?”

  Jack was silent for a moment and she looked up at him. He was grinning from ear to ear. “Out of… jest,” he replied finally. “He was proving me wrong.”

  Well that explained absolutely nothing, she thought.

  She looked down at it for a few seconds more, noting the fact that the bluing on the weapon was nicked in several places and there was a very worn “No. 2” carved beneath the K and crown.

  She didn’t ask any more about it. She’d never been a gun aficionado. She didn’t know anything about them except how to load them, aim them, and shoot them. But something about this gun gave her the willies.

  She let his hand go and stepped back. He watched her for several seconds more and then re-holstered the weapon.

  “So, you’re telling us you’re going to invite the man out to dinner on the pretext of giving him a bunch of money and then you’re going to pull a gun on him?” Dylan was still staring at him through the mirror. His arms were crossed over his chest.

  Jack smoothed his jacket back into place and gave Dylan a close-mouthed grin. Something dangerous flashed in his blue eyes. It had the effect of completely unnerving the boy, who fidgeted and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Of course not,” Jack said. “The gun is simply a precautionary measure.”

  “The Colonel and his men are still out there,” Annabelle supplied, giving Dylan a slightly reproachful look. “None of us should go out without protection.”

  Dylan chewed sulkily on the inside of his cheek and looked down at the ground, shifting from one foot to the other. He said nothing further.

  “None of you will be going out at all. Stay here and wait with Sam. I’ll be back before midnight.”

  Annabelle was irritated at the bossy tone Jack had just taken, and her narrowed gaze told him that much when he turned around to face her and the others. His lips cocked into a half-smile and one of his brows rose.

  She knew it was pointless to reprimand him for his tone at the moment. Besides, he was right. There was no need for any of them to go out just now. Food and drinks could always be ordered and delivered – and with any luck, they wouldn’t have to shoot the delivery boy. It only took one person to do this particular job, and that person happened to be Jack. Mr. Moneybags.

  “Be careful, Daddy Warbucks” Annabelle found herself saying.

  Jack smiled down at her. “Always, luv.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  At forty-five minutes till the stroke of twelve that night, the entire group, minus Jack and Sam, sat around the kitchen table, satiated and sedated by the food they’d ordered and the long hours they’d been awake.

  Clara yawned. And then everyone else did.

  No one said anything.

  Dylan yawned. And then everyone else did.

  “Stop that, you guys. It’s contagious.” Annabelle muttered after she finished yawning. She rubbed her eyes. They felt dry and scratchy and she guessed they were quite red.

  “You all head off to sleep. We’ll wake you when we have news.” Sam walked into the kitchen, his cell phone in his hands. He appeared to have just gotten off of it because he closed it, pocketed it, and then reached up into the cabinet for a clean glass.

  They all watched him pour water from the faucet and turn around to lean back against the sink as he took a casual sip. His long legs were crossed at the ankles, his stature completely relaxed, awake, and anything but tired. His gray eyes twinkled.

  Beatrice shook her head. “No’ bloody likely. We’re waitin’ for Jackie.”

  “Yeah,” Clara agreed, stifling yet another yawn. “We’ll wait for da’ to get back.”

  Annabelle rubbed the back of her neck, then folded her arms on the table and laid her head down on top of them. She still had a headache from earlier and had only just been able to stop herself from digging into her backpack’s stash of Vicodin for the pain.

  “Crap, I shouldn’t have eaten. Now I’ll never be able to stay awake.” Cassie muttered under her breath and joined Annabelle in laying her head down. Annabelle moved her head to glance over at her and then glanced up at Dylan, who sagged further down in his chair.

  The boy didn’t say anything, but when he ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his red eyes, Annabelle knew he was on the same wave-length as her friend.

  “Bloody traitors,” Clara accused softly, without rancor.

