Adam laughed again. “Everyone.”
He moved to walk around Jack, even turning his back on him. That was gutsy. Adam Night was crazy as hell.
Annabelle grew distinctly nervous when Adam came to stand between her and Jack, and that nervousness gave her the strength to elbow her way up to a sitting position.
Night stopped in his tracks and pinned her with his gaze.
She froze. Like a deer in headlights. His expression gave nothing away. She swallowed audibly, her mouth and throat dry from fear and the drugs raging through her system.
And then he smiled a gentle smile at her. It caught her off guard. “Been a rough ride, hasn’t it, luv?” He cocked his head, studying her closely. She was shocked to find that instead of shivering beneath such an icy gaze, she felt herself growing warm.
The drug again?
“You’d think most men would’ve learned by now how to treat a lady,” he said softly in that strong Sheffield accent. “I’ve heard some Americans are particularly bad about it.” He paused and his look darkened. “Especially those from Texas.”
At that, he pulled a gun out from beneath his black leather jacket, spun around, aimed it at Sam, and fired it twice before either of them had a chance to realize what he was doing. Sam’s body jerked backward with the force of the shots, slamming into the wall behind him .
Annabelle tried to scream, but the sound caught in her dry throat. She shot forward on her hands and knees, meaning to stand and make her way to Sam. At the same time, Jack rushed forward as well.
But Adam Night’s voice stopped them both short. “Don’t!” He barked, pointing the gun at Jack now.
Annabelle froze. Her eyes shot from Sam to Jack and back again. Sam’s eyes were closed. Blood welled up across his chest and left arm.
She shivered, suddenly growing unnaturally cold.
“Leave ‘im.” Adam ordered, his tone once more calm, his voice once again soft. He looked over at Annabelle, even as his gun still pointed at Jack.
I’ve seen you before, she thought, as those ice blue eyes once more found hers. A lock of her hair fell in front of her face, and she hurriedly brushed it away, wincing when her hand scraped against the cut on her cheek. The pain allowed her the strength to look away from the assassin to where Sam sat against the wall, now apparently unconscious.
She was overwhelmed with warring emotions. Sam had threatened to rape her. He’d aimed his gun at her, threatened to kill her.
But he’d told Jack that he was only trying to scare her. And he was like a father to Jack. And Jack loved him.
But Jack had told her to shoot him.
And now, Adam just had.
She felt dizzy and she placed her hand to her forehead. She was burning up.
Above her, Adam continued to watch her intently, scrutinizing her actions and expressions as Jack sometimes did – as only an assassin would do. So careful to see every little detail; the mind always working.
She met that glacial gaze again and held it. As Jack’s often was, his expression was impenetrable.
And Sam was dying. Or, maybe he was already dead.
“Don’t worry, luv,” Adam told her gently. “I’ve done ‘im a favor.” Then he turned back to Jack, who hadn’t budged since Adam had told them to freeze. “An’ I’m gonna do you a favor, mate. Won’t tell you what it is, though.” He smiled. “You’ll know soon enough.”
Jack looked like a statue of a man standing there, still and emotionless. His eyes remained fixed on Adam Night, the secrets in their cobalt depths unfathomable.
In the distance came the faint sound of thunder.
Annabelle tensed. She glanced to the left. The outlines of Night’s men standing guard at the end of the alley moved as they, too, turned to look.
The thunder rolled closer. Annabelle recognized it immediately for what it was. It was the best sound in the world.
Adam’s eyes flicked to the alley’s end. His gaze narrowed. “Go’ company, Jack?”
Jack said nothing. But the corners of his mouth turned up into a telling smile.
Adam raised his head as understanding dawned on him. “I see.” He lowered his gun, knowing well a losing battle when he saw one. Or heard it, rather.
“I’ll be in touch, mate,” he told Jack, replacing the gun in the shoulder holster he must have had beneath his leather jacket. And then, with one last glance at Annabelle, he smiled. “We always shared everythin’, didn’t we, Jack.” It wasn’t a question. “’S what brothers are for.”
