And why was that?
She twisted the throttle a little and picked up speed, moving slightly ahead of Jack, who had been riding steady on her left side. She just suddenly had an urge to move past him. To push the engine as hard as she could.
To run away.
In the next instant, Jack pulled up along side her once more and she couldn’t help but look over at him. Their eyes met. Still, his expression was unreadable. But there was something dangerous behind his blue eyes. Something she didn’t recognize.
She blinked. He looked away, refocusing his attention on the ribbon of black unfolding before them. She followed suit.
Annabelle wondered how long they were going to drive. Not that she minded the ride. They could just keep going and going, for all she cared. But Jack had a destination in mind, and she wondered what it was.
She looked over at him again, suddenly curious as to how Dylan was holding up. The teenager’s arms were wrapped tightly around Jack’s trim waist and his eyes were shut tight. He almost looked as if he was in pain.
Probably afraid of the motorcycle. A lot of people were nervous about motorcycles, the way that Annabelle was afraid to fly. She had empathy for him.
Beside her, carefully matching her speed on his Triumph, Jack Thane was lost in his own dark thoughts. If Annabelle had been able to read his grim reflections, she might have driven that new motorcycle of hers right off of the interstate.
Jack gripped the handlebars of the bike and squeezed. Tension was riding him almost as hard as he wanted to ride the motorcycle beneath him. Nothing about this situation was controlled. He liked control. He depended on it. When things were in control, they ran according to plan and were easy to anticipate and manipulate.
Right now, his mind was working on all gears as he tried to get a handle on the situation. Beside him, Annabelle rode high on Vicodin, no food in her stomach, no helmet on her head, barely any protective gear on her body at all. And on a bike he probably shouldn’t have given her just yet. If he hadn’t had complete faith in her riding abilities, he would have made a point to shoot himself later for being such a bloody fool.
But Annabelle was no rookie and he was certain enough that she would remain upright. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d had much of a choice. They were literally on the run. And that was what he was trying to get his head wrapped around. The past twenty-four hours were throwing him for a loop.
Nothing played out right. Nothing made sense.
Whoever had killed Max Anderson had been good enough that they’d managed to cover up the more obvious traces of foul play, but novice enough that they’d missed a few minor, yet damning details. Someone, perhaps, a year on the job.
Whoever had fixed the pharmaceutical records, however, had been very, very good. Thorough. Clever. He was certain it had been the same person to fix the autopsy. An informant had told Jack that the postmortem had come out clean – confirming evidential suicide.
And then there was the pizza boy. An amateur of the worst kind. He’d come blundering into a scene un-prepared and unaware. From what he had been carrying on his person, Jack had been able to surmise that he’d had no idea how many people he was going to find in that apartment. And the needles full of sodium thiopental made no sense at all. Anyone he wanted to stick a needle into would struggle, and if he thought he’d have had an easier time of it with a woman, he was wrong. Women were more often phobic of needles than men, and Annabelle was a good example. She was terrified of them. Needles and planes.
So, the kid must have been planning on forcing someone to inject themselves. And the only way to do that was to threaten to shoot someone else. That could get loud and messy and too many wild factors made for an unsure outcome. It was sloppy. Amateur work, indeed.
Three different hired guns.
One employer?
Jack wasn’t so sure. He glanced over at Annabelle. She was obviously lost in her own thoughts. Her brow was furrowed and her speed kept inching upward. Jack recognized her stance. She looked scared. Tired. Frustrated. She looked as if she could twist the throttle as far back as it would go and not slow down until she took the bike right over the edge of the Earth.
Time to pull her out of whatever abyss her mind had leapt into. Their turn-off was coming up. He waited for her to glance over and then held up his right hand. They’d learned hand signals for riding a long time ago and he used them now. She nodded and responded in kind and he kicked ahead of her with a slight flick of the right wrist and enormous ease.
The Triumph roared past and nearly out of view before Annabelle could blink. She smiled, grateful to finally have the chance to see what the Night Rod could really do. She leaned into the bike, carefully twisted the throttle, and grinned ear to ear.
Chapter Nine
Annabelle and Dylan followed Jack down the long, dark hallway to a metal door at its end. Annabelle did her best to walk normal. But the time she’d spent on the bike had allowed the ache in her hips to set in and getting back on her feet had brought the pain back. As strong as the drug was, under the circumstances, it was wearing off. The pleasant physically numb feeling she’d been embraced by was slipping away, leaving a weariness and pain in its wake.
She grimaced as they came to a stop. She’d be damned if she was going to mention anything about her discomfort to either of her companions. It was her own stupid fault she was in pain, anyway. And at least she wasn’t nauseated. The Vicodin would work for days to that effect. She was pretty sure it was also responsible for the fact that Max’s death still wasn’t bothering her as much as it should. Chalk one up for opiates.
Besides – Dylan didn’t appear to be doing any better. His color had never returned and he had that look about him that yearned for a dark room, a bed, and a shit load of oblivion.
Jack rapped with his gloved knuckles on the door and the lock tumbled on the other side.
