One bullet was better than none any day.
In front of her, Jack Thane was contemplating death. Not his. Not Annabelle’s.
Sam’s.
Because as soon as he could manage it, Jack was going to wrap his gloved hands around his mentor’s neck and squeeze until the breath left Samuel Price’s lungs for good.
Up ahead, a light split through the dim of the dank, forgotten corridors. It highlighted the tunnel and the channels that connected to it like tributaries. Two more connecting hallways were passed up, and then they turned to the right to find themselves faced with a brick wall that dead ended a particularly long tunnel.
This tunnel, however, was well lit, because near the end of the tunnel, a trap door had been opened into a level above them. The highly rotted wooden door had come fully away from its hinges when tampered with and was now lying on the ground directly beneath the opening.
Jack made sure his body was in front of Annabelle’s and once more went entirely still.
Annabelle held her breath and swallowed down the bile rising in her throat.
Up ahead, a pair of legs appeared over the lip of the opening, and then a man dressed in black lowered himself through the cavity, landing solidly on bent legs. The discarded trap door splintered beneath his weight. He glanced down at the sound.
Jack took the opportunity and rushed forward, moving with a speed that Annabelle had never before witnessed.
She stood transfixed, watching as his blurred form was suddenly beside the other man, who was a good six or seven inches shorter than Jack. Jack’s thick, leather-clad arm snaked around the newcomer’s head and face, at once pulling him off balance and choking off his air supply. With another quick movement, Jack swiped the dagger’s blade across the man’s exposed throat and blood splashed against the corridor’s opposite wall.
Jack pulled the gun out of the dying man’s shoulder holster as he went limp in Jack’s arms. Then he let the man drop and pointed his newly acquired weapon at the opening above him. In a few seconds, a face appeared over the edge. Jack hesitated only long enough to study the face, and then he pulled the trigger.
Annabelle wasn’t aware of it, but her entire body flinched with each pull of the trigger as Jack proceeded to shoot and kill another of their unwelcome visitors. There was a scramble above them as whoever was left on the other side of the trap door decided to attempt to scurry away rather than face Thane and whoever else might be with him.
Jack wasn’t about to let them get away, though. As if driven by a demon, Jack leapt up, the dead man’s gun still in his right hand, and even though the grip should have been tentative, at best, he as able to grab hold of the edges of the trap door’s frame and hoist himself into the space above them.
Annabelle stayed where she was, frozen in place, as Jack disappeared.
There were several more shots fired, in quick succession. And then he re-appeared in the opening, his blonde hair haloed in the light from the room beyond.
“Annabelle, come here and give me your hands.”
She didn’t move. From her right, in the corridors they’d left behind, came the growing sound of boots splashing through mud.
“Bella, you need to move, now!” Jack yelled at her.
Still, she didn’t move. She couldn’t move. It was like the blood on the wall was a similarly-charged magnet, repelling her. She only managed to stay where she was, instead of retreat.
Jack cursed under his breath and jumped back down through the hole, deftly managing not to come near the body of the man he’d slain. He raced toward Annabelle and had her in his arms just as quickly as he’d overcome the bad guys. He jerked her over to the opening and then turned and captured her face in-between his hands.
“Bella, I’m going to lift you and you have to climb through, do you hear me?”
She blinked.
“If you don’t, we’ll be stuck here, without bullets, when Osborne’s hired guns come around the corner. If we aren’t killed out-right, we’ll be tortured first.”
She blinked again. Nausea roiled in her belly. Her mouth was dry.
“I’m going to lift you up now, do you understand?” His tone was urgent and his expression entreating, his blue eyes boring into hers as if mining for some small sign of intact sanity.
She parted her lips and inhaled a very shaky breath. “I…” Her voice trailed off and then came back. “I think I’m going to ralph.”
“Do it upstairs.” He grabbed hold of her waist then, and lifted her through the opening. She had no time to argue or think or do anything but act, and she acted by grabbing the sides until her hip bones were banging against the edge and she could slide the rest of the way in. It seemed like the most difficult thing she’d ever done to bend her right leg and pull it up and through until the tread of her boot was against the cement of the ground beneath her. But she managed it, using the solid grip to push herself the rest of the way through. She fell, side-ways, just inside, and then rolled away from the hole.
Jack was right behind her. Before she could attempt to push herself up on to her hands and knees, he was once more lifting her, one hand under each of her arms.
“Let’s go, luv. Just a bit further.”
She went with him, limply, to the other side of what appeared to be a room filled with steam pipes and water conduits. Un-labeled metal containers sat against one wall, behind a chicken-wire fence sealed off with a chain and lock. Multi-colored wires ran from the containers and connected with pipes or other containers throughout the room. Steam made the room warmer than the tunnels below them had been, and moisture condensed on the exposed skin of Annabelle’s face.
There were three bodies on the floor here, all of them male, all of them young. Annabelle spared them only a cursory glance, already too numb to fully appreciate what it was that she was seeing.