Then he walked backward into the darkness, his eyes on Annabelle until he finally turned and melted entirely into the shadows around him.
His men must have been watching. They knew to leave when he did, and their retreating footfalls echoed in the alley before they were drowned out by the roar of thunder drawing ever closer.
Jack lunged for Sam where he lay against the wall. “Sam.” He lifted the older man’s head, holding his face between his hands. “Sam, hang in there.”
Sam didn’t answer. Annabelle kept her distance, not wanting to get in the way.
Jack tore open Sam’s shirt front, but there was too much blood. So, he pulled his own long-sleeved shirt over his head and gently ran it over Sam’s chest, wiping as much of the blood away as he could. The shirt was black, so the blood didn’t really show as he used it, and Annabelle was grateful for that.
Behind her, at the alley’s junction, the roar of motorcycles became deafening, echoing off of the walls of the buildings. The street’s lamp light speared through the darkness of the alley, illuminating the fallen figure and the man bent over him.
Annabelle’s eyes rested on the tattoo on Jack’s left shoulder. 81.
And the engines at the alley’s entrance began to idle down, one at a time. Footfalls sounded behind her. Annabelle turned to face the light, shielding her eyes from its intensity.
The footfalls stopped, silence stretching between the three in the alley and the newcomer. And then a voice shouted in the night, “Baron, get the trike in here fast!”
Annabelle removed her hand as the man stepped into the light and she was able to get a good look at him. He was a black man, standing at about the same height as Jack. He was bald and a small gold hoop with a dangling dagger graced one ear. His arms were covered in tattoos where they showed beneath his short sleeved t-shirt, and she was guessing, for some reason, that he was covered in them from the neck down.
His eyes were such a light amber that they appeared almost yellow and they contrasted greatly with the skin on his face.
Those stark eyes fell on Annabelle and then moved to Jack, where he knelt in front of Sam, his right fist pressing his t-shirt to a point on Sam’s bloodied chest, his left hand flat-palmed against Sam’s other wound. Jack looked over his shoulder at the man, meeting his gaze.
“Shit to see you under these circumstances, JT.” The man said as he quickly strode to Jack, simultaneously pulling off his own black t-shirt and confirming Annabelle’s suspicions that he was, indeed, completely covered with tattoos. Beneath the tattoos, muscles rippled as he moved. His voice was not as strongly accented as Jack’s, and certainly not as much as Adam’s had been. In fact, it sounded more like Rupert Everett’s voice.
He handed his t-shirt to Jack, who balled it up and placed it under his left hand, and against Sam’s second wound.
The “trike”, a large motorcycle with three wheels instead of two, pulled down the alley. It had a normal motorcycle seat in the front, but the back two wheels bore between them a bucket-like bench seat padded in dark red velvet. A giant man with long black hair tied into a braid was riding saddle. The man pulled the trike alongside Annabelle, clicked it into neutral, and then leapt off. He was at least a half a foot taller than Jack, and must have weighed a good hundred pounds more.
Jack stood. “Avery, get his feet.”
Avery, the black tattooed man, grabbed Sam’s booted legs while Jack grabbed his friend from under the arms. Together, they carried Sam
to the trike and laid him in the bench seat, which Annabelle noticed dipped in at its center, as if it were made specifically to carry unconscious passengers.
And maybe it was. They were the Hell’s Angels, after all.
“Take mine, I’ll ride bitch.” Avery told Jack, nodding at him and the tall man, Baron, as Baron got back on the trike and switched gears to power walk it back out of the alley. Only legs as strong as the giant’s could have done so as quickly as he managed it.
Annabelle stood still, sort of stunned by everything into immobility. She silently watched Baron make it to the end of the alley, until Jack took her right wrist in his hand and began to lead her toward the street as well. At first, she stumbled a little, her body not at all responding the way it would had she not been drugged up. But, he held her tight and she got her feet under her.