The door swung slowly outward. Jack stepped back and another man stepped out. He stood a few inches shorter than Jack, which still left him a lot taller than Annabelle. He looked maybe five or six years younger than Jack; mid-to late thirties. He had short jet-black hair and light hazel eyes. A well-trimmed goatee graced his chin. His clothes closely resembled Jack’s own ensemble; black t-shirt over a well-muscled chest, black jeans, black shoes. Annabelle noticed that they weren’t motorcycle boots. Not sneakers, but still soft-soled. They looked comfortable and easy to not notice. She figured that was probably the point.
The man nodded at Jack and immediately stepped aside, allowing the three of them to enter the room beyond.
It wasn’t a large room and was furnished with bare necessities. Annabelle guessed it was an emergency grouping center, containing a couple of couches and love seats, a few tables and a door on the opposite end that she assumed led to a bathroom. She hoped it did, anyway. The bottled water she’d downed before the ride was now wanting back out.
Jack stopped and turned, ushering her and Dylan in before he made certain the door was locked behind them. The black-haired man moved to a table across the room and pulled two duffel bags off of its surface. He walked over and handed them to Jack, who instantly handed one of them to Annabelle.
“Change of clothes,” he told her softly. “You’ve already guessed where the washroom is.”
Annabelle looked at the bag and then up at Jack. He smiled. She shrugged and headed toward the opposite door, just grateful to be on her way to sitting once more.
The bathroom was small but contained all of the necessary basics. It was also clean. Thank God.
She dropped the bag on the floor and began to strip down to her underwear. That was when she noticed that it was also heated, because she didn’t get the chill she expected from the night air. She relieved herself and then closed the lid on the toilet. She folded her clothes, placing them on top of the toilet lid and then unzipped the black duffel bag at her feet.
“What the-”
The articles of clothing carefully folded inside were something
straight out of a science fiction movie. She lifted out the top garment and held it up in front of her. It was a long-sleeved shirt, grayish-black and looked to be about her size. However, the material it was composed of shone iridescently in the overhead fluorescents. She moved it from side to side, watching the gray-black material shimmer like very, very fine chain mail.
“Way weird.”
She turned the shirt upside down and felt inside. It was soft on the inside, just as one would expect cotton or even fleece to feel. It was the outside that felt so strange. And it was heavy, too.
She put the shirt on the stack of clothes on the toilet and then bent down to retrieve what was next in the bag. A pair of jeans.
Sort of.
These were black low-rise, boot-cut and exactly the style that Annabelle favored. However, they, too, were composed of the same strange material as the shirt, only thicker. And heavier.
She turned them this way and that, examining them with generous curiosity. And then she shrugged and pulled them on.
They fit perfectly. Something about the material caused the jeans to cling to all of the right parts of her legs and to ignore all of the wrong parts. As utterly ridiculous as it was to admit as much in the midst of all of the craziness that had become her life this night, she decided that she loved these jeans. If only she knew what they were made of and where she could buy some more. If only she had a full-length mirror.
The shirt was next. Its weight was hefty and slid along her arms like some luxurious kind of armor. She pulled it down over her waist and sat down on the toilet top to put back on her riding boots. The black leather Harley Davidson’s didn’t look out of place at all now, and in fact, matched the outfit flawlessly.
Annabelle ran her hands over her clothes, wondering at their design, and then stuffed her old clothes back in the bag, zipping it shut. She pulled on her leather jacket over the long-sleeved shirt and opened the door.
When she came out of the restroom, Jack looked up at her from where he was seated on one of the couches. He was apparently going through some of the things that had been handed to him in his own black duffel bag. Annabelle noticed several guns.
Jack’s attention, however, was now solely on her.
She looked up at him, catching his eyes. They burned blue fire as he looked her up and down. She had the decency to blush.
“Okay, so what’s the deal with these rags?” she asked as she set the bag on the edge of an opposite couch and sat down across from him.
“Believe it or not, they’re bullet-proof.”
Annabelle stared at him. She blinked. “Okay, what if I don’t believe it?”
Jack smiled and chuckled. “Doesn’t matter, luv. They’re still bullet-proof.”
Annabelle looked down at the clothes once more.
Bullet proof? Like Kevlar?
“You wanna explain?”
He sat back on the couch, draping his arms over either side of the back of the sofa. His blue eyes bore into hers. “I had them made for you a long time ago.”
“How long time ago?”
“Six years ago.” He paused. “When you found out.”
Annabelle blinked again and, at that, she looked around. Dylan was no where to be seen. That was why Jack didn’t mind speaking on this particular subject. The subject of what it was she found out. The subject of his particular choice of career.
“Where’s Dylan?”
“He’s in the other room, working on the laptop. Picking up where you left off with the color conversion.” Jack gestured to a door in the corner of the room that Annabelle hadn’t previously noticed. The hide-out was larger than she’d at first thought.
“Oh.”
Jack didn’t say anything. He simply looked at her. She was growing uncomfortable beneath his ever watchful gaze.
“You got the clothes when I found out? Why?”
