Hell Bent By Heather Killough-Walden

Hell Bent

by Heather Killough-Walden

Prologue

Annabelle felt the distant ache of her weapon’s recoil on her right shoulder. The curve of the trigger was a bend of cold, smooth steel beneath her finger. There was no sound but the buzzing of nothing in her head. That severe silence that follows a gun blast.

It was a throbbing drone that drowned out the rest of her slow-motion world.

She’d done it. She’d really done it.

She’d killed a man.

A short eternity spanned before Annabelle realized she wasn’t breathing. Nothing coming in. Nothing going out. Even with the realization, she couldn’t seem to make her lungs move. No expanding. No contracting. She was stuck in disbelief and it acted like a hardening cement around her body.

She simply gazed, unmoving, at the scene beyond the bullet hole in the window of the building across from her. There was so much blood; a thick crimson paint slowly coating the floor. And it was her fault.

Silence droned in her ear drums.

Then, like an explosion, the roof exit door behind her burst outward, slamming noise into her world and air into her chest as if she’d been hit with a tidal wave of existence. She found herself spinning around where she’d been laying, on her belly, upon the ground. She let go of the rifle so that it slid out of her grasp and came to a skidding halt several feet away.

Her head pounded as her lungs suddenly and violently expanded. But that was the only part of her that worked; her legs would not lift her. She couldn’t even get them beneath her.

A large man dressed in black SWAT-like attire stormed the roof, his gun arm up and ready. Within a few short moments, he had located Annabelle, and turned to level his weapon upon her.

Once more, a bullet split the sky. And, the sound, like thunder, followed after.

Chapter One

Several days earlier…

“Oh, God…” With some effort, Annabelle pulled her face out of her pillow, mumbling as she did so. Then she rolled herself over in bed and slowly raised her arm to shield her eyes from the ray of sunlight streaming through the window across the room.

“Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakens.”

She took a groggy moment to sort out the words and the voice behind them and then moved her arm so that she could locate the speaker. When she did, she tried to swallow and found that her mouth was too dry. He handed her a glass of water.

She took the glass and painfully raised her head up long enough to swallow twice, then she laid back down. “Close the bloody blinds,” she mumbled, wincing as the effort of speech sent pain arcing from the base of her skull to some point behind her right eye.

“I imagine you’re hungry. There can’t be much left in that stomach of yours.”

Annabelle was quiet for a moment, processing what he’d said. And then she squeezed her eyes shut. “You’re kidding me,” she uttered, shame coloring her pale cheeks red.

The man sitting at the edge of the queen-sized bed smiled. His teeth were brilliant and straight, his blue eyes sparkling. “You mean you don’t recall me holding back your lovely mass of hair?” His accent was British, which Annabelle had always adored. His blonde hair was thick and shoulder-length, falling in loose waves that made even Annabelle jealous.

She shook her head, still not looking at him. Then, as mortification really settled in, she groaned, rolling over to hide her face beneath her pillow.

The man on the bed chuckled softly. “No, we can’t have any of that, luv. You’re late as it is. And so am I.”

Annabelle felt him rise from where he’d been sitting, a considerable amount of muscle-bound weight lifting from her mattress. She chanced a peek from under her lavender-colored pillow case and watched as he moved about the room, choosing out her clothes and shoes as if he lived in the apartment himself.

Annabelle moved the pillow and slowly sat up. “How do you know where everything is?” She asked softly, rubbing her temples gingerly. She knew the answer already. Jack Thane was the kind of man who noticed things. Big things, little things – everything. It was his job. It was in his blood. And he had a particular talent when it came to noticing things about Annabelle. Still, she was curious what he would say.

He didn’t stop moving and his answer came easily. “I know everything about you, Bella.” His gaze cut to her and he smiled. “There is coffee in the pot.”

Ah, coffee. It was exactly what she needed at that moment – four shots of espresso to lift the zombie veil from her brain. And a Vicodin. For the inevitable reality-pain that would soon follow.

As she thought of the pain killers, Jack looked up and caught her expression. His eyes reflected something dark – for just a second. And then, mutely, he nodded toward the drawer in the night stand beside her bed.

She frowned and opened it. A bottle of hydrocodone rolled toward her.

Jack did, indeed, know everything about her.

She took the bottle out and eyed it thoughtfully. Off subject, she muttered, “I need a shower.”

“You showered last night. I called your boss and told him I was fixing your car.”

She’d showered? Now she vaguely recalled something about hot water… clothes in a pile by the bathroom door. And, Jack had called her boss? Annabelle rolled her eyes and was immediately sorry that she did when more pain assaulted her.

She had to admit that she appreciated Jack looking after her. But the truth was, her job was the source of much discontent in her life, and part of the reason she’d gone on a binge the night before.

“The good doctor wasn’t pleased, but he was understanding,” Jack continued calmly.

“He’s up to his eyeballs in more work than he has any right to be,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m just adding to his stress.” Stress for him because he depended on her so much and now she wasn’t there and it was because she’d been careless and immature. And, stress for her because she hated her job but felt guilted into not quitting.

She took a slow, deep breath. Then another one. Sometimes deep breathing helped with the pain. It wasn’t working this time. She said, “Speaking of cars, Jack, I need to borrow your bike.”

Jack stopped what he was doing and turned to face her, one damnably perfect brow arched inquisitively. “Oh?”

“My car was impounded yesterday.” She shifted uncomfortably beneath her covers and then, distractedly, she glanced under them to see what she was wearing. Jack watched her carefully, an amused expression on his handsome features. She sighed when she saw that she was down to a white tank top and Victoria’s Secret Pink panties. She very much doubted she’d picked them out herself. When she felt like crap, she normally chose comfy sweats and thick socks to curl up in. Not little bitty undies and a tight tank top. That had been Jack’s doing.

She looked back up at him, ignoring his wicked smile. “The bike, Jack? I promise I’ll be good to it.” She didn’t bother asking him for one of his cars. They both knew that she wouldn’t drive them – they gobbled gasoline and she was a hard-core conservationist. In fact, the car that had been impounded was a Honda Civic hybrid. Ugly, but practical.

A bike, on the other hand, was ecologically sound, economically prudent, and very, very fun. Especially Jack’s bike, which was a Harley Night Train. It was the most beautiful thing Annabelle had ever laid her eyes on. She liked the bike almost more than she liked its owner. Almost.

“It isn’t the bike that I’m worried about, luv.” His smile became less amused and a touch more gentle. He brought the clothes and shoes to the bed and sat back down. “You can’t possibly be at a hundred percent just yet. You caused quite the stir last night.”

Annabelle’s blush was inescapable. She sulkily yanked the bra and t-shirt out of his hands and proceeded to dress beneath the blanket. Aside from the migraine, it wasn’t too difficult. Women just know how to do those kinds of things.

“Still wanna marry me?” she asked sullenly. All she could picture was her head bent over the porcelain bowl of the toilet, her strawberry blonde and gold hair falling lankily on either side. What a vision she must have been. Actually, now that she was thinking of it, images of last night’s unpleasantness were coming back to her. They only deepened her embarrassed flush.