Jack sat her against a far wall, behind an outcropping of metal and PVC pipes of different sizes. She sank down against the wall and sat, unmoving, as Jack ran back toward the trap door opening, yanking a second gun from one of his fallen victims as he did so.
Below them, the sound of boots running through mud grew louder. Jack waited.
Seconds ticked by, the men came nearer. And then they were there.
Jack shielded himself with part of the floor as he levered his arms over the edge and pulled the triggers on both guns.
One of the guns clicked empty after only a few final shots. The other, unfortunately, was not outfitted with a silencer, and the shots reverberated off of the walls around them, echoing like nothing short of several small explosions. Again, Annabelle could see Jack’s lips moving, and she knew he was cursing softly. The shots would gain unwanted attention.
They would make it hard for he and Annabelle to escape.
But that didn’t stop Jack from using the gun anyway. Some things were more imperative than others.
A chunk of the ground beside Jack’s head shot upward, splintering into dust and fragments of cement as he jerked back and rolled out of the way. With a deep breath and a set to his jaw, he stood and moved around the opening, attempting another angle.
In the brighter light of this room, Annabelle was able to get a clearer look at him as he moved. And though the black leather clothing did a good job of hiding most of it, when she looked closely, she was able to see that he was bleeding in several places.
He’d been shot.
More than once.
Annabelle’s eyes widened. Her heart stopped beating. Literally, for several seconds.
When it started up again, it was with a fair amount of pain. It hammered hard against her rib cage. A rock dropped into her stomach and she understood the true meaning of dread.
As if she’d spotted one single ant and was now able to adjust her vision to notice the mass of the colony moving about all around her, her eyes adjusted to the situation and she noticed the blood pooling beneath Jack’s feet. Little drops, gathering in small puddles, one deep red globule at a time.
She closed her eyes and spit several times. She was shaking badly.
As her eyes were closed, the shots of Jack’s gun started up again. Three more times. Then silence. And then two more times. More silence.
She opened her eyes to find Jack still standing.
He lowered his gun slowly and closed his own eyes. Then he opened them and looked over at her.
Then he swayed on his feet. Ever so slightly.
Annabelle had never stood so fast in her life. Despite everything, she had her feet underneath her and was moving across the room almost as fast as Jack had moved in the tunnel below them.
Getting to Jack and getting him to a doctor – a hospital – someplace safe where good, smart people in white and blue coats could make him stop bleeding, was all she could think about.
“Jack, let’s go,” she heard herself saying as she put her body beneath his arm as if she were going to carry him.
He shook his head and gently pushed her away, running a hand through his hair. The action smeared blood across part of his skull, painting his blonde hair pink. Somewhere under those thick curls, he had a head injury as well.
“It’s not so bad, luv,” he insisted, but his voice softened too much toward the end, and Annabelle could tell he was out of breath. Light-headed.
I’m in hell, she thought faintly. This is my worst nightmare…
“We have to find our way out of here and get you to the ER,” she told him, attempting to tug him toward the only other exit she saw, which was an orange metal door on one side of the room.
He didn’t argue, and he didn’t pull his hand away from hers when she led him to the door.
Which was locked.
“Fuck!” She yelled. And then she remembered her gun and the single bullet it still possessed. She pointed the weapon at the door jam and aimed carefully. She fired and the door frame, which was wood instead of metal, splintered.
Annabelle swallowed and pulled on the door. It opened on the second yank, the wooden fragments chipping away from the rest of the frame and collecting on the ground at their feet.
Annabelle led him down the tunnel beyond the door, following nothing but a nagging instinct that told her where to go.
A few more turns and she and Jack faced a door labeled “Exit.”
“Here we go.” Annabelle pushed through the door and they found themselves leaving a service entrance in an alley between two particularly tall buildings.
Behind her, Jack leaned up against the wall and ran his hand under his jacket to grip his side. He doubled over a little, his handsome face pale and pinched.
“Baby, we have to get you to the emergency room right now.” Annabelle urged him, fear driving every other coherent thought from her head.
“No, Bella,” Jack told her softly. “No hospitals. I’m not injured badly. It just hurts and…” He gritted his teeth and then swallowed. “I’m bleeding in too many bloody places. Get me back to Sam’s and he’ll patch me up.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack, please don’t fight with me on this. Hospital good. Waiting bad. You could fucking die, Jack.”
At this, Jack chuckled softly, but the sound was swallowed when another wave of pain obviously washed through him. He closed his eyes, fighting the sensation, and then opened them again, focusing them on Annabelle.
“You have to trust me, Bella. Please.” He implored her.
Though she knew her own expression was desperate, Jack’s expression was uncompromising. She had to believe him. Arguing with him would do no good. They would just waste precious time and he would lose precious blood.
Finally, she nodded and he straightened from the wall.
“Get me to the parking lot.”
She didn’t argue. She helped him toward the nearby cars and, without having to be instructed, she led him to the nearest vehicle, which turned out to be an older model Ford Mustang with rust around the tire rims.
Jack leaned against the car as Annabelle glanced around to make certain no one was paying them any attention. No one was.
