Hell Bent

by Heather Killough-Walden

  And then she stared off into space. Her body felt strangely numb, her limbs somewhat limp, her vision blurry. She fingered the top of her mug, watching the bubbles on the head slowly descend toward the brownish liquid. Her thoughts felt like leaves on a windy day. Scattered, chaotic, impossible to grasp. She had no idea what to make of what had just happened with Jack. A part of her was even having trouble believing that she wasn’t actually dreaming right now.

  All she knew for certain was that, though parts of her were numb, somehow all of her was in agony.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Jack paced back to the room he and Annabelle had shared while she slept and he stared, unseeing, at the bags and belongings on the bed. He stood there in the doorway for several long minutes, for the first time in his life, unsure of what to do next.

  As if on auto pilot, he turned around, crossed the hallway, and turned the knob of the closed door that led to Sam’s room. He stood in the doorway and looked around, not sure why he was even there.

  Something had been bothering him ever since New York. How had their pursuers always known where to find them?

  The bed was perfectly made, as if it hadn’t been slept in. Which didn’t surprise Jack, seeing as how Sam spent a lot of his nights sleeping… out. There was a dresser against one wall, topped with a large round mirror. There was something not quite right about the reflection in the mirror. Jack studied it for a moment and realized that it was skewed to one side.

  In New York, Osborne’s men had not only known to follow them from the airport but they’d been waiting for them at the mansion in Forest Hills. How had they even known about that house?

  Middlesex was understandable. Adam could find anybody, even if no one could find him, and Osborne had probably gotten nervous and offered Adam something he couldn’t refuse. But Adam didn’t work with anyone else. He worked alone.

  Yet Jack and Annabelle had also been followed down into the tunnels beneath Columbia. How the bloody hell had Osborne’s men known about that?

  Jack moved to the dresser and pressed on the side of the mirror that appeared to be sticking out some. It wouldn’t pop back into place. Something was blocking it from slipping back into the groove.

  When it came right down to it, there was only one way that either Osborne or the Colonel could have known what they’d known.

  With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Jack yanked the mirror out of its rest, slicing the palm of his left hand as he did so. But the pain barely registered. There, in the groove where the glass would normally fit was a manila folder.

  Jack threw the mirror on the bed and pulled the folder free from the groove. He opened it and a photograph slid out, accompanied by several detailed sheets of paper. His stomach turned to lead as he stared at the photograph.

  And Annabelle’s almond eyes stared back.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  Annabelle glanced up. A young man, probably in his late twenties, stood behind the opposite chair, the look on his face both expectant and a little nervous. He was tall enough, she supposed, but not anywhere near as tall as Jack. And though he wasn’t bad looking, he was too young for her tastes. She preferred older men. Plus, she was pretty sure that he was even younger than she was, though she didn’t look her age.

  But, most importantly, he was company – and company wasn’t something she wanted at the moment. She just needed to be alone. With her thoughts. And her beer.

  “Yes,” she said. Her voice was too soft, her tone too flat.

  The man’s head cocked to the side and he glanced around, taking in the left over French fries on the table and the fact that the opposite chair was distinctly empty. An eyebrow shot up. “Is he late?” he asked, and the nervousness in his expression seemed to melt away, to be replaced with a slightly defiant air.

  Annabelle took a deep breath. She was about to flat out tell him to buzz off when a strong hand gripped the man’s shoulder and he found himself spun around to stare into a face a lot older and a lot meaner than his own.

  “Yes,” Samuel stated in a low voice, a dangerous note lacing his words, “he’s late.” He stared long and hard into the younger man’s eyes and then slowly released him. The man stumbled backward for a moment and then nodded. Without a word, he turned and disappeared into the dim light of the pub.

  Annabelle looked up at Sam gratefully. But her smile wavered and never reached her eyes. After all, she knew why he was here. He was Jack’s best friend. He was most likely here to stick up for Jack and Annabelle hadn’t the heart, at the moment, to listen to pretext.