“In a moment’s notice, luv. Just give me the word and I can be divorced within an hour.”

Annabelle blinked and stared up at him. Not a hint of teasing could be detected in his expression. His voice had dropped an octave and his blue gaze was steady. Annabelle, on the other hand, had been utterly and completely joking. Not only had she tried to make it clear to Jack that, because of… stuff… she could never be his wife, but the man was also married right now, and his current wife could kick the shit out of both of them. Well, out of Annabelle anyway. There wasn’t much on Earth that could kick Jack’s ass.

Annabelle found herself beginning to squirm beneath his gaze. She looked away, deciding on a change of subject. “Come on, be honest with me, Jack. Sherry’s on the juice, isn’t she?” She mumbled, not meeting his gaze. Sherry was Jack’s new wife. Wife number three. And she had a body like granite. She terrified Annabelle. Except for when Annabelle was drunk. And then, unfortunately, not nearly enough terrified Annabelle.

Which she had made all too clear the night before. When she’d picked a fight with a Canuck hockey fan who had said something derogatory about the late, great Sergei Zholtok. When Sherry had come forward to suggest that Annabelle settle down, Annabelle had whirled around to wail on the large woman without thinking. It hadn’t ended pretty, and Annabelle figured she was lucky that Jack had been there to prevent the situation from becoming even uglier than it had.

Jack chuckled. The deep, sexy sound sent a shiver through Annabelle.

“Cold?” he asked, obviously having noticed the small gesture. Annabelle watched as the blue in his eyes darkened. “Shall I turn the heat up?” His expression remained innocent. Annabelle could truly sense the deception in it. She’d always been good at reading people, and she had nearly ten years of experience with Jack.

She shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

Ever the one to retain control of a situation, Jack expertly diffused it. “Sherry is a good girl, Bella. Give her a chance.”

“She looks like a skin walker who stole Arnold Schwarzenegger’s body and lopped a bunch of curly red hair on top.” Annabelle knew she was being ungracious. She couldn’t help it. She felt like crap and candidness was a fault she could never work around when she was feeling below par.

“You read too much fantasy. Perhaps horror.”

“She wants to eat me for breakfast.”

Jack’s smile returned. It was unabashedly wicked. “Now, there’s a thought- ”

“Jack!” Annabelle held out her hands for the folded jeans that he was still holding. Her head was pounding and the coffee in the other room was screaming her name.

Jack sighed and handed her the jeans. He watched, somewhat bewildered, as she skillfully pulled them on without allowing him a single glimpse of her golden flesh.

Annabelle realized, as she was pulling them on, that he had chosen her tightest pair. Typical man. Then, once she’d buttoned them up, she was surprised to find they weren’t as tight as she’d expected. One of the benefits of throwing up all night was that you were dehydrated enough in the morning that just about anything would fit you.

She finished and settled back against the head board of the bed, thoroughly taxed. She sighed, again rubbing her head with one hand as the other felt above her covers for the bottle of pain killers. “Jack, the bike? Yes or no.”

He answered her sigh with one of his own and stood. “Very well, but you take the meds when you get to work, not before.”

Annabelle sighed and shoved the bottle in her front pocket. “Fine.” There would be no arguing this particular point with him. She knew from experience. The bottle bulged out and pressed against her pelvic bone, but she would transfer it to her jacket later.

Annabelle threw the covers aside and turned on the bed to pull on her socks. When she reached for her shoes, she saw that Jack had chosen her riding boots, even before he’d agreed to let her have the bike. He’d known, all along, that she would be using it. Which meant that he knew about her car. She frowned. He really did know everything about her. How did he manage that?

She shrugged it off as she reached for the black leather boots. A cold, hard shiver of anticipation went through her. They were Harley-Davidson’s, old, rugged and well worn. She’d had them for years now, since she’d first learned to ride.

When she finished, she stood to find that Jack was watching her in silence. He was leaning against the door to her bedroom, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were intensely, impossibly blue, the way they got when he was paying extra close attention to something. Annabelle was uncomfortably familiar with that look. It was the way he watched his marks when he was on the job.

Jack Thane was an assassin.

For all she knew, Annabelle was the sole person on the planet – alive, anyhow – who was not an assassin, but knew that Jack was. And it was that knowledge that had kept her from accepting his proposal for marriage on more than one occasion. Marriage would mean late nights, staying up, wondering where the man who was supposed to be laying beside her actually was. What he was doing. Who he was doing.

And, by “doing,” she meant killing. It was an unsettling thought – enough so, that she couldn’t quite make herself get into that proverbial bed. But, strangely enough, it wasn’t as unsettling as one might think it would be for someone like Annabelle Drake.

Annabelle drove a hybrid car, recycled, donated to wildlife charities, used canvas shopping bags at the supermarket… She wanted to make the world a better place.

Jack sometimes wondered how she could, at once, want to save the world and yet not mind that he took people out of it. She was always quick with the retort that the two were not necessarily exclusive concepts.

Jack’s eyes, right now, were burning like sapphires. Annabelle didn’t say anything right away, allowing herself this rare opportunity to simply gaze at the man who killed for a living. He was a very handsome man. Jack was thirteen years her senior, and at forty-three, he was, as far as Annabelle was concerned, the perfect male specimen.

She didn’t know much about his past, in England, except that he’d grown up an orphan in Sheffield. They never talked about it much past that. But, she often wondered about it. What he’d done as a child, who he’d known – that kind of thing. She also often wondered whether Sheffield regularly produced men like Jack. If it did, she’d need to visit England soon.

His thick blonde hair had just begun to gray at the temples, which was a physical trait that Annabelle found herself unaccountably attracted to. His chiseled, handsome face was lightly lined and tanned from spending as much time as possible out doors while the weather was nice.

He was tall, at six foot two, and he was built, but not too built. He didn’t have a disappearing neck and his testosterone levels were just right. Jack was clean. He didn’t work out for the physique, but for the power that it actually afforded him. He was strong and he was fast.

And when that strong, fast body was positioned perfectly atop a Harley Davidson Softail of black and chrome, he was, without a doubt, well… If he wasn’t always married or about to get re-married – and if he wasn’t an assassin – things would be different between them.

Much different.

The Softail… The bike, Annabelle. She wrenched herself from her risqué reveries and blinked. The bike. Transportation. Work. She blinked again and her vision focused to find that Jack was still watching her. His expression was so fixed, she nervously brought her arms up to hug herself. Pain stabbed behind her right eye, prompting her to act.

She winced. “Coffee,” she whispered.

Jack’s expression softened and he smiled. “Right.” He straightened and led the way out of her bedroom, through the living room and into the small kitchen beyond.

“I already know what you’ll say when I ask you this, but I’ll ask anyhow. Do you need help with your car?” His accented voice was low, his tone soft.