Older model Ford Mustangs weren’t outfitted with alarms. Jack pulled the picks out of one of his many pockets and had the door open in a matter of short seconds. Then Annabelle slid into the driver’s seat and unlocked the passenger-side door.
“Get in,” she said, looking up at him from behind the steering wheel. He sighed and nodded. There was no way he was going to get her to let him drive. Not in his condition.
Jack limped his way over to the other side of the car, feeling the entire time, as if he might pass out at any moment. He’d been shot in the side and in his left thigh; neither a fatal wound, both bullets having missed major organs or arteries. However, now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the pain from the wounds, alone, was killing him.
Jack opened the door and fell into the front passenger seat. He closed his eyes, fighting off the dizziness that threatened to overtake him. Then he opened them, closed the door, and leaned over toward Annabelle’s side so that he could hot wire the car. Annabelle pumped the gas and it started on the second try.
Jack sat back in his seat and Annabelle slammed the gear into reverse, tearing out of the lot.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“This is bullshit,” Dylan crumpled up the piece of paper in his hands and threw the wad across the room. It struck the opposite wall and then bounced across the tiled kitchen floor. “Christ, it’s not even his handwriting.”
Everyone in the room watched him in silence. They’d all heard Sam tell him that the letter was his father’s “suicide note,” so they were well aware of the significance of the words he’d been reading.
They were also all aware that the words were out-and-out lies. After all, Max Anderson didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.
Clara cocked her head to one side, studying Dylan carefully before she stood up and went to him, gently placing her hand on his shoulder. “Wha’ did i’ say, then?” She asked softly. “Anythin’ useful?”
Dylan didn’t answer. He just shook his head, trying his best to hide his face from Clara. It was as if he wanted to accept the comfort she was offering, but at the same time, didn’t want her to know that he needed it.
“Of course no’, luv,” Beatrice offered, her voice and tone as gentle as her daughter’s. “It’s all going to be crap now, isn’t it?” She paused, taking her time, as if wading through dangerous waters. “Bu’ there mi’ be somethin’ in the note that Jackie can use; somethin’ the bad guys didn’t realize or know abou’. An’ it’s things like tha’ that give us an edge.”
Dylan wiped his eyes and looked across the room at the middle-aged woman. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, dear,” she answered with a shrug and a sympathetic smile. “But before you toss i’, why no’ let ‘im ‘ave a look at it?”
Dylan blinked and then glanced at the wadded up paper on the floor. He leaned his arm on the back of his chair and laid his forehead on it. “Fine,” he mumbled from the shelter of his shadow. “Whatever. I don’t care what you do with it, as long as you know it’s a lie. My father was not like that.”
“Oh, we know it’s a load of bunk, Dylan, trust me.” Cassie spoke up from where she was seated beside Beatrice. She stood and strode across the room to the paper, picked it up, and carefully unfolded it. “But Beatrice is right. There might be something in here that would lead us to the Colonel or even Osborne, himself. It doesn’t hurt to take a closer look.”
“Not you, maybe,” Dylan glanced up at her from behind his arm. “But I don’t ever want to see that piece of paper again.”
Cassie blinked at him and then took a slow, deep breath. She nodded. “Fair enough.” She took the paper back to the couch a
nd once more sat down. She and Beatrice began reading the letter simultaneously.
It was a faxed copy of the original, hand-written note. They scanned the words once, then again.
“Shit, you’re right. This is utter crap.” Cassie shook her head. “They can’t even get depression right.”
“Jack said they were amateurs. He wasn’t kidding.” Sam finally spoke up from where he’d been standing against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest in his usual, casual fashion. He was always watching and almost never said anything. Cassie was beginning to get used to it, but if she hadn’t known Sam was on their side, the man would scare the shit out of her.
As she was contemplating this, something inside of Sam’s sports coat pocket began to beep long and low. At first, Cassie didn’t know what it was. Then Sam’s expression darkened, his brow furrowing into a decided frown. He pulled a cell phone out and quickly popped it open.
Everyone in the room could hear Jack’s distinctive voice on the other end. He spoke softly, but, in the stifled silence of the living room, he sounded through the speaker loud and clear. And what he said gave every one of them the chills.
“We’re coming in China Syndrome, Sam. Get the Band-Aids ready.”
When the Ford Mustang pulled up alongside the curb in front of the apartment complex, Sam and Cassie were waiting on the sidewalk to meet them. At once, Annabelle shoved the gear shift into park and Sam opened Jack’s door.
Annabelle hopped out of the driver’s side and ran around to help as they pulled Jack out of the car and got him into the building as quickly as possible. He leaned heavily on Sam as Cassie checked him over, even as they moved.
It was difficult to get a good look at him through the leather he wore, so Cassie urged Sam to move faster, and he shot her a mixed look of exasperation and fear. Sam was looking decidedly pale, himself, and Cassie was impressed to see the master assassin’s normally calm demeanor more than a little ruffled.
Hell Bent Page 30