  “Oh, what’s the use, dear? Let’s grab some zeds for a few yonks, eh?” Beatrice stood, patting her daughter gently on the arm. Clara blew out a sigh and pushed back her chair, standing as well. They both dragged their feet as they left the kitchen and headed down the hallway toward one of the two rooms in the apartment.

  Annabelle raised her head to watch them go. One room down. One room left. Four tired people. She glanced over at Sam to find him watching her. His steady gaze inexplicably caused a shiver to run up her spine.

  “Cold?” He asked.

  She blinked. Hadn’t Jack asked something like that just recently? Her thoughts were all jumbled. She couldn’t really remember.

  She shook her head.

  He smiled, took another drink of his water, and then, as if he had been reading her mind, he said, “Other room’s mine, darlin’, but you’re welcome to bed down in it. There’s a daybed in there too. I’ll take the couch.” He put the glass of water down on the sink beside him and crossed his arms over his chest.

  She looked over at Cassie, who seemed to be nodding off right there at the table. She nudged her friend.

  “Hey,” she said softly.

  “Hmm,” was the half-asleep reply.

  “Down the hall, Rip Van Winkle,” she urged gently. “Second door on the left. You and Dylan go take a nap.” She patted her friend’s arm, as Beatrice had done with her daughter.

  Cassie nodded against her arms and slowly stood, half-opening her eyes in time to step around her chair and head like a zombie down the dimly lit hallway. Dylan pushed up and followed her without a word. The boy was dead on his feet.

  Annabelle watched Cassie disappear into the darkness at the first door on the left – and then come back out, mumbling something derogatory under her breath about men and toilet lids. She almost stumbled into Dylan on the way back out, as he had stopped when she’d gone in and now stood swaying on his feet, waiting. Cassie turned and trudged further on to the second door on the left. Dylan followed, his shoes dragging on the carpet.

  They headed in, one after the other. After a few seconds, Annabelle heard the door close.

  And she was alone with Samuel Price.

  Jack smiled behind the rim of his glass of Scotch on the rocks. The drink was his third. Or, at least Dr. Beckman would have sworn it was. In truth, Jack hadn’t had a single sip. He didn’t drink, and tonight was no exception.

  But it was important that James Beckman believed otherwise.

  “You’re bloody pulling my wanker,” he laughed into the drink, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

  “No! I tell you, it really happened!” Beckman insisted, laughing heartily. “And then the asshole had the nerve to come back in to work the next day as if nothing happened!” He slammed his hand down on the table, leaning forward as he roared with more laughter. Jack met the man’s laughter with chuckles of his own, calling the waitress over as he appeared to finish off another drink.

  The dark-haired woman was at their table in a flash
, obviously drawn to the potential tip that Jack’s dress and manner practically screamed. Dr. Beckman wasn’t dressed shabbily either. The waitress’s expression was eager.

  “Another round, please,” Dr. Beckman requested, giving the girl a friendly smile.

  Jack watched the waitress smile back and saunter off toward the bar. One thing he could say about James Beckman was that the man was not a mean drunk. He was on his fifth Bourbon and had yet to slur his speech. But Jack was good at reading people. There was a tell-tale brightness to Beckman’s eyes, as well as a slight lean to his posture.

  The man was sloshed. Jack wondered just how much practice the good doctor had had at hiding his intoxication.

  Without allowing Beckman to notice the movement, Jack stole a glance at his watch. Just a few more minutes and the drug would kick in.

  It had been created by Central Intelligence twenty-two years ago. A liquid that could be both injected and ingested. In either instance, the victim would become extremely susceptible to suggestion. However, it did not ensure docility. A hostile prisoner could fight the drug, and sometimes did so effectively.

  So, its users learned to mix it with either tranquilizers or alcohol for the desired effect of submissiveness and obedience. It wasn’t perfect, but it had its uses.

  Jack watched Beckman carefully, which the doctor no longer noticed, as his senses were blunted and his perception of reality was steadily becoming blurred. Two minutes passed, and Jack knew the exact moment that the drug had entered Beckman’s blood stream and was fed to his brain cells.