Annabelle shook her head, once, and reached for the mug that Jack pulled from an overhead cupboard. “No, I’ve got it. Thank you, though.” She knew that if she left it up to him, he would have her car out of the impound lot and to her work place before an hour had passed, but she couldn’t allow him to do it. When it came to Jack Thane, there was one rule that Annabelle never broke. She never took Jack’s money. Never. She knew where it came from. When she borrowed his bike, she always replaced what little fuel it used. Not that it wasn’t standard procedure to do so when borrowing an automobile of some kind from a friend, but Annabelle was particularly staunch about it when it came to her bosom companion, the paid assassin.

It happened to frustrate the hell out of Jack, and Annabelle knew this, but that was just tough. Short of finding herself suddenly and inexplicably in a situation where she needed the money for survival, she wasn’t going to change her mind on the issue any time soon.

It was blood money.

And, what was more, it would leave Annabelle literally indebted to Jack. That was a iced pond that she seriously did not want to skate across.

Annabelle had never come right out and asked Jack what kind of people he killed. She didn’t want to know. And he never offered the information, perhaps not wanting her to know. It was a side of him that she didn’t see and didn’t care to. As long as she didn’t know, she could pretend that he only took the jobs that he felt were warranted. Killed people who deserved to die. Rapists. Murderers. The like. She preferred the face that Jack Thane always showed her. And, who ever missed the dark side of the moon?

Annabelle pulled the soy creamer out of her fridge. She was lactose intolerant, so all of her “milk” drinks were made with soy these days. She poured a bunch of the white liquid into the bottom of her mug, and then poured the dark, extra-caffeinated coffee on top. The brew steamed, blessed and inviting. Annabelle smiled and took a sip.

Smooth, strong, perfect.

Just like the man who made it.

She smiled at her secret thought and tentatively swallowed the first few sips of the coffee. Then, growing more bold as her tongue adjusted to the temperature of the liquid, she took bigger swallows, downing the entire cup in forty seconds flat.

Jack’s brow arched. “Better?”

“Almost.” She concocted another cup and drank it down as well. “Yeah, getting there now.”

“Speaking of getting there, there was an accident on 35W, so you’ll need to take 77. And, don’t forget the construction.”

“Lovely.” Annabelle slowly sipped from her third cup of coffee and stared at the refrigerator, debating the merits of breakfast on an incredibly empty but rather unsettled stomach. She decided against it. She was just fortunate that coffee had never given her any problems. Most people would be sipping ginger ale right now.

As she always did, no matter how she tried to turn herself off to such things, she wondered about the accident he’d mentioned. “Was anyone hurt?” she asked softly.

“Hard to say.”

Annabelle cut her gaze to him. He had looked away.

So, there had been injuries. But, of course there had been, or he probably wouldn’t have heard of the accident. Most likely, he’d been listening to the morning traffic report while she slept. Or maybe watching the news. She looked down at the floor and gazed, unseeing, at a forgotten Cheerio between the fridge and the counter. Minnesota drivers were the safest she’d ever encountered. Lifetimes of harsh, dangerous winters had seen to that. But, the Twin Cities was vast and people had far to go. So, they went fast. When an accident occurred, it was often very bad.

“Any kids?”

Jack glanced at her and then sighed. “No,” he said simply. Annabelle believed him. She had no reason to believe he was lying. He was a hired killer. Why would he lie about people dying in a car accident?

She looked away and nodded. No kids. Whether it was the truth or not, it was what she was going to accept as true. Life was too hard the other way.

“The bike is downstairs,” Jack said suddenly and moved to her entryway closet. “I had a friend bring it over earlier this morning.” He opened the door and pulled out her jacket, helmet and gloves, then turned and held the riding gear out toward her.

Jack was the one who had taught Annabelle to ride. They’d been friends for nearly a decade. She’d met him on her twenty-first birthday, at a bar she’d chosen for her very first legal drink. He’d purchased it for her, much to her friends’ envy, and she’d flirted unabashedly with him the entire night. It honestly wasn’t like her to do so. She was, by nature, an introvert and normally fairly shy. But there was something about Jack that she’d liked immediately. And she sensed that the same was for him.

A year later, Jack taught her to ride. He’d started her out on a Kawasaki Vulcan 500, the perfect starter bike, and eventually she’d sort of adopted the bike as her own. He didn’t seem to mind. But the Vulcan was stolen and wrecked by a couple of teenage punks five months later, leaving Annabelle without a bike of her own. Since then, she’d borrowed Jack’s Soft Tails. Again, he didn’t seem to mind.

Annabelle put down her mug and held a finger out to him to signal that he needed to wait a minute. Then she headed back down the hallway to her bathroom and brushed her teeth. Twice.

Then she brushed her hair. She’d gone to sleep with it wet and, as a result, it had dried into a tangled mass of long reddish-blonde locks that literally fell to her mid-back. She looked like a druid who’d slept in a fairy ring all night. She smiled as she carefully combed through the last mass of knots.

Once the tangles were gone, she pulled the hair back into a loose pony tail and called it good. There was no point in attempting anything fancier with it since the helmet would just squash it to her head anyway. She hated that. But Jack was a stickler with helmets. Or, he was with hers, anyway. He never wore one himself.

“Bloody hypocrite,” she muttered, still smiling as she left the bathroom and re-entered the kitchen. Jack had set the helmet, gloves and jacket on the table. Annabelle took the bottle of pills out of her front jeans pocket and put it into her jacket pocket, zipping it shut. Then she slid the jacket on and followed up with the gloves.

Jack was pulling on his own long black trench coat. Over a black t-shirt, tight black jeans and black riding boots, the trench made him look like nothing short of an older version of a Lost Boys vampire. Or a gang member. Or an immortal highlander. Could he hide a sword under that thing? Suddenly, she was wondering how he killed his marks…

“Bella?”

Annabelle blinked and took a deep breath. “Yes?”

“You all right, luv?”

She shook her head and once again shrugged away her thoughts. “I’m fine. Nice coat, by the way. London Fog?”

“Stefano Genovese,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

She shrugged. “Whatever.” Then she brushed past him, which was like brushing past a brick wall draped in wool, and headed out her front door, tucking her apartment key in her front pocket as she went. Without waiting for him to follow or catch up, she strode down the hallway and turned the corner, opting for the stairs instead of the elevator, which she never rode and never would, so long as she could walk.

She flew down the stairs, her boots gripping the carpet tightly. As she neared the first floor, her heart beat sped up. There was little in life that getting in the saddle of a Harley couldn’t make well. A headache and a stressful job were easily cured, for a little while, any way.

She shoved through the front glass doors of the apartment complex without slowing and then came to a halt on the front step. Dead ahead, in the middle space reserved for motorcycles and scooters, waited the shining Night Train. It was alone and it looked like a dream, sitting in an early morning sun beam, chrome sparkling like smoothed-out diamonds, handle bars begging to be gripped…

Annabelle began to move forward once again, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“You forgot this.”

Jack was behind her. In his right, gloved hand, he held out her helmet. Inside the helmet rested the key to the bike. She glanced at it and sighed, disappointed. The message was clear. No helmet, no key.

“Just this once-”

“No.” Jack gently shoved the helmet against her chest, and she grabbed it as he let it go. Then he moved around her toward a shining black Audi A8, an admittedly gorgeous luxury sedan that was not quite as conspicuous as a Bentley, BMW or Mercedes. Jack didn’t do conspicuous. It wasn’t good for work.

