The world stopped turning.
“A hired killer?” He went on, glancing at her expectantly.
Annabelle squeezed the edge of the mattress in her fists. Dylan glanced down at them and laughed softly.
“It’s all right, Annabelle,” he said, using her first name for a change. “I know you can’t tell me anything. I don’t want to cause you grief.”
He looked back down at that floor.
She closed her eyes and stood to go, knowing that if she stayed with him in the room she would either end up confirming his dangerous speculations or lying to him. And she really didn’t want to lie to Dylan Anderson. He was alone enough in the world as it was.
She made her way to the door and reached out for the knob.
“Is he going to kill me too?” he asked.
She blinked. She turned to look at him. She wondered if she looked as stricken as she felt. “What on earth do you mean by that, Dylan?” she asked, her voice a mere whisper.
He stared at her for a long, hard moment and shook his head. “That’s how he keeps his secrets, right? By killing those who threaten them?”
Annabelle’s stomach clenched up tight. Her heart skipped a painful beat.
His eyes narrowed and he stood from the bed, taking a step toward her. “I want you to think about something, Annabelle. Think back six years. Can you do that? What were you and Jack Thane doing six years ago?”
She continued to stand there, not saying anything, unease flowing through her blood stream like lidocaine, making her limbs go numb one by one. Six years ago, she’d discovered that Jack Thane was an assassin. Six years ago, she’d caught him, unexpectedly, finishing off one of his marks.
Dylan closed the distance between them. He was just as tall as his father had been, so she found herself looking up into his green eyes.
He gazed down at her for several tense, silent moments, his expression softening into one of disappointment and frustration. “I can’t believe your trust in him has blinded you to the truth, Annabelle. Six years ago, Jack Thane killed my mother.” He shook his head, his expression turning mystified and angry. “Jesus, can’t you see that?”
Annabelle’s vision began tunneling inward. She no longer saw Dylan’s face before hers. She was inside of herself, floating in the existential nothingness of memory.
Six years ago…
It hadn’t been a woman she’d caught Jack killing. But that meant nothing. How many people did he off in a week?
Six years ago…
When someone important wanted someone executed, who did they go to? Jack was the best at what he did, aside, perhaps, from Samuel Price, who’d taught him everything he knew.
Six years ago, Jack had been in the right place, at the right time.
So, who would Godrick Osborne, a wealthy, powerful man who stood to lose way too much, choose to contact?
Annabelle found herself sliding downward. Dylan took her arms and eased her to the floor, where she sat against the door, too stunned to move.
She’d never asked Jack whether or not he killed women. Or children. Until she knew differently, the fact of the matter was, there was a possibility that he’d killed Teresa Anderson.
I could ask him now, she thought, desperately.
And he would either tell her “no,” or he would refuse to answer her at all. In which case, she would know that he’d done it.
She realized, then, that she would not be able to ask Jack if he’d done it. She couldn’t. Because even if he denied having killed Teresa, unless he flat out told her that he didn’t kill Teresa because he never killed women and children, then she may as well go ahead and believe that he did kill women and children. Because what was left unsaid was the most damning of all.
And Annabelle wouldn’t be able to live with that knowledge.
Jack took a deep, relaxing breath. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his heart beat. After a few moments, he opened them again and sat back on his haunches. With practiced ease, he inserted the crow bar beneath the rim of the large round metal lid and popped it off. It clanked slightly as he heaved it to the side. With one last calming breath, he dropped down into the dank, dark underground.
The tunnel was an access shaft for the waterways of the private boy’s school. Jack flicked on his flash light and shined it on the map in his other gloved hand. Two right turns and a long straight stretch, then a left turn, and he would come to a door.
Jack shined the light ahead and moved through the tunnel, making sure to continue breathing evenly as he did so.
