Hell Bent

by Heather Killough-Walden

  He didn’t have to specify any further. She was smart enough to glean the general idea. “Never different” meant “leave it the same.” Never leave a room different from how it looked when you walked in. Nothing out of place.

  Like Kaiser Soze. Leave without a trace.

  “Poof,” she teased, blowing air through her fingers.

  Jack’s smile was a lop-sided grin that caught her off guard. “I saw that film,” he said softly.

  “Yeah?” she asked. It was one of her favorite films. “What’d you think?”

  He didn’t answer, but his smile broadened. She shivered. He chuckled and moved past her toward the folder on Craig Brandt that was still laying out on the table. She watched him put it away and close and lock the drawer.

  “Let’s go.”

  He didn’t have to tell her twice. She was at his side and moving with him toward the door with almost the same kind of silent speed that he, himself, was infamous for. They peeked out the glass windows before opening the door and stepping through, making sure to lock it behind them. Then they made their way past the elevators to the stairs on the other side.

  Just as Jack pushed open the door to enter the stairwell one of the elevators behind them dinged loudly to signal that its doors were about to open.

  There was no good reason for her and Jack to be on that level. The only offices up here were locked and most of the lights were off. Being caught lingering on the restricted level would most likely garner ill consequences.

  Jack hurriedly pulled Annabelle into the stairwell and attempted to swing the door shut behind them. But it was one of those god-forsaken spring-hinge doors that wouldn’t close quickly and resisted direct pressure.

  Jack let go of Annabelle’s arm and put his weight into it, just managing to secure the door a split second before a janitor stepped off of the elevator and into the hallway.

  Annabelle took the moment to sigh in relief, but her breath once more caught in her throat and her eyes widened into golf-balls when the door emitted a loud clicking-into-place sound that could surely be heard by the man in the hallway beyond.

  Jack swore under his breath and once more grabbed Annabelle, rushing her down the stairs as fast as she could travel.

  They managed two full flights down before the door they’d just escaped through opened up and a young man poked his head into the stairwell. Though Annabelle and Jack were out of sight of the man, they were definitely not out of sound. They could hear him and he could hear them.

  And they didn’t sound as if they were supposed to be there.

  Annabelle felt panic rising up inside of her when she heard the man above them speak into some sort of hand-held radio. At least, that’s what she assumed it was.

  “Martina, someone’s going down the stairs. Just got off of level fourteen.”

  Jack and Annabelle kept moving, even as they could hear “Martina’s” amplified voice echo through the stairwell. “Yeah? So?” she asked, clearly not understanding why it was such a big deal that someone was taking the stairs.

  “I don’t know, chica, it’s just that whoever it is, they’re running down them like El Diablo is at their back!”

  “Eduardo, just check if everything’s all right.” Martina told him, her tone one of annoyance.

  There was a pause in communication that Annabelle figured was Eduardo looking around on level fourteen. “Yeah, I guess so-”

  And then Jack was punching through the stairwell door on the first floor and leading Annabelle out through the building’s lobby. When they were safely beyond both the elevators and stairs, they slowed and Jack put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her near.

  “Cozy?” she asked. Her voice shook. That had been too close.

  “More than you know,” Jack replied, his Sheffield accent teasing. There was a casual grace to the man that blew Annabelle away. She wanted to break into a sprint and run like a mad woman until she was long gone from Columbia University, but Jack meandered them at a maddeningly slow pace toward the front doors of the building and then, just as slowly, out into the night.

  “You’re killing me, Jack,” she muttered, feeling her blood pressure rise.

  He laughed, deep in his throat, and let his arm slide down until he was again holding her hand in his gloved fingers.

  “Always wanted to hear that from you, luv. Different place and circumstances, perhaps, but I’ll take what I can get.”

  Chapter Twenty

  As much as Annabelle would like to get excited over the prospect of getting a hotel room with Jack, the truth was, she was exhausted. And it wasn’t the first time Jack had ever spirited her away to a hotel. Never had it been for overtly romantic reasons, either.

  Every time they’d checked in some place together, Jack was either married at the time or had just finished killing someone and she had mistakenly witnessed it. Okay, so that had only happened the one time. Still, she counted it as a weekend away with Jack, even if she had spent the entire time reasoning with herself that a man could still be a good man, even if he murdered others for a living.

  Over time, Annabelle had simply grown used to the fact that human beings needed to sleep somewhere, eventually. And people who moved around a lot, the way Jack did, needed hotel rooms. She and Jack had ended up in a lot of hotels over the last ten years. Every time, out of respect for her privacy, Jack had either asked for two separate rooms or one large suite with two beds. And, out of a staunch need to establish her independence around him – and a gnawing nervousness about accepting any kind of monetary favors from Jack Thane - she’d always insisted on sharing the cost.

  But when Jack had rather covertly slipped a bundle of large bills past her tonight to pay for the adjoining suites they would use, Annabelle had found herself unable to care a whole lot. Maybe it was the fact that she realized that a room in a hotel like this would cost a fortune that she couldn’t afford. Maybe she realized, along with a jolt of painful anguish in her gut, that she no longer had a job. Or maybe it was that she was tired. Or maybe it was all of those things and she was more than a little depressed and she simply couldn’t care.