He calmly strode toward the sedan, pressing a button on the black keypad in his hand. The car’s headlights blinked once, and Annabelle could hear the doors unlock. “Be safe, Bella. I’ll speak with you tonight.” He paused at the door to the large black car and shot her a killer smile.

She smiled back. “Thanks, Jack,” she said, meaning it. “For everything.”

He watched her for a long moment, then nodded once and gracefully took the driver’s seat of his car. Once he was behind the darkened windows, she could barely make out his form. So, she looked away as he started his engine and focused her attention on the Harley.

It wasn’t hard.

Chapter Two

“How is the car?”

Annabelle looked up as she entered the small private office, hoping that the blush she felt creeping up her neck didn’t give her away.

Impounded, she thought. “There was never any break down. It was Jack saving my butt again. The car is actually impounded and has been since yesterday afternoon.”

“No shit?” The middle-aged woman behind the desk stood up and opened up a cupboard door just as Annabelle pulled off her jacket and gloves and shoved them, along with the helmet, into the bottom of the cabinet.

“Well, I guess the helmet’s a dead give away,” the woman said, shaking her head and shutting the door . She stood around five-foot-three, a few inches shorter than Annabelle, and had short wavy red-brown hair. Her eyes were brown, like Annabelle’s, but big and round instead of almond-shaped. She had a ruddy complexion and an impressive set of naturally large breasts that made her appear to be more heavy-set than she actually was. She turned back to Annabelle. “You’d better hope Max doesn’t need anything out of that drawer. He hates you on those bikes.”

Annabelle shook her head. “I’ve given myself away just by riding up on it. You can hear the bike at the other end of the block.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “I’m sorry I’m late, Cass.” Annabelle always truncated her friend’s name to its shortest syllable when she spoke to her, not because it was easier, but because anyone who called her Cassiopeia, to her face, was sure to get clobbered by a woman who packed quite a bit of muscle beneath her deceptively docile exterior.

“Doesn’t bother me, sweet heart. I know you’ve got your bad days, like everyone else.”

“Bad night, actually.” She took a seat beside her co-worker and logged onto a Mac in front of her. A giant flat-screen monitor dominated most of the desk top and when the green screen popped up and asked her for her password, she logged it in, then turned back to the woman beside her. “Jack got married again, did you know that?”

“You’re kidding me. Already? Didn’t he just get divorced?” Cassie set down an electronic pen that she’d been using to shade something on her own giant flat screen and turned to face Annabelle. “I know it hasn’t been that long.”

“Two months. I guess he’s not a patient man.”

“Co-dependent.”

“You think so?” Annabelle smiled and mulled that over for a moment as she brought up the Photoshop program and loaded the project she’d been working on for the past week. “Maybe.” She laughed. “I’ll tell him you said so.”

“Don’t you dare, honey. That man may be rich and fine but there’s something in his eyes that gives me the willies.”

Annabelle cocked her head to one side and blinked. “Really?” She chewed on the inside of her cheek. This was dangerous territory that Cassie had suddenly stumbled into. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. He’s just… intense or something. And why the hell can’t he stay married? What’s he doing wrong?”

“He’s out of town too often,” Annabelle answered quickly, steering the conversation in a safer direction. “If he were just old and ugly and rich, his wives wouldn’t mind all that much. But I think one or two of them here and there are actually marrying him for…” She paused, finding the right words. “Other reasons.”

Cassie laughed. “Yeah. I guess I can see that. You marry a man with a body and an accent like that and you want him to warm your bed at night and whisper sweet nothings to you.”

Annabelle laughed, shaking her head. “I didn’t know you liked his accent.” She’d thought she was the only one who turned to rubber when he spoke.

“Honey, he sounds like Sean Bean. There’s nothing finer than Sean Bean. Nothing.”

Okay, she had a point there. Sean Bean was, admittedly, one of the single-most sexy men on Earth. An actor out of Britain, he possessed a fan base more or less composed of Europeans. However, Annabelle had fallen for him years ago, when she’d seen him in an Acuvue commercial and she’d taken it upon herself to educate Cassie on him. They’d once taken one full weekend and dubbed it “Sharpe Marathon” weekend. They’d watched every Sharpe series episode they could get their American hands on, which wasn’t as many as Annabelle would have liked, considering how difficult it was to obtain BBC material in the US. But it was enough. And Cassie was hooked after the first few shows.

Now that Cassie mentioned it, Sean Bean and Jack Thane did sound a lot alike. And now that Annabelle considered it, she could swear that Sean Bean was from Sheffield too.

Damn! I have got to book a trip to Yorkshire!

“You’re right. I couldn’t agree more,” she told Cassie, referring to Bean’s sexiness.

“Agree about what, Annabelle?”

Cassie and Annabelle turned to face the archway that led to a short hall beyond. A tall, well-built man dressed in a white button-down shirt and khaki slacks stood in the hallway, a pile of folders in his hands, a folded laptop tucked beneath one arm, and a red pen stuck behind his left ear. He had shoulder-length, wavy brown hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses. The eyes behind those glasses were a vivid light green that lent his face an almost supernatural appeal. They were the kind of intelligent, beautiful, powerful eyes that melted women’s hearts in libraries across the globe.

Max Anderson held a PhD in Image Analysis, Graphics and Visualization. But, much to many school girls’ grand disappointment, instead of taking a job as a professor at a university and setting out on a tenure track, he’d gone the route of entrepreneurship. As a result, he was making twice the money. But he was also working more than twice as hard. He had such an intense need to prove that he could do better in the field than in academia, that he never refused a job. And all of that extra work – work he couldn’t really handle – ended up in Annabelle’s lap.

She was the best graphic designer around. It was just a fact. She had the eye for minute detail that the best plastic surgeons wished they had, and the compulsive need for perfection that their patients wished they had.

“Nothing, Max. How is Sam?”

“He’s hanging in there,” Max answered, his voice softening a touch.

Sam was Max’s dog. He was fifteen years old and not doing so hot. The truth was, he was dying and it was breaking Max’s heart. Every day, her boss looked a bit more tired. And every day, Annabelle wondered if that was going to be the day that Max’s son called to give him the bad news.

As bad as it was for Max, who had adopted him from the shelter when he was a puppy, it was far worse for Max’s son, Dylan. The boy had been two when they’d gone to the pound together and Dylan had actually picked Sam out. They’d grown up together.

When he was eleven, Dylan’s mother was murdered in a gas station parking lot. The act was investigated, but eventually labeled an armed robbery and Teresa’s file was closed.

Suffice it to say, his mother’s death wreaked havoc on Dylan’s life. If his bond with his dog wasn’t tight before, it was then. They became inseparable.

Annabelle knew, through stories Max had shared with her, that during the first few months after his mother’s murder, Dylan had been allowed to take Sam to school with him. He was non-communicative and barely eating but anytime anyone tried to take Sam from his side, he became enraged.

In the six years since Teresa’s murder, Dylan had come a long way. He was lucky to have a father who more than stepped up to the plate, assumed duties and responsibilities of both parents, and helped his son through some incredibly difficult years.