He hated dark, damp, enclosed spaces. He had since he was a child. But, having reviewed his mark’s extensive profile, he knew that this was the way he had to go. It was what made the most sense. The death would be chalked up as a freak accident and left at that. Any method that would result in a murder being successfully disguised as an accident was the method a good assassin would choose.
And so, here he was, in the bowels of a private boy’s school, finding his way to the pipe room beneath the gym showers.
Where, at this hour, he knew he would find one John M. Arkanaw, gym teacher to the young, male, and privileged. At 4:15, sharp, every day, Arkanaw took a shower. He washed quickly, dressed in beige khaki’s and a red polo shirt, and was out the gymnasium doors by 4:45p.m. At which time, he drove home in his white BMW, to his pretty, 26-year-old, utterly oblivious wife.
Handlers never gave Jack any information but the absolutely necessary when it came to assigning him a job. However, Jack was a talented assassin and not unaccustomed to attaining the extra knowledge on his own.
In this case, he’d learned, via various contacts throughout the field and beyond, that Mr. Arkanaw was wanted dead by the parents of a boy named Christopher Barkin. He went by Chris. Apparently, Chris had been repeatedly molested and, indeed, raped by Arkanaw. The parents, when faced with their son’s confession and presented with the disgusting, incontestable, and incriminating evidence, had two choices. Sue the bastard. Or kill him.
They’d chosen the latter, and had the money to make certain it was the choice that came to fruition.
Jack stopped at the metal door and, out of sheer curiosity, tried the knob. It was locked, of course.
Within a few well-worked seconds, it was locked no more, and Jack moved on into the room beyond. It was pitch dark, and Jack wasn’t going to remedy that. He found the light switch along one wall and left it alone. He would need the darkness to shield what he was about to do.
He shined his flash light throughout the room, taking in his surroundings. White PVC pipes dropped from the ceiling, criss-crossing and gathering until they joined together into one larger pipe, which shot off toward the right wall and then on through it.
The room would be where the school’s janitors and fix-it men came to un-clog pipes or retrieve retainers or dog tags or other personal items that had been flushed down the toilet or fallen down one of the sinks. Somewhere in the pipes’ workings, there were mesh strainers and or filters, put in place to stop such items from continuing on to the sewer, and that made the janitors’ jobs a little easier. If not less messy.
Jack stood in the center of the room, switched off the flash light, and listened.
The sound of water trickling through one of the pipes made its way to his ears. He switched back on the flash light and followed the sound to its source, pinpointing the exact pipe currently in use. It was the only one being used at this time. It was the pipe that extended from the shower currently in use by Mr. John Arkanaw.
Jack pulled the backpack off of his shoulder and unzipped it. Then he pulled a sponge-lined basin from its depths and set it on the ground, directly beneath the pipe’s opening to Arkanaw’s shower.
He took another deep, steadying breath. And then, very quietly, and very carefully, Jack unscrewed the pipe’s fittings. He switched off his flash light once more and lifted the PVC away from the shower’s drain. Water immediately began to collect in the sponge-lined basin he’d set below i
t.
Jack stood still for a moment, watching the play of light and shadow across the opening of the drain above him. The light came from the shower room’s over-head fluorescents. The shadows were created by Arkanaw’s bare feet against the drain as he moved about in his shower.
Jack took an odd metal syringe from a pocket in his leather jacket and held it up. He waited, patiently, and purposefully, timing the man’s movements above him. And then, as a shadow passed over the drain once more, Jack inserted the syringe’s needle through one of the holes, injecting its entire contents into Arkanaw’s foot in a matter of milliseconds.
That night, the school’s janitors would enter the showers to find that John Arkanaw had been bitten on the bottom of his foot by a black widow, during his shower. An investigation into the school’s plumbing system would be led, where they would find that various nesting hour-glassers had taken up residence in one of the un-used pipes leading away from a bathroom no longer in use, but still connected to the system.
The entire event would cause people to shake their heads at the unlikely probability of it and the misfortune of John Arkanaw’s freak run-in with an angry mother nature.