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  Annabelle shook her head. “No.” There was no point in being a bitch about it.

  Sam sat down and waved at someone near the bar. In a few seconds, an attractive young woman approached the table, her attention focused almost entirely on Sam. Annabelle wasn’t surprised. He was a charismatic figure, possessing of some sort of magnetism. There was something about him – something more than his rugged good looks. Annabelle couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “Can I have a beer, darlin’?”

  The woman smiled a smile of mock scorn and looked at Sam coyly. “Well, blimey. A real Texan. Not wha’ I was expecting, you know.”

  Sam’s eyebrow lifted. His expression was playful. “No? What were you expectin’, sweet heart?”

  The woman pretended to think for a moment, placing a hand on her hip and chewing on her lip. Then she shrugged her shoulder and leaned in. “Something a might bit more plump and a good bit more noisy, I s’ppose.”

  “I can get plenty noisy, darlin’, don’t you worry.” He replied, his gray eyes glittering in the dim light. His smile was all teeth. The woman blushed furiously, and her own smile stayed put. Obviously, she liked it.

  “One ale comin’ up, luv.” She turned on her heel and sauntered toward the bar. Sam watched her go for a moment and then turned to Annabelle again.

  “I shoulda come to Colchester a long time ago.”

  “What do you want, Sam?” Annabelle asked then, suddenly feeling very tired.

  Sam blinked and then smiled. This smile was more natural and not at all predatory. He leaned in, placing his elbows on the chopping block table and lacing his fingers together. “I knew I’d like you, right from the start. You’re honest and to the point. Jack chose well. I knew he would, once he finally got down to it.”

  Annabelle waited for him to go on.

  “He loves you, Annabelle, that much should be obvious to you. An’ you’re the only woman he’s ever truly loved.”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t love me. He lied to me.” She sighed. “Many times. And now you’re lying for him, but, of course you would stand up for him. You’re like his father.”

  “Yes, I am like his father.” He leaned back then, as the waitress brought him his ale. She set it down, shot him a meaningful smile, and then waltzed away again. This time, Sam’s eyes stayed locked on Annabelle’s. “And can you recall your father ever lying for you? Fathers don’t lie. It’s a rule.”

  Annabelle blinked. Okay, he had her there. As far as she could recall, her own father had never told a lie. At least not where she was concerned. But then, he’d died a long time ago. Her memories of him were vague. She never tried to make them anything else. It hurt too much.

  He went on. “Jack is a good man. Period. In a lot of ways.”

  “Sam, this isn’t-”

  “Hang on, let me finish,” he held up his hand, gesturing for her silence. She reluctantly gave it to him.

  “I found him when he was brand spanking new at the business. He fell into it, more or less. He was just a kid, running errands, so to speak. He pissed someone off one day and the shit hit the fan. But when the smoke cleared, he was still standing. And no one else was. Word spread fast. I could tell he had a lot more in him than he realized. So, I took it upon myself to teach him, and he learned well.”

  Annabelle swallowed. Her mouth was dry. She’d eaten but
not really touched her ale. She picked it up now and took a swig. It was bitter.

  “He’s got what it takes. Natural ability, nerve, focus, determination, and constitution. He’s good at what he does and always has been. A natural. But he’ll never be the best. Know why?”

  Annabelle shook her head. She was trying to figure out where, exactly, this conversation was headed. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “Because his heart’s not in it.” He took a swig of his beer and gritted his teeth, glancing at his surroundings. The sun was starting to set and the light streaming in through the windows was dimmer now. More people were gathering around the bar. The tables were steadily becoming crowded.

  “What are you getting at, Sam?” Annabelle asked softly. A part of her – the tired, hurt part of her – just wanted him to get to the point. A different part of her, however, sort of didn’t. As if to hide her discomfort, Annabelle occupied herself by taking another drink of her ale. The second drink was just as bitter as the first. She guessed she didn’t exactly know which kinds of British ale suited her best just yet.