As a result, and despite his mother’s death, Dylan was on the Dean’s list at his high school and was determined to land a scholarship that would allow him to attend the same Ivy League University that his mother attended in her youth.

Annabelle had a good relationship with Dylan. She figured she was one of the lucky few in the world who did. There was something about the kid’s personality that clicked with her own and when they were around each other, they naturally fell into an easy, comfortable companionship. He possessed one of the most imaginative minds she’d ever come across and her own love of fantasy and science fiction complimented that internal creativity. He loved to write. She’d read a few of his stories and had very little doubt that with just a little bit of direction from some of the creative writing professors at the University, his talents would make him a star in the literary world.

Max cleared his throat and straightened. “How is your car? Jack said it died on its way out of the parking lot. You were lucky he just happened to be there.”

Annabelle didn’t fail to notice the extremely slight note of jealousy in Max’s tone. No one else may have noticed such a thing, but Annabelle was, after all, a detail person. And she was good enough at reading people to know good and well what Max’s feelings were toward her. Matters in Annabelle’s life were complicated, indeed.

“To be honest, it’s presently out of commission. Jack let me borrow his bike. I hope it doesn’t rain today,” she added wistfully, more to deflect any derogatory comments that mention of the bike might have brought on than anything else. Max wasn’t overly fond of the idea of Annabelle on what he termed a “powerful and heavy machine” that was, as far as he was concerned, “too much bike” for her. She could see where he was coming from. A lot of novice bikers went out and bought motorcycles that were too heavy for them and then quickly laid them down, bringing a bad rap to a lot of shorter, lighter bikers across the nation. However, she wasn’t one of those novice riders. She’d taken the safety course long ago and a refresher course just recently. She had a lot of miles under her belt, and she’d figured out long ago that it wasn’t your weight or strength, but your technique and skill that actually counted. But arguing the point with Max was moot. It wasn’t logic dictating his opinion. It was fear. He’d lost too much in life already. He wasn’t ready to lose another friend. Or, employee, for that matter.

To her relief and, admittedly, concern, Max didn’t say anything at all. Instead, he simply nodded and his face took on a clouded expression. His green eyes virtually shuttered themselves against her as he took a slow, deep breath and then straightened, turning his attention to the folders in his hands.

“I know you’ve got a full load already, but we got a great offer late last night from Dobson. The firm is adding two new attorneys and changing their name. They decided to go ahead and change their entire site while they were at it, since it was rather outdated. They’re paying us well, so there’s a bonus in it if you can get it done by next Friday.” He moved forward and handed her a file folder. She took it without saying anything, knowing he wasn’t done yet.

“Great work on the Fresh Foods file. They really loved the logo. They’re wondering, though, whether you could change the color of the background to green. They feel it would better represent their ‘theme’.”

“No problem, but I’ll have to switch out a few things to make sure everything is contrasting properly after the change. Any particular shade of green they have in mind?”

“Nope,” Max smiled. “Just pick a ‘freshy’ one.” He handed her another folder and then turned his attention to the last one in his hands.

“Mackenzie is a whole different story.”

“Let me guess. They didn’t like it.”

“They like it enough, but they’ve added another three pages of required data, more than thirty new links and two rather complex inter-active charts.” Max shook his head, squinting his gorgeous eyes as if he suddenly felt pain behind them. “They want it by Thursday.”

Annabelle bit the inside of her cheek and slowly drew in a breath through her nose. She was a graphic designer, not a web page designer, but The Mackenzie Corporation had pretty much managed to turn her into one over the last four months. The CIO was impossible to deal with, demanding and fickle, and both Max and Annabelle had quickly come to regret Max’s decision to contract with them. So, with this new information, Annabelle’s initial instinct was to hastily retort, “There’s no way it’s going to happen.” But she could see the tension in Max’s expression and his posture was rigid with it. So, instead, she said, “Can we get an extension?”

“I’ve tried. They scheduled a staff meeting for Friday morning and the new material is its focus.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Anna. We’re stuck in this contract with them. Either we finish it and see it all the way through, or we get nothing. And you’ve already done so much.”

Annabelle continued to chew on her cheek, considering her next words. “Okay,” she began slowly. “But Fresh Foods is going to have to wait. As is Dobson. Will they mind?”

“Not as much as Mackenzie.” He handed her the last file folder, which was brimming with so many sheets that it barely folded any longer. “Good luck.”

Cassie cleared her throat beside them and turned to Annabelle. “I’ll take Fresh Foods for you if you’ll just pick a color.”

“Thank you,” Annabelle smiled, handing her the appropriate folder. Cassie and Annabelle had been friends for so many years, Annabelle had quit counting them. Three years ago, Cassie was working as a medical assistant in a primary care physician’s office. One morning, she’d had the audacity and courage to tell one of her boss’s patients that he may not have to take so much blood pressure medication if he would simply stop eating cheese and fried chicken and exercise once in a while. Consequently, Cassie had been fired. And then black-listed from every doctor’s office in the state.

Fortunately for her, she’d already known Annabelle a long time. Also fortunately, one of her favorite hobbies and pastimes was photography. The combination of photography and Annabelle’s friendship inevitably led to Annabelle teaching her how to use Photoshop. So, when Cassie was fired, she was ecstatic, if not all that surprised, when Annabelle finagled an extra position out of her boss, Max Anderson. She’d convinced Max that they could use the help. And as things would turn out, they really did need the help after all.

“I was already thinking along the lines of something like a light forest. If that helps.” Annabelle smiled sheepishly and Cassie nodded.

“I can see it. I’ll go ahead and give it a shot and let you take a look.”

As Annabelle nodded, Max took another deep breath, sighing. “Great. Thanks, ladies.”

They turned to face him as he then looked down at the laptop he removed from beneath his arm. It wasn’t Max’s laptop, or at least not his newest model. In fact, Annabelle didn’t recognize it. It was a Mac and Max owned a Toshiba.

“Whose laptop?” she asked casually.

He didn’t answer for a moment, simply staring at the machine in his hands. And then, in a voice tainted distant and soft with memories, he replied, “Teresa’s.”

Max’s dead wife. She’d been a designer for a pharmaceutical company when she’d died. She and Max had met in a mutual class for design basics and had fallen in love. Supposedly, Teresa had been quite talented.

“I found it last night while I was going through some old boxes of stuff in the attic because we found a leak a few weeks ago.” He ran one hand over the lid of the laptop, his expression growing steadily more distant. “I thought MedicArt had appropriated this when she died, but it was in a separate box with some old kitchen things. One that I’d always thought had a coffee pot in it.” He smiled strangely. “No coffee pot.”

The room grew silent as he stared at the machine in his hands. And then Cassie cleared her throat and Annabelle straightened. Max seemed to pull himself out of his temporary stupor and adjusted the glasses on his face. “Well, I’m going to see if I can clean it off a little and use it for work. Shouldn’t take too long, I think. Then I’ll help you with the Mackenzie file.” He nodded at Annabelle and she nodded back, smiling gently.