His long, booted legs ate up the ground fast and she had to quick-step it to keep up. She understood his rush. Sam’s life blood was draining with each passing second.
When they reached the side-walk, Avery motioned to a red and black Triumph idling a few feet away. It was a beautiful bike, paint and chrome shining in the lamp light. Avery had taken good care of it.
Someone in the crowd of motorcycles and riders threw Jack a black leather jacket. Jack quickly pulled it on over his bare skin and then pulled Annabelle toward the Triumph. He mounted up, kicking back the stand and righting the bike before nodding to her to get on behind him. She snaked her left arm around his shoulders and leaned against him as she swung her right leg over and scooted tightly against his body. Then she held on tight as he twisted the throttle and started way, picking up speed and switching gears into second and then third as he navigated the small streets.
Behind him, the rest of the gang roared to life and fell into formation.
Annabelle glanced back at them and was rewarded with the distinctive mass of motorcycle headlights, the outlines of their riders, and the sound of thunder that wrapped all around her like dark, powerful magic.
Chapter Thirty-five
Jack gazed out the window at the full moon and the illumination of a city that continued to work and breathe, all through the night, so far below him. The window looked out of one of the uppermost levels of Canary Wharf Tower, the tallest building in all of England. It was one of the many flats he owned in different complexes around the world, and it happened to be his favorite.
It had been three days since Sam was shot. In that time, there had been no further attempt on any of their lives and Jack had been able to get into contact with the medical researcher he’d spoken to Craig about.
Brandt and Meredith were now in Essex, holed up in a safe house off of the radar while Brandt attempted to reproduce the Erythromelalgia cure he’d happened to create six years earlier. It was turning out to be much more difficult than he’d thought.
Apparently, the first cure had been happened upon by accident. And purposely replicating a mistake was a hell of a lot harder than repeating something done on purpose. Brandt had indicated that it would be a lot faster going if he had the vial they’d retrieved from the underground cavern, but Jack had vetoed it.
The only two people in the world to know its current location were Jack and Annabelle, and for good reason. Jack wanted to keep Craig and the vial in two separate places, so that if something happened to one of them, the other would still be safe.
So, Craig continued to work without it, and the world waited.
In the meantime, word through Business channels had come down that one Geoffrey Emelius Kirkshaw, aka The Colonel, had been found decapitated in his own study – and beheaded by his own Guillotine replica, which he’d kept amongst other historical war memorabilia, including a genuine Civil War confederate flag and a real brass eagle flag finial from the Napoleonic Wars. Apparently, the eagle was now missing.
If Jack had wondered, earlier, what Adam had meant when he’d said he would do him a favor, he wondered no longer. The Colonel was dead, and Jack knew all too well who was to thank for that.
He also had to admit that Adam had been truthful on more than one point.
Adam had, in fact, done Sam a favor.
By shooting him in front of his men, he’d allowed it to be known throughout the same Business channels that Samuel Price was now dead. Killed by Adam Night, who never leaves his enemies alive.
Except, in this case, he had done exactly that. In the space of mere fractions of a second, Adam had aimed carefully and discharged two bullets that would put Samuel Price out of commission – without killing him.
Sam was now underground, if not a full six feet under it. Having delayed in completing his job of killing Annabelle, Sam had already signed the first couple of letters on his own death warrant. In the end, he would have had to go through with the job, or risk becoming a target, himself. Godrick Osborne would never have accepted Annabelle’s word on where the vial was, alone. They would have wanted her head, along with the heads of Craig Brandt and anyone the two of them had had recent contact with.
Which included every single person Sam cared about, including Jack, himself.
There was no other way Sam would have been able to end this but to pretend to die. Adam had provided the perfect solution.
Jack wasn’t sure what to think of that. But, when it came down to it, he didn’t really have all that much time to spend pondering it these days, anyway. Because the Colonel may be dead and Sam may be out of the picture, but Godrick Osborne was still very much alive.