  She’d caught the surprised but frankly pleased expression on Jack’s handsome face when she hadn’t spoken up and insisted on paying her half. And he’d been gentleman enough not to say anything about it.

  Now, Annabelle pulled off her jacket and un-did the belt loops holding the shoulder holster in place. She gently took the gun and placed it atop the bed stand, and then unclasped the snaps that encased it in the holster. She wanted to be able to pull it quickly if the need arose.

  Then she sighed and her shoulders dropped. As she peeled off her clothes in the warm, dark room and let them drop to the plush carpet beside the bed, she turned to stare out the tall windows across the room. The glass was floor to ceiling, affording an amazing view. The twinkling sky line of New York City beckoned with its majesty. She wondered what all of those lights meant. All those windows and the people behind them, living their own separate lives.

  She moved to the tall windows and stood gazing out. How many of those people were in trouble? Hiding? How many of them were lonely? Wasn’t it in some song that New York was the loneliest city in the world?

  At that moment, Annabelle felt more lonely than she could have imagined.

  And, it was at that moment that the door adjoining her room to Jack’s opened.

  She turned at the sound. She’d left the door unlocked so that Jack could get in if there was an emergency.

  Now he stood, framed by the light behind him, still fully dressed but for the head wrap, which he’d taken off at some point, and the gauntlet gloves, which he’d also shed. His blonde hair fell in loose curls to his shoulders. His tall black-clad frame nearly filled the doorway.

  Annabelle gazed up at him. He’d gone stock-still, his blue eyes burning like sapphires in a desert. He was staring at her in a way he never had before. There was an expression on his face akin to hunger, to anger, to desperation.


  She blinked and looked down, only then realizing that she was completely undressed.

  Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t move. She did not make a break for the bed or for her clothes. She stood there, outlined by the skyline of New York, and let him look.

  With quiet deliberation, Jack closed the door behind him and then locked it, never once taking his eyes off of her. Annabelle forced herself to breathe. It wasn’t easy. She watched him move slowly toward her. He was a towering figure of speed and strength and secrets, but he approached her like one would a caged lion.

  She didn’t run. She was incapable of movement.

  As he closed the distance between them, she recognized a fleeting reservation… He’s married… But the thought flitted before her mind’s eye, flickered into specks of dust, and then was blown away, along with the rest of her ability to reason.

  Just before he cupped the back of her neck with his hand and bent to claim her lips in a kiss, she had just enough time to be thankful that she was on birth control.

  And that was the last logical notion she had all night.

  Jack stared down at the woman sleeping beside him. His hand rested on the curve of her waist. Her back was nestled against his chest. He listened to her breathe and his eyes traced the long, silken locks of her hair that fell in honeyed red and gold waves across the pillow.

  He cursed himself inside. This was wrong in so many ways, he couldn’t count them. But, most importantly, it would change things between them. There was no going back now.

  He’d protected her for so long. From him, from his life, from everything it stood for. And now he may as well stand her in front of a firing squad and hold his ears.

  He brushed a lock from her cheek and admired the curve of her chin. He followed that curve down her throat to her rising and falling chest.

  Christ.

  He pulled his gaze away and laid back, staring up at the ceiling. He ran a hand over his face in frustration.

  Last night, just after seeing Annabelle to her room, he’d received a phone call. He’d stepped away from the hall door, further into his room, to take the call.

  His handler had a job for him. He wanted to meet the next night to give him the details. Jack agreed, contingent on his particular terms, as he always did. The handler was accustomed to this and the deal was made. Jack hung up and five hundred thousand dollars was deposited into a special account.

  Jack had re-pocketed the phone and taken off his gloves and head wrap to run a hand through his thick blonde hair. Then he’d stood there at the windows, staring out over the vast mini-world that was The Big Apple.

  And he’d felt lonely. Lonelier than he had in a long, long time.

  He wanted to talk to Annabelle. She always pushed his loneliness away. She never failed to fill in the spaces inside of him that otherwise threatened to fill up with darkness.

  With a set of his jaw, he determined to go to her and talk about what was going to happen the following morning.

  Without heeding the distinct possibility that Annabelle could already be asleep or even be in the shower, and without even knocking, Jack had gone through their adjoining door and into her room.

  All intent to discuss their current case flew from his mind the instant his eyes fell upon her naked form, silhouetted by the city’s sky line in the background.

  She turned to look up at him and he’d seen the solitude in her own eyes. At that moment, every last shred of willpower and discipline dropped away from him, leaving him bare and vulnerable to the furious need burning through his blood.

  There was no hope for him. And none for Annabelle.

  It was a mistake, and he knew it, and he just didn’t care.

  Now, as he gazed up at the tiles above him, he pondered that mistake. He would do it again in a heart beat. Without a second thought. And it would still be wrong. Not for him. Not wrong for him, at all. But for Annabelle.

  He knew her well enough to know that she would feel guilty. She would beat herself up over this night as if a scarlet “A” had been burned into her chest. She wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye and that, right there, would be his undoing.