Max turned and headed back down the hallway and then ducked into his office.

Cassie and Annabelle turned to look at one another. Neither spoke, as words weren’t necessary. They each knew what was on the others’ mind.

Then, as one, they turned to their computer screens and began to work.

A few hours later, Annabelle returned from a break and headed down the hallway toward Max’s office. She thought she would check on him.

At the doorway to his office, she caught the last few words of something he was uttering just under his breath.

“…one point seven…”

She knocked on the door, which was slightly ajar. Max’s head snapped up, his attention pulled from the laptop’s computer screen, which he’d been staring at intently.

“Everything going okay?” Annabelle asked.

“Uh… yes. Yes. Come in. Are you and Cassie about to head out to lunch?”

“In a few minutes. Would you like me to pick you up anything?”

Max blinked. His glasses were slightly crooked on his nose. His brow was furrowed and the cup of coffee he’d most likely poured himself that morning sat untouched on his desk, alongside piles of paper and Teresa’s laptop.

Annabelle frowned at the coffee. Max never let it get cold. He always downed the brew before it had a chance to stop steaming.

She turned her attention back to her boss and entered the small office, pulling the door softly shut behind her. “How is it going with Teresa’s computer?”

“It’s…” Max cleared his throat, glancing from the screen to Annabelle. Then he straightened, closed the lid on the laptop and turned his full attention to her. “It’s going well. I should have it cleaned off by tonight. Maybe you can even use it to work on a few things.”

Annabelle’s brow shot up. “Oh?” He was going to give her homework? Not on her watch. One thing Annabelle prided herself on was her ability to leave her work at work. She never went home with her troubles. There were always enough waiting for her there.

Max watched her for a moment and then broke into a smile. He chuckled softly, his green eyes sparkling. He pulled his glasses off and placed them on the desk, not taking his gaze from hers. “Okay, no. Never mind that. Forget I said it. Change of subject.”

Annabelle nodded, once.

“When are you going to come back over for dinner?”

Annabelle blinked. Then she straightened, stuffing her fingers in the back pockets of her jeans. “Are you going to cook, or is Dylan?”

Max looked down at his hands and then back up at her, his gaze intense, his eyes like green fires in the handsome frame of his face. “Dylan won’t be there.”

Annabelle stared at him, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. So, here it was. Her boss was finally making that move. She’d wondered when it would happen. A part of her had been afraid of it. He was her boss. It was awkward. But, a part of her – a bigger part – had not been so afraid. In fact, that part of her had more or less fantasized…

“I guess… Whenever you take it upon yourself to invite me.” Annabelle answered softly.

Max stood then, and moved around the desk. Suddenly, the air in the office seemed thicker than normal. Annabelle prevented herself from taking a step back. Max was well-built and a good amount taller than her, as were most of the men she knew. And his presence suddenly filled the space between them with something akin to a kind of heat.

He came to stand before her, a mere foot away. “You’re invited,” he said, his voice low, his tone warm. “How about Friday night?” He smiled then, flashing perfect white teeth. He raised a hand to take a lock of her long strawberry hair between his fingers. But his eyes never left hers. “We can celebrate getting Mackenzie off of our backs.”

Annabelle drew in a somewhat unsteady breath and licked her lips. Which automatically made her think of his. So close. She closed her eyes and forced a little laugh. “You really think we’ll be rid of them after this job?”

“If not, then we’ll just get drunk for the sake of it.”

This time, Annabelle really did laugh, and Max let go of her hair and took a step back. “Speaking of which, how are you feeling?”

Annabelle’s eyes widened. Her blush deepened. “You knew all along, didn’t you?”

“That you’d gone on a bender and had a rough morning for it? That your car was impounded yesterday and that Jack drove you home and then lent you his bike? That you slugged someone for insulting your hockey hero?” His grin turned playful. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Annabelle stared at him, shaking her head in silence. She wasn’t even going to ask him how he’d known about the hockey squabble. Everything else was a good enough guess, and the impounded car, he could have gotten a call about that morning, since it was her work number she’d put on the sheet she’d had to sign. But the fight, he would had to have seen or been told about. He was a Minnesota Wild fan too. She was guessing he’d had a friend at the bar.

“Okay, you got me. And I’m feeling better, thank you.”

Max nodded. “You know you don’t have to lie to me, Anna. I may be your employer, but I’m also human.”

She stared up at him in silence for a long moment. And then she nodded. “I’ll try to remind myself of that fact.”

“Good,” he said softly, really no more than a whisper.

“I’ll let you get back to it,” she said then, turning away to face the door. She opened it and then glanced back over her shoulder at him. He’d turned his attention back to the laptop and his brow was once again furrowed, his expression one of deep, perhaps troubled thought.

Annabelle decided not to say anything further. Instead, she stepped out of the office, into the hallway beyond. The last thing she saw before she’d pulled the door closed was Max reaching for the phone.

Chapter Three

At lunch, Annabelle logged off of her computer and headed outside to the parking lot. It was busy with employees moving to their cars and pulling out for lunch. Everyone in the building lunched at the same time. It was like some strange sort of cult practice. The human body was lorded over by the long and short hands of the clock. Never mind when you might actually get hungry. You ate at noon, take it or leave it. It was simply understood.

It was also understood that this was May. In Minnesota. And, so, naturally, lunch hours would run a little longer than they did in January. Minnesotans took full advantage of the few weeks of splendid weather they were afforded every year.

Annabelle was halfway across the lot when she heard her friend shout at her from the side-door of the building behind her.

She turned and watched as Cassie ran across the tarmac, joining her ten meters from the Night Train, where it was parked in one of the two motorcycle spaces available.

“Any way you could give me a ride to Mickey-D’s?”

“You hate Mac Donald’s. You just want a ride.” Annabelle smiled, shaking her head and continuing toward the bike.

Cassie fell into step beside her. “Okay. You got me. I like the vibration between my legs.”

“Don’t we all,” Annabelle retorted with resigned humor. She mounted the bike, handing the helmet to her friend. “Put the helmet on. I won’t be responsible for your squashed-in head when a cell phone driver cuts us off.”

Cassie looked at the helmet in her hands. “Uh, to be honest, I’d rather have the squashed-in head than face the almighty wrath of Jack if we do wreck and I’m wearing the helmet he told you to wear.”

“Tough. Put it on.”

“Okay, but I don’t ever want to hear you giving Jack a hard time about not wearing one again.”

Annabelle smiled again, turning the key and pressing the ignition switch. The bike roared to life. She pulled back on the throttle, giving it some gas. It was music to her ears. Over the noise, she hollered back at Cassie. “Fair enough! Get on!”

Cassie didn’t have to be told twice. She braced herself on Annabelle, who had ridden with plenty of passengers before and was skilled at the extra strength and balance it required to do so. She held the bike steady, flat-footing it while her friend mounted up behind her.

“Where to?” Cassie asked over her shoulder.

“Spoonriver!” Annabelle shouted back at her. She twisted the throttle again, just to hear the sound, and then slowly power walked it back out of the space. Once they’d turned around, she notched it into first gear and let off the brakes, taking them smoothly out of the lot.