But that’s what happened when you fucked with her children.
When Annabelle finally came out of the room, it was to walk, on somewhat unsteady legs, down the hallway and then be snatched roughly into the bathroom by a fist in the front of her shirt.
She stumbled into the bathroom and the door was quickly shut behind her. Cassie stood there in front of her, giving her a wide-eyed, pursed-lip look. “Dammit, Ann, I know what Jack is!” She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side. “Why didn’t you fucking tell me?” She whispered loudly.
Annabelle’s heart skipped a beat for the third time in the past twenty minutes, and she fell back against the bathroom sink. “How-what-“”
Cassie rolled her eyes and shook her head. “He told me, goddammit. He frickin’ told me he was an assassin.” She shook her head, as if in wonder, and then added, “and so is Sam!”
Annabelle’s eyes were quite wide. “Well – Well, what the hell did you expect, Cass? I can’t just go around publishing the information!” She whispered back.
“I know, but…” She threw up her hands in frustration. “Jesus, Ann! A goddamn hired gun? And here I was calling him co-dependent? What if he’d had me axed for that?”
Annabelle sighed and ran her hands over her face. “Chill, Cass,” she said, adjusting her shirt and running a hand through her long hair. “You know he wouldn’t hurt anyone for something so stupid. Besides, it might be true.” She shrugged with that last bit, and then sat down on the toilet seat with a huff. She was mentally and emotionally exhausted.
Cassie stood there for several moments more, her hands still on her hips. Annabelle stared at the tiled floor. And then Cassie sighed as well. She moved to the sink and took one of the cups out of a disposable paper cup dispenser beside the mirrored vanity. Some people used them to pour mouth wash into so that they could toss the cup afterwards. But she didn’t use the cup for mouth wash. Instead, she filled the cup up with water from the tap and took a sip, turning back to face Annabelle. “How’s Dylan?”
“He thinks Jack killed his mom.”
Jack pulled the V-rod up beside the Fat Boy and shut it down. He glanced up at the windows to Sam’s apartment. The lights were still on in every room. That meant no one was asleep yet. That would make things easier.
He kicked down the stand and dismounted, putting the key in his pocket. They needed to retrieve the vial and note that Craig had given to Virginia six years ago. Since Craig was still alive, he would be able to reproduce the medication from memory. Hence, the vial and formula would be of no real use to anyone but Godrick Osborne.
They had to be destroyed.
And, the sooner, the better.
Cassie choked on the water she’d just tried to swallow, spewing it across the tiles in-between her and Annabelle. Annabelle spun on the seat, quickly moving her legs out of the way of the spray.
Cassie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and coughed a few times. “What?” She croaked.
Annabelle looked up at her, a hopeless expression on her face.
“Are you serious?” Cassie whispered then.
Annabelle nodded.
Cassie looked around, her own expression bewildered. And then she turned back to Annabelle as she absently put the cup back down on the bathroom sink. “Did he?” she asked softly.
“Of course not!” Annabelle told her, firmly. It was a statement that might have been an out-and-out lie, for all she knew, but she wasn’t going to share her uncertainty. And, after nearly ten years of practice, she’d gotten pretty good at hiding her fears in order to protect Jack Thane.
Cassie believed her. She fell back against the bathroom door and let out a whoosh of air. “Oh, thank God.” She ran a hand over her face. “How did Dylan come up with such an idea in the first place?”
“He figured out what Jack is.”
Cassie was stunned silent for a moment, and then she whistled low. “Damn. That’s one smart kid.”
Annabelle nodded. “Yes, it is.” More than you know, she thought.
“So, what did you tell him?”
“What could I say?” Annabelle shrugged. “He wouldn’t believe anything I were to tell him in Jack’s defense, so I didn’t say anything at all.” She blew out a sigh and shook her head. “He’s got it in his head to hate Jack, one way or another, so what’s the use?”
Cassie nodded in understanding.