  Sam turned back to her and smiled, studying her carefully. He nodded, as if to himself, and took another swig of his ale. Then he continued, “There have always been certain things Jack wouldn’t do.” He leaned back against the cushion of the booth and sighed. He seemed to consider her for some time before finally leaning in again, this time closer than before.

  Then, in a voice considerably quieter and a tone much more serious and covert, he said, “There are certain jobs that Jack won’t take – bar none. Don’t ever ask him to kill a soldier. He’ll just shake his head and tell you that the man is probably going to die anyway, and he’ll force you to leave it at that.” He took another drink and paused, before going on. “You can’t pay him to take out a single dad, either. No doing.”

  At this point, he stopped and his gaze became as steady as if he had been staring down at Annabelle through the sites of a long-range rifle. “And he never kills women or children.”

  Annabelle stared back at Sam without saying a word. A million thoughts chased each other through her head. Her fingers and toes tingled. She felt strange.

  Never?

  Sam shook his head, just once, left to right, as if he could read her thoughts. “It wasn’t Jack that killed Dr. Anderson six years ago, Annabelle. He couldn’t do it. Even though he went so far as to show up at the kill site, weapon-ready, he couldn’t bring himself to finish the job.”

  He fell quiet then, and Annabelle just sat there as the information sank in.

  He couldn’t finish the job… He didn’t kill Teresa… She swallowed and her mouth was once more so dry that she nearly began to cough with the effort. She felt so damned tired. Sleepy. Dizzy, even.

  She blinked.

  Oh, shit… Oh God, you have to be kidding me -

  “You killed Teresa,” she said softly. And you drugged me.

  Samuel Price didn’t say anything at first. He only gazed through her, his smile steady and grim.

  She blinked again, this time more slowly, and shook her head quickly, trying to clear an encroaching fuzziness.

  “See, now, what you don’t understand, Annabelle, is that I would have done anything to protect Jack’s reputation at that time,” Sam went on, watching her carefully as he spoke. “We were associated enough with one another that what he did was as good as what I did, and vice versa.” He shook his head. “He did everything right that night except the single most important thing.”

  Annabelle had no doubts now. She had been drugged and she knew it. And, as Sam’s deep, Texan voice began to echo between her ears as if she were hearing him through stone chambers, she fought to collect her thoughts enough to contemplate a way out of this new mess.

  “But, in the end, they linked him to the kill and his standing remained.” Sam took one last swig of his ale, finishing it off and pushing it to the end of the table.

  “What did you give me, Sam?” And, when did you give it to me, she wondered. It had to be in her ale. He was good. She never saw his hands anywhere near it.

  “Only a slight soporific, darlin’,” he answered calmly, a southern charm lacing his words . “A little somethin’ to make this easier on both of us.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, just to rest them, and found it was a mistake. It took way too much precious strength and will power to open them again. When she did, it was to find him watching her steadily, his expression strange. There was acceptance in his gaze – and regret.

  “Where did you hide the vial, Annabelle?”

  “What vial?” She asked, sort of meaning it. Everything was fuzzy, after all.

  “The vial you retrieved from the tunnel beneath Columbia University,” he specified calmly, pulling a wallet out of his back pocket as he spoke. He drew out a few English pounds and slid them beneath his now empty ale mug. “I don’t want to hurt you, Annabelle. And the Lord knows I don’t wanna hurt Jack. But a job’s a job an’ I’ve never failed one yet.”

  Annabelle watched him leave the tab, moving in such a cool, and ordinary, every-day manner, no one in the world would suspect that he’d just poisoned the woman across from him and was probably planning to kill her as well.

  “So, I’ll make you a deal. Give me the information I’ve been charged to extract and I’ll let you live. I trust Jack to keep things between us,” he continued, now re-folding his hands in front of him and leaning in casually.