  He took a nonchalant but entirely fake swig of his fourth drink and casually scanned the room as he addressed the man across the table. “It’s too bad about that incident with Craig Brandt. It cost the school sorely. I’m hoping to make up for some of the loss you experienced.” He swirled the ice in the glass, allowing an easy, apparently drunk smile to caress his lips.

  He could feel Beckman’s eyes on him, but his façade remained unruffled. “If only I’d known more about it at the time – I’ve got friends in low places, James.” He shook his head in self-admonishment. “They’re bloody pains in the neck, but they have their uses, if you know what I mean.” He grinned over at Beckman.

  The doctor leaned forward across the table and leveled his gaze on Jack. He wobbled only slightly as he hissed, “I bloody well do know what you mean, Jack. I had to use a number of those sons of bitches to cover up the whole goddamned disaster at the time.”

  “No doubt,” Jack urged, nodding.

  “That Brandt fellow royally fucked us over. Going to work for some criminal drug lab while he was a student at the school.” He shook his head, taking another drink of his Bourbon. His teeth smacked against the glass as his aim wavered a little, but he must not have felt it because, after swallowing, he continued. “Can’t friggin’ remember what it was… Something like meth maybe…”

  Jack watched him search his memory.

  “Real big at the time, like meth is now. But had a happy name-”

  “Ecstasy.” Jack supplied.

  “Yes! That was it. Mother fucker got himself into a real shit hole of a mess.” His voice was very low now, as if to make up for the foul language. “Must’ve taken the drug lab home with him one day because the whole goddamned apartment in his complex was blown to smithereens!”

  Jack’s gaze narrowed.

  Beckman was on a role now. He went on. “Couldn’t have the whole world knowing that our best and brightest were using their medical training to make and sell drugs under our noses.” He finished off his drink and barely managed not to slam the glass down on the table. “So, I had it covered up. Cost me a fucking fortune.” His expression became grim and his color paled a little. “Paid for it out of pocket.”

  Jack digested the information. The cover up involving Craig Brandt went a hell of a lot deeper than even Dr. Beckman knew. If he was telling the truth – and Jack knew that he was – then, as far as the doctor was concerned, Brandt had been involved in illegal activity that had gotten dangerously out of hand.

  The truth, however, was far more sinister.

  Jack pulled out his wallet and threw a couple of hundreds down onto the table. Beckman stared absently down at them.

  “You did the right thing, James. The reputation of the school is too important to allow something like that to shame it.”

  Beckman nodded. His gaze was growing distant.

  Jack smiled to himself and stood. “Have your secretary contact my office and we’ll set up an account for a deposit,” Jack continued. When Beckman nodded once more, figuring that sounded about right, Jack knew the doctor was gone.

  He leaned down and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, drawing his attention. Beckman looked into Jack’s eyes and was captured in that intense gaze. “Have someone else drive you home, James.” He spoke the words as a gentle command. “Understand?”

  The doctor nodded, but blinked, indicating that he comprehended and would do as told.

  Jack straightened. With one last glance around the emptying bar, he pocketed the set of keys he’d taken out of Beckman’s jacket and left the building.

  “So, what’s the deal with the old gun Jack has?” Annabelle asked, by way of somewhat nervous conversation.

  Sam’s smile never wavered. “The ‘old gun’ is a Kongsberg Colt. Happens to be worth a lot of money.”

  “What did he mean when he said you were ‘proving him wrong’?” Annabelle asked, ignoring the jab.

  Sam hesitated before answering. He chewed on his cheek a moment and then lowered his head. “Jack and I had a running bet. He didn’t think I could get my hands on the gun, and I was pretty sure that I could.”