There were two kinds of truly dangerous men in the world. Those who had nothing to lose – and those who had everything to lose. Osborne fell into the latter category, with a multi-million dollar empire built on grants and side-bar political funding, that he was hell bent to hang on to.
What man wouldn’t be?
And that meant trouble for Jack. Especially since Osborne, himself, had recently vanished from the radar. Disappeared. Off the map. No one in the Business could locate him or anyone close to him who would have an idea of what his agenda might be.
Reese, the captured assassin who had destroyed Jack’s home in Forest Hills and very nearly killed Jack’s ex-wife and daughter, had been called in for questioning immediately after Osborne’s disappearance. Reese had been directly hired by the Colonel, not Osborne, so chances that he would know anything useful were slim. Still, the higher-ups weren’t taking any chances.
When Reese honestly couldn’t think of anything that would help, he’d been allowed to return to his family. He went home, to his own wife and two daughters, who lived in Detroit Michigan, under the watchful protection of hired guards.
Reese had tried to save Clara from the explosion at the mansion in Forest Hills because he, himself, was a father. And, according to Annabelle, “not all that bad a guy… Except for the whole killing thing. But, then no one’s perfect, right?”
As for Godrick Osborne, everyone in the Business that Osborne had hired was dealt with in some way or another. Of course, Adam Night didn’t count in that summary, since Night was never counted in any statistical sum-up. Adam was a rogue assassin who blew statistics all to hell. But as far as the everyone else was concerned, Osborne’s payment had already been procured, and his file was closed. His disappearance was regarded as a possible first step in direct action against recent associates in a financial partnership.
And such a thing was frowned upon in the Business.
The tables had been turned on Godrick Osborne. If he didn’t show up in another forty-eight hours to straighten some things out, Jack Thane would be handed the man’s folder. And Osborne would become Jack’s next mark.
And so it had become a race, of sorts. Craig hustled to reproduce the cure before Osborne appeared out of nowhere to complete a job that none of his hires could finish. Because of this threat, Jack had placed Beatrice, Clara and Ian under a more thorough watch than had ever been placed on a family before. Cassie and Dylan were with them as well, until Jack could figure out how to approach the mess wi
th the police back in the States. Dylan been missing for a week and a half and his father had died under strange circumstances. Which produced an equation in which the authorities were searching heavily for Dylan Anderson, still seventeen, and technically still a minor.
Annabelle’s name was on the Wanted posters as well. She was closely associated with Max and Dylan Anderson and she, too, had mysteriously gone missing – leaving her apartment fully stocked and furnished.
Should Annabelle and Dylan head back, at that moment, and confront the police, a simple lie would most likely suffice to clear their names of any suspicions: Max had committed suicide and both Annabelle and Dylan needed to get away. Dylan didn’t know any other adults that he wanted to turn to, so Annabelle and he had gone, as close friends who shared the same grief, to someplace far away, where they could clear their heads for a while and mourn. Simple.
But that would expose them to Osborne, and Jack just couldn’t take that chance.
So, Annabelle was here, with Jack, instead. There was a lot the two of them still had to discuss. Annabelle had yet to fully accept that Jack had hidden things, like his fake marriages, from her in the last ten years and the fact that he’d drugged her against her will didn’t help. The truly scary part was that he hadn’t even told her the half of it. What would she say when she learned he’d been having her watched for nearly seven years?
At that very moment, she was in the other room, dressing for Sam’s memorial service and their meeting with a man, who, in Business circles, took care of all wills and testaments when an assassin went down.
Apparently, Jack was Sam’s sole beneficiary. It was almost funny.
“You abuse any of my things, Jack, and I’ll-” Sam had begun, from where he lay in his bed, which had been outfitted with all of the medical equipment he needed to heal. But, Jack had cut off his next words, smiling broadly.
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