“Because, luv, it isn’t safe knowing what I am.” Jack shook his head then and leaned forward again. His expression was suddenly troubled. “I’ve put you in danger.” His gaze dropped to the floor.
Annabelle’s brow furrowed. What was he talking about? That was six years ago! “Exactly what kind of danger, Jack?”
He looked up from the floor. “There are different kinds?”
“Jack!”
“All right.” He sighed. “You can be used against me. Knowing what you know places you at risk of being… questioned.” His expression was defeated.
“Questioned? You mean, tortured?” Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Duh! Jack, I already knew as much.” She shrugged. “I accepted it. People are always in danger from something anyway. It’s just a part of life.”
Jack’s eyes widened as she continued.
“But if you were so worried, then why didn’t you give me the clothes until now?”
He watched her in somewhat stunned silence for several more seconds and then sighed again and ran a hand through his thick hair. “I had my reasons.”
She wasn’t placated. “And they were?”
His jaw tensed and he stood. He was very tall. “My reasons,” he said. His tone had taken on a dangerous note. Annabelle’s eyes narrowed.
“Don’t you go all bossy on me, Jack. I don’t play that way.” She stood as well, not liking the powerless feeling that his height gave her. “If we’re in this together, then we’re in it together. Communication is key. If there’s something I should know, then spit it the hell out.”
He inhaled slowly, his blue eyes taking on the look of sharp cut sapphires. “It isn’t important, Annabelle. And this is neither the time nor the place.” His accent had deepened considerably during the course of the conversation.
Annabelle crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “Wow. You only call me ‘Annabelle’ when you’re really pissed.” She sighed. “I’m going to let it go, Jack. But if your keeping secrets from me gets me killed, I will so come back and haunt you for the rest of your unnatural and miserable life.”
Jack blinked. And then, slowly, his lips broke a smile. “Fair enough.”
“Now,” Annabelle said, lowering her arms and looking around the room. “I’m starving. Got any grub in this place?”
Jack watched her for several moments more and then turned toward a line of cupboards that was against one wall across the room. His head was spinning. There were too many thoughts inside fighting for dominance over his concentration.
Annabelle never ceased to amaze him. Though he’d hoped differently, he couldn’t really be shocked over the fact that she’d known all along of the danger involved in befriending a professional killer. She wasn’t stupid. But the fact that she accepted it so devil-may-care was beyond him.
He, on the other hand, had never come to accept it.
Six years ago, when she stumbled in on him and his mark during a job, he’d nearly had a heart attack. He’d quickly finished the job, right in front of her, and then absconded her and left the state. Like the trooper that she was, Annabelle hadn’t put up a fight. She’d simply remained silent and let him explain. He rented them a room in a Wisconsin hotel and went about telling her his life story. Or most of it, anyhow. The parts she needed to know.
And while she sat there in relative calm, surprised but understanding, he’d been internally killing himself. How could he have slipped up so badly?
Two days later, they returned to the Twin Cities and Annabelle went back to work and school, a little shook up, but dealing with the situation amazingly well.
He, however, immediately contacted a man in Cuba and had the bullet-proof-clothing, along with several other protective items, created for her.
And then, as he waited for them to be shipped, he got cold feet. If he gave her the clothes, he would be admitting to her that she needed them. And, if she needed them, then it meant that people were going to shoot at her. People were going to try to kill her – just to get to him. How would she react to such news?
Annabelle Drake had a stubborn streak, true, but could thei
r friendship and her tenacity stand up to something like that?
What if it didn’t?
What if she ran? Left the city – the state – the country?
He could never let her go. He’d realized that only shortly after meeting her for the first time in that bar on her twenty-first birthday. She completed him. He had never, in his life, experienced peace and calm until that night. Just sitting there beside her at the bar, looking into her eyes, laughing at the ridiculous things she said… He’d known happiness.
And he wasn’t about to give it up. Some days – some nights – it was all that kept him going.
So, he reconsidered and hid the clothes away. Instead, he took a different approach to the situation. He assigned a permanent delegation of pickets to watch over her twenty-four-seven. His men watched her go to work, and they watched her while she was at work. They watched her go home and they stood as sentinels outside of her apartment complex while she slept. It wasn’t cheap, but he’d never regretted it.
They’d been watching for six years and, thus far, Jack had thwarted three attempts on her life. Attempts that she was utterly unaware of.
He knew it wasn’t right. He knew he was a bloody coward. But there it was. Even cold-blooded paid assassins were afraid of something.
Jack cursed himself under his breath and reached up into the top cupboard. A store of food had been stashed there long ago. But, as he pulled it down, he realized his mistake. Beef jerky, Canned chili, Spam… There was little to nothing that Annabelle would find appetizing. Most of the stuff contained meat, and she wasn’t a particularly big fan.
“Just hand me the crackers and the peanut butter.”
He turned. She’d followed on his heels and was standing right behind him. He blinked and handed her the requested items. She took one in each hand and headed back toward the couch.
He followed.
Hell Bent Page 10