The two-mile ride was far too short for Annabelle’s tastes, but the traffic was heavy, as it always was during the lunch hour, and though Minnesota drivers were courteous, a motorcycle was not a mini-van and simply couldn’t compete with one for space on the road.

Annabelle pulled the bike into the full lot and was fortunate to find that two other bikes, one a sport bike and one a Kawasaki Vulcan, had already parked in the single designated space for motorcycles. There was room for one more. She pulled the Night Train along side the other two bikes and shut it down, tucking the key into her jacket pocket and zipping the pocket closed.

She waited for Cassie to get off and then she kicked the stand down, turned the handlebars to the left, and dismounted.

Annabelle helped her friend pull the helmet from her head. “I hope you’re in the mood for vegetarian,” she told her as she took the helmet and then turned toward the restaurant.

“Whatever’s fine,” Cassie replied, once more falling into step beside her. “I’m surprised, though, that you’re hungry. You said you had a bad night. You were late coming into work. I can put two and two together and come up with hangover.”

“I do still feel a little green, but the ride helped.” As had the one that morning. Annabelle looked up at the line waiting outside the door. “Crap. It’s always packed on Tuesdays since they’re closed on Mondays. This may not work.”

“Taco Bell’s around the corner.”

Annabelle turned to look at Cassie, who was smiling knowingly. Cassie’s gaze slid to the bike parked several meters away. “There’s also one in St. Paul.” Cassie’s smile turned mischievous. She knew where Annabelle’s heart was. St. Paul would be a twelve mile round-trip drive, and all Annabelle really wanted to do at the moment was ride. And since Max set no limits on their lunch break – so long as their work got done, and it always did – then getting back to work at a certain time wasn’t an issue. “And the Taco Bell employees won’t pick on you for wearing your leathers.”

“Good point. You’re a genius.”

They turned back around and re-mounted the bike. Now that Annabelle had her right fist wrapped around the throttle, she noticed that her knuckles were a bit tender where they pressed against the leather of her gloves. That would be from punching cheese-head boy the night before. Oh well. She hoped that his mouth hurt more than her hand.

Half way there, the cell phone in Annabelle’s jacket pocket buzzed against her chest. She ignored it, not taking her attention away from the road ahead of her. She never answered the phone while on the road, and doing so while on a bike was as good as suicide. When they arrived at their destination, she parked, Cassie got off, and Annabelle checked the phone at last.

She’d missed the call, but she had a text message waiting for her. It was from Max.

“Got a message from Max,” she told Cassie as she dismounted and they walked into the Taco Bell together.

“What’s it say?”

“I don’t know. I’ll check it inside. But this is bizarre. He never calls us on our lunch break. In fact, he doesn’t call me at all if he knows I’m gonna to be on the bike.”

Cassie seemed to consider it for a moment and then she turned her attention to the menu selection on the boards behind the teenager at the register. They ordered, took a number, and found a booth by a sunny window.

Annabelle checked the message. Her brow furrowed. “What?”

Cassie blinked. “What did he say?”

“Well… Actually…” Annabelle stared down at the words in the text box on her phone. They read: “Forest pink pastel.”

“I have no idea what the hell he means by this.” Annabelle showed Cassie the message and Cassie frowned.

“Forest pink pastel? W.T.F.? That’s got to be the strangest message I have ever seen, girl. Call the man. Maybe he’s lost his marbles.”

Annabelle nodded and dialed Max’s office number. The phone rang three times and then went into voice mail. “He isn’t picking up. I’ll try his cell.” She dialed his cell phone number, but it, too, went into voice mail. “He isn’t answering his cell either.” She lowered the phone and stared at it again. Warning bells began to go off in her head.

“This is too weird. I think we should head back soon.”

“Fine,” Cassie said and rose from the seat. “We’ll get the food to go.”

When they got back to the two-story office building in which Max’s small design “studio” was located, Annabelle let Cassie off of the bike and then pulled it around to park it up on the sidewalk by a window that she knew looked out from Max’s office. He didn’t mind her doing so, since it wasn’t against building regulations and he didn’t want her to do anything that would cause her to be “indebted to Jack”. In that, at least, she and Max were of the same mind.

Cassie waited by the side door for her as she shut it off, kicked the stand down and turned the handlebars. But as she did, she chanced a glance into Max’s window. The blinds were shut. Normally, Max kept them open during the day, as he suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder, and in Minnesota, a body needed to soak up as much sun as it could possibly get.

Annabelle dismounted and walked around the bike, her gaze still locked on the windows. She knew that Max’s office was designed specifically to allow in natural sunlight without it affecting any of the screens in the room. So, even if he was hard at work and in a deadline crunch, she was pretty sure he wouldn’t close the blinds.

Maybe he really had gone nuts. Too many jobs. Too much pressure.

She moved toward Cassie. And then she stopped.

Or maybe it was the dog. Sam. Maybe he’d finally died and Max wasn’t in the mood to let the rest of the world into his business at the moment. It would sort of explain the strange text message. People did inexplicable things when they were suffering from trauma. Losing Sam would be like losing a family member. And the stress of what it would do to Dylan would probably push Max over some kind of edge.

In which case, Annabelle made a mental note to be careful how she approached his office when they went back inside.

“Max’s blinds are closed. Have you ever seen them closed before?”

Cassie frowned. “You know, I can’t say that I have. Maybe he has a headache.”

“Maybe it’s Sam. Or maybe going through Teresa’s laptop was too much for him.”

Cassie nodded sagely and they went inside. The main entryway past the side door was communal. It served as a small access lobby and mail drop for four different businesses, all of them also small. Max’s business, Design Max, was on the lower floor, to the right. Door number 102.

Annabelle reached for the doorknob, but when she tried to turn it, it wouldn’t move.

“It’s locked?” She stared at the doorknob, disbelieving.

“Why the hell would Max lock us out?”

The warning bells that had sounded earlier in Annabelle’s head now began chiming much more loudly. Her gaze slid from the doorknob to the small stained-glass window beside it. It was impossible to make out anything beyond it but the warped and discolored shapes of a front desk and a hallway. Not much else.

“Something’s wrong, Cass,” she said softly, still trying to catch a glimpse of something – anything- through the window. “I left my key inside.”

“Wait. Maybe I’ve got mine.” Cassie began to rifle through the small back-pack styled purse she carried over her shoulders. “Yeah, here.” She pulled out a silver general key and Annabelle moved aside so that she could slip it into the lock on the doorknob. The lock clicked and Cassie turned the knob. The door swung outward toward them and they moved around to enter the office.

The office’s interior was unnaturally quiet. A stillness like that of a pre-dawn Sunday morning had stolen over the room, almost hallowed in its utter silence. The lights had been shut off. Annabelle looked to the left, felt along the wall, and found the switches that controlled the fluorescent lights above, which Max almost never used. Normally, the office relied on various standing and table lamps set throughout the room. Fluorescent lighting interfered with color correctness on the large flat screens, so Max had gotten used to leaving them off long ago.