  There was only one way to rectify this situation and that was by telling her the truth. Which truth did he tell her first, though? There were so many things he was keeping from her. There was the truth about his “marriages.” There was the truth about the men he’d hired to watch over her. The truth about how much danger she was in for even knowing him, much less liking him.

  No. He mentally shook his head. Each of those would only make her hate him. She was a passionate woman. He’d seen her anger and knew how long she could hold on to a grudge. He couldn’t bring himself to be on the receiving end of that ire.

  Oh, no? A little voice inside of him taunted. You would rather have her hate herself than hate you, eh? Coward.

  Jack narrowed his gaze at the annoying conscious inside of him and mentally cursed.

  Christ. What a bloody mess.

  And to make matters much, much worse, now that he knew what she bloody-well felt like under all of her bullet-proof armor, there was no way in hell he was going to be able to concentrate enough to keep them safe over the next several days. Not only were the Colonel and some unknown second hired gun out to ensure their unfortunate demise, but Jack had a bloody, god damned job to do that night!

  Life had become a circus and he felt like a ring leader dressed in big red shoes, carrying a flashing neon sign that read, “Royally F.U.B.A.R.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose.

  Annabelle stirred beside him. He rolled over onto his side, gently laying his hand on her small hip once more.

  “Jack?”

  “Yes, luv,” He found himself lowering his lips to her ear. He felt her shiver.

  “Cold?”

  “Why are you guys always asking me that?” she said, a hint of teasing in her tone.

  Jack blinked. Us guys? What did she mean by that? But any concern he had for her words was quickly overshadowed by the realization that there was not a hint of self loathing in her lovely voice.

  Before he could say anything, she yawned. When she was done, she stretched lazily beside him, like a long, lithe cat. “I’m hungry.”

  Again, he blinked.

  She wasn’t going to hate herself? She wasn’t going to hate him?

  She rolled over to face him and, covering her mouth, she arched her brows inquisitively and asked, “You gonna stare down at me like that all day?”

  He didn’t know whether to laugh that she was so courteous as to hide any hint of morning breath from him or to simply stare down at her all day, as she had suggested.

  “Course not, luv,” he finally replied, his lips curling into a wicked smile. A hint of something nefarious flashed in his deep blue eyes.

  She narrowed her own. “Don’t even think about it. Get out of bed and order some room service.”

  The smile became a grin, flashing perfect white teeth. His grip tightened where it rested on her upper thigh. Hell, if she wasn’t going to hate him, he was bloody well going to take advantage of it.

  “Now, Jack.” She lowered her tone to a dangerous level and defiance flashed in her own beautiful eyes.

  He laughed out loud and rolled away from her, leaving the sheet behind.

  When he did, Annabelle caught sight of the tattoo on his left shoulder. She had never seen it before. She’d never even seen his un-clothed back before, in all honesty. Before last night, she’d had no idea that the few scars she’d seen on his arms were much more plentiful across his abdomen and chest. As strong and sculpted as it was, his body frankly looked as if it had been to hell and back.

  Her mother had once told her that each scar on a person’s body had a story to tell. If that were true, Jack’s body could fill a few volumes.

  But the scars didn’t bother Annabelle. Not in the least. It was the tattoo that gave her pause.

  It was an “81”
, with a strange ring that looked like a thorny Celtic knot wrapped tightly around it. The tattoo, itself, even bore a scar. Just another of Jack’s near misses.

  Which meant that he’d had it for a while.

  Annabelle watched the assassin get out of bed, pull on his pair of jeans, and move to the phone that hung in a mounted cradle on the wall.

  “You’ve been holding out on me, Jack.”

  Jack turned to her, the phone in his hand. His brows were drawn. “What, luv?”

  “How long have you been a Hell’s Angel?”

  Jack’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, and his lips parted. Then recognition dawned on him and he looked to his left shoulder. As if realizing that he couldn’t see the damned tattoo from this vantage point, he lowered his gaze and took on a thoughtful expression. Then he put the phone back in its cradle and very slowly looked back up at her.

  “A while.” He said, softly.

  Annabelle watched him for a moment, their gazes locked inexorably together. And then, with tremendous will, she pulled her own gaze away, rolled over, and got out of the bed. She left the sheet on the mattress, figuring that there was no longer any part of her body she needed to hide from Jack Thane.

  Without a word, she bent and picked up her clothes, piling them into one arm so that she could pick up her boots in the other. In harsh contrast to what normally happened when she was troubled, her mind was not filled with a multitude of racing thoughts and fears. Only one thought now presented itself to her.

  If Jack hadn’t told her about this, then what else was he keeping from her?

  It wasn’t like he’d simply forgotten to tell her, “Oh, hey, honey, I forgot to mention that I enrolled Billy in the 4-H club.” Or, “I signed us up for swim lessons every other Tuesday.” Or, “Didn’t I tell you that I used to belong to the KKK?”

  No. A Hell’s Angels member was a member for life. Its riders lived – and died – by its code. “H” was the eighth letter of the alphabet. “A” was the first. If you were 81, you were 81 Forever. Plain and simple.