  Annabelle’s brow furrowed. She didn’t understand, but she wasn’t going to admit this to Sam. It just didn’t make any sense, though. Jack and Sam were both very wealthy men with tons of connections. If either of them wanted an antique gun, all they would have to do is come up with the money and go to eBay or something. What could be so difficult about getting this weapon that Jack honestly didn’t think Sam could do it?

  And then she remembered something. An image flashed before her mind’s eye. A No. 2 – engraved on the blued slide of the Colt.

  “What does the number two stand for?” she asked then.

  Sam’s smile disappeared. His gray eyes fixed on hers. She was desperately tired, but she was proud of herself when she found that she didn’t look away.

  After a while, his smile slowly returned. He regarded her, then, as if she’d earned herself a smidgeon of respect in his eyes.

  “It stands for exactly what it says, darlin’,” he told her. “It was number two. The second of its kind to come off of the line. Decades ago, the weapon went missing from a display case in a museum.”

  Annabelle blinked. “And now Jack has it.”

  Sam grinned. “Yep.”

  Annabelle had all of three seconds to consider this bit of information before the front door knob jiggled.

  Sam pushed away from the sink, pulling a gun from his jeans waist band at the small of his back. Annabelle stood and Sam was instantly in front of her, moving toward the living room. They made their way into the room as Jack opened the door to find Sam’s gun pointed at his head. He glanced at it only momentarily, hardly phased, and then was pulling a set of keys out of his jacket pocket and heading for the living room lounge set.

  Sam put his gun back in the waist band of his pants. Jack threw the keys onto the coffee table and had a seat in the love seat facing them.

  Annabelle stared at him in wonder. He was no longer wearing his Armani suit. Instead, he was dressed in leather riding gear, from the black skull cap holding back his blonde waves to his black jacket and gauntlet gloves, to the black chaps over his jeans and, finally, a pair of sturdy black riding boots with tough, gripping tread.

  He sat back in the love seat and lifted his boots on the table, crossing his legs at the ankles.

  Tired as she was, a flood of disq
uieting heat rushed through Annabelle. He looked as he had the first time she’d laid eyes on him – in that bar on her twenty-first birthday. Ten years ago this Sunday. If he looked good in Armani, he looked like an angel in black leather. An angel straight from Hell, sent to take her spinning end over end into an Abyss of untold proportions.

  At that very moment, Annabelle desperately wanted to touch Jack Thane. To run her hands along the back of his neck and feel his soft curls against her skin. To kiss lips that she’d always imagined as cool and soft. To trace her fingers across the perfect muscles of his chest that were so plainly visible beneath the tight black t-shirt he wore under his jacket.

  “So?” Sam asked casually, ripping Annabelle out of her lust-filled stupor.

  What the hell is wrong with me? She asked herself. Sleep. I need sleep! It’s like those hypnotic thingies where people are extra susceptible to crap because they’ve gone too long without sleep. That’s all! You’re susceptible to Jack because you’re tired. And he’s fucking hot. That too.

  “So, after we rest for a few hours, we’ll check out the dean’s office,” Jack told him, apparently not having noticed Annabelle’s rather indiscreet ogling.

  “Did he talk?” Sam asked, coming to lean against the wall that lead to the kitchen.

  “Yes, but he may as well have remained silent,” Jack said. Though the sound of it almost made her shiver, Annabelle realized that Jack must have been very tired indeed, because his accent always got deeper when he was tired and, right now, it was the strongest that she had ever heard it.

  “Beckman covered up a lie, thinking it was the truth.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “He gave me bugger-all I can use.” He stared at the keys on the table. “Except those.”

  Annabelle looked at the keys, desperate to get her mind out of the uncomfortably sexy gutter it had been swimming in. Surprising herself with her ability to focus, she asked, “He just gave them to you, huh?” She already knew that Jack had taken the keys. The question was rhetorical. She was being a smart ass.

  “He was too drunk to drive. I did him a favor.” Jack said, flatly. He shot her a pointed look.