There was a knock on the door. “You girls done chit-chattin’? If you are, come out into the family room.” It was Sam. He gave the order and then left.
Annabelle and Cassie blinked at one another and then Annabelle stood, ran a hand through her hair, and straightened her clothes. Cassie did the same. They laid a hand on each other’s shoulders and then Cassie opened the door and let them out.
The others had already gathered in the living room. Beatrice and Clara sat beside each other on the love seat. Dylan sat at the dining room table, his wooden chair turned toward the family room so that he was as good as included. Craig and Virginia were seated across from each other on opposite couches, the coffee table between them.
Jack stood at the far wall, opposite the entrance to the hallway. He was leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes found Annabelle’s as she moved out into the room. His gaze narrowed and he seemed to be studying her face closely. His gaze intensified and Annabelle found herself pulling her own away. As ridiculous as it sounded, she was half afraid that he would be able to read her mind. And right now, the only thought that seemed to want to occupy it was her dread that he had killed Teresa Anderson six years ago.
Jack seemed to let it go for now and pushed himself off of the wall. “Virginia, I need you to tell us exactly where you hid the vial and the instructions that Craig gave to you six years ago.” He began, moving to the coffee table as he spoke. He unfolded his arms and reached down for one of the apples in a bowl on the table and then shined it on his shirt. “With you still alive,” he nodded to Craig, “the cure is safe, for now. The vial is obsolete. However, we can’t allow it to fall into Osborne’s hands.”
“It’s become like an appendix,” Cassie supplied, eyeing the apples, herself. They were only Granny Smiths, so not exactly easy on the stomach, but they were big and shiny and were sure to be crispy. “Unnecessary, but potentially dangerous.”
Jack chewed on his cheek for a moment and then nodded, once, in her direction. “Right.” He said, leaving it at that.
Craig glanced at Virginia. “Plus, as long as a copy of the medication exists somewhere out there, Ginnie’s life is in danger. Osborne’s men will continue to track her in order to get to it.”
Virginia paled.
Craig put his arm around her, drawing her to his chest. “It needs to be destroyed.”
At first, Annabelle wondered why it
would be that Craig felt he needed to convince Virginia of that fact. And then she realized that this was a secret that Meredith had successfully kept for more than half a decade. She had almost been willing to die for it. It meant a lot to her and she needed to be reassured.
Craig continued, in a soft voice. “You can tell them where it is.”
Virginia nodded. She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Fine.” Craig allowed her to sit back up. She looked up at Jack. “Got a piece of paper and a pen? I’ll make you a map.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Ten minutes later, jack folded the piece of paper and stuck it in the inside pocket of his black leather jacket. Then he pulled on his gauntlet gloves and looked up at Annabelle, pinning her with a hard stare.
“Bella, you’re coming with me.”
She blinked. “What? Why?”
“Because I need someone to watch my back and Sam’s the only one experienced enough to protect the group while we’re gone.” That wasn’t exactly the whole truth. In fact, it wasn’t any of the truth. But he wasn’t going to tell her any more at the moment, and besides, it was a reasonable excuse.
Annabelle seemed to be mulling that over while he went to the hall closet and retrieved her holster, gun, and riding gear. He knew she wasn’t buying his story. It had been a very long time since Jack needed anyone to cover his back.
He strode back across the room to stand before her and then held out the equipment for her to take.
She looked down at it. “Am I riding bitch?” she asked, point-blank.
He blinked. And then he smiled. “Nah, luv,” he said, showing her an almost cruel grin. “Your bike’s down there too.”
At that, she took the shoulder holster with the gun in it and strapped it on. Next, she slipped on the jacket and pulled on the gloves. He could see that there was a wealth of fight building behind her eyes, but, for whatever blessed reason, she’d chosen to keep it to herself - for the moment.
He wasn’t happy about that so much as scared, but he had to admire both her courage and control. And, until he could get her alone, he was grateful for it as well.
Hell Bent Page 27