  Annabelle’s mind raced. She didn’t have her cell phone and wasn’t even sure if it would work in England. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going. She’d crossed so many streets and taken so many turns, she wasn’t sure anyone would figure it out if they tried… And Jack probably wanted to give her space right now anyway. If he sent Sam out to talk to her, then he probably wanted to give him time…

  She was doomed.

  “I’m having a hard time thinking, Sam. You gave me too much…” Annabelle closed her eyes again, not all-together faking a dizzy spell and a little swoon.

  Sam was up and out of his seat like lightning. “Come on, little lady. You never could hold your drink.” He grasped her under the arms and pulled her off of the bench, holding her against him as if she might fall at any moment. And she wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t fall.

  As he led her through the growing crowd and to the door, he shook his head in a reprimanding manner. “I told you English ale was stronger than Corona, now, didn’t I?” he said, just loud enough for a few of the patrons around them to hear.

  Annabelle thought about calling out to one of them for help, but what good would it do? Would they believe her? And what would she say? And what could any of them possibly do against Samuel Price – the man who’d taught Jack Thane how to kill?

  Her heart slammed hard against her rib cage. It almost hurt.

  Crap, she thought. I’m going to die.

  Or, I could just tell him what he wants to know.

  And then Craig Brandt would die. Otherwise, why go after the last physical vestige of his cure? Why destroy something like that unless you were going to make certain that it could never be created again?

  Or, maybe he wouldn’t die. Maybe Jack’s men could actually keep him safe. But, what about everyone else? What about the people who actually had the disease? Brandt would never be able to make the cure again without giving up his cover. Those people would continue to suffer. To burn.

  Annabelle grunted as she stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk and fell harder against Sam. He held her solidly, picking up their pace, despite her worsening condition. She felt angry, suddenly. Angry that she couldn’t figure a way out of this. Angry that she’d gotten into this situation in the first place. Angry that some bastard had drugged her up again, against her will. If she ever got out of this, she was so throwing away her Vicodin. At least, one of the bottles, for sure!

  She couldn’t clear her mind. Between the sedative and her mounting ire, she couldn’t focus enough to even begin to h
ope for an escape plan.

  “I’ll ask you again, Annabelle. Where is it? What do you know?”

  “Not much, Sam,” she answered, somewhat honestly. Samuel Price suddenly ducked into an alleyway and slammed her up against a wall.

  The impact jarred every bone in her body and caused her jaw to crack deep within her skull. Her sore shoulder throbbed with renewed pain and her arm fell limply at her side. Stars swam before her eyes, but she no longer felt like napping. Though her vision almost instantly blurred again, it was with tears this time, instead of sleep.

  Sam released her and, out of breath, she slid to the ground.

  Breathe. Just breathe…

  He knelt beside her and grabbed a fist-full of her long hair, bringing her face up near his own. “I’d rather not do this all night, Annabelle, but I can and I will. Now I need you to think real hard for me. What did you do with the drug?”

  Annabelle opened her mouth to answer, but found herself choking instead. Sam let her go again so that she could double over and cough.

  “You’re a delicate little flower, aren’t you?” He said softly, in a not entirely derogatory manner.

  “Fuck you.”

  Sam Price laughed. It was a full, hearty laugh, from somewhere deep inside his gut. He shook his head, still chuckling. “Okay, fair enough. ‘S’pose Jack’s taught you a thing or two an’ I’m guessin’ you’ve grown some sort of hide to be able to come through the Colonel’s treatment with your sanity intact. Plus, you saved Jack’s life.” He considered her for a silent moment. Then he went on, “so, I take it back. You’re not so delicate after all.”

  In the surreal dream that had become her world, Sam Elliott, the actor, was telling her she wasn’t a delicate flower.

  She should be elated.

  “Sam,” she croaked, coughing for another moment, and then managing to clear her throat as she straightened, still on her knees. He knelt on one knee beside her, his gray eyes glittering with malevolent intent. He waited patiently.

  “Sam,” she continued, “You may as well kill me. I’m not going to tell you a goddamned thing and that’s final.”