However, at the moment, every single one of the lamps around the room had been switched off, plunging the room into total darkness. It would be a game of hide and seek, with Annabelle’s shins finding every table and desk corner before she would be able to locate the nearest lamp and shed enough light into the room to look around.

Once the garish lights flickered on, Cassie and Annabelle stood in the doorway, taking in the stillness, their eyes searching the large room as if they’d never seen it before. Although everything seemed to be in place, at the same time, it at once appeared to be entirely different. Alien. Wrong.

Annabelle was the first to move into the room, tentatively taking step after step as if she were about to set off a mine with the toe of one of her boots.

“Max?”

There was no answer. Then again, she’d merely whispered the call. She tried again, swallowing first and clearing her throat, which had become inexplicably clogged with some something acidically similar to fear.

“Max? Are you here?”

Again, there was no answer.

“Maybe it really was Sam and he left the office to go home and take care of Dylan.” Cassie came up beside Annabelle, brushing close to her. Annabelle said nothing. Her gaze was fixed on the door to Max’s office down the hall and to the right. It was also shut, as Annabelle had left it. But obviously, Max had been out since then. He’d turned off all the lights.

Annabelle’s heart beat hard against her rib cage. Her breathing quickened and her throat felt tight. It was an unwelcome feeling, but not unfamiliar. Annabelle suffered from an anxiety disorder that she’d managed to keep under control for the last several years, without medication. She simply never got on an airplane, ate undercooked meat – since she didn’t eat meat at all – and she never took her work home with her. The occasional binge drink didn’t hurt.

However, right now, it rode the fringes of her consciousness like a warning. It was just there, within reach, threatening to take her breath completely away and send her vision into blackness.

And, why?

Annabelle swallowed against the tightness and realized that she was well and truly scared. The warning bells that had begun to sound earlier were all but deafening in her eardrums now. There was something in the air of that office that she at once recognized, even though she’d never felt it, personally, in her life.

Later, she would look back on this moment and understand it. She would realize that she’d known all along what it was she would find behind that door.

At the moment, however, she reached out for the knob unknowing, consciously ignorant. The knob turned and the door swung inward.

Cassie was the first to make a sound. Something between a shriek and a moan. Annabelle stared in silence. Her throat had closed up. She was no longer really breathing.

And neither was Max.

Chapter Four

Jack Thane turned away from the police officer he was speaking to. His gaze once more fell on the woman who sat across the room, a blanket over her shoulders, her own gaze far away and unseeing. Her long, thick hair fell in shining waves of blonde, gold and strawberry red. Her lovely face, ever so slightly freckled across the nose, was more pale than usual. Her brown eyes seemed darker.

Annabelle Drake was an exquisite portrait of shock, a painted mural testimony to beauty in pain. And she hadn’t said a word to him since he’d arrived an hour ago, on the wings of speed, responding to a phone call she’d managed to make before she’d slipped into that dangerous grasp of stunned nothingness.

“You can take her home, Mr. Thane. I fully advise that she be taken to the hospital, as she’s obviously in shock and not coming out of it, however you’re the only one she’s responded to, so…”

“I understand.” Jack cut him off, sparing the man any further awkwardness.

Jack had been the one to phone the police. He’d arrived at Design Max to find Annabelle seated and unresponsive in one of Max’s office chairs, Cassie standing over her, ashen and shaken, but in control, and Max Anderson dead on the floor beside his desk, an open and spilled bottle of Klonapin in his right hand.

It was not the first time that Cassie Reid had dealt with death. As a medical assistant, she’d experienced an unfortunate number of heart attacks and the like, so Jack wasn’t surprised to see that she had been more or less in control of her faculties. Because she seemed to be willing to talk and was handling the situation so much better than Annabelle, the police had already carted her off to the station for questioning.

That had been twenty minutes ago. Jack’s gaze slid from Annabelle to the office once more. Nothing in the room seemed out of place or disturbed. At least, not at first glance, and not to the layman. The police were writing it off as a suicide.

“We’ll still need to question her, once she comes around. But at the moment, it’s important that we secure the area.”

Jack turned back to the uniformed officer and nodded. He’d given the man Annabelle’s contact information and he was sure they would be able to find anything further out, should they need it. He strode slowly across the room, making sure not to touch anything. Then he knelt before Annabelle, lowering his face to hers.

“Bella.”

Annabelle’s gaze slid from the floor to Jack’s ultra-blue eyes. She stared as if she didn’t recognize him, but at least she looked at him. He was the only one she would make eye contact with. Jack took a slow, deep breath, let it out through his nose, and then stood. “Come on, luv.” He gently lifted her by the arms and she followed without resistance. The medication she’d been given was most likely having an effect upon her already.

He led her out of the office, nodding at the police officers who removed the yellow tape long enough for them to slip through. Then he walked her out to his car. On the way, several people who worked in the same building attempted to step forward from where they’d been huddled outside the partitioned section and intercept him, obviously curious about what had transpired.

Jack shot them a warning look. That was all it took to stop them in their tracks.

Once he’d lowered Annabelle into his car and buckled her into the seat, he moved around to the driver’s side, slid in, and shut the door behind him. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the woman he loved more than anything on Earth.

And then she shocked him by speaking.

“He was murdered, Jack.”

She hadn’t moved in her seat. She still gazed steadily at the dash board. But there was something in her tone that told him she was well and truly conscious and in the moment.

“I know,” he said softly.

“Why?” Now she did turn away from the dashboard, and the look of confusion she turned upon him flipped his world upside down. “Why kill Max? He was just…” Her words trailed off. She swallowed. Then she said, in little more than a whisper, “What about Dylan?”

“We’ll figure it out, Bella.” Jack reached out slowly and gently pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Rest and we’ll figure it out.”

Then he pressed a switch in a control panel beside his own seat and hers began to recline. She turned away, looking forward once more. And then she closed her eyes.

When Jack had received Annabelle’s call an hour before, he’d been in the middle of a meeting with a man who had hired him at one point in the past and was hoping to hire him again. The man was a “handler”, a middle man, a contact for a contact for a contact, each with aliases for names that changed every week, if not more often.

Jack knew, when he felt the phone buzz in his jacket pocket, that it was Annabelle calling. She was the only one with the number to that particular phone. And, without even answering it, he knew it was going to be bad. She had never called him before. Not once. Jack insisted she have his number, just in case, but the fact of the matter was, she abhorred cell phones. If she was calling now, in the middle of a Tuesday, in sunny weather, there could only be a few reasons why.

Death and dismemberment were two of them.

He’d guessed right with the first one. When he felt the phone, he excused himself quickly, stepped into the restaurant hallway, and answered it. On the other end, Annabelle’s voice came in raspy, uneven breaths. She was having trouble taking in air. And her words chilled him to the bone. “He’s dead, Jack. Someone killed him. He’s dead.”

He hung up with her and dialed 911 without even thinking. Without considering who he, himself, was. What he was, and what kinds of consequences could arise from sending the police speeding into his territory.

The medical response team that arrived at Design Max with the first batch of police had given Annabelle some kind of injection right off the bat. Jack assumed it had been only a few moments before he, himself, had arrived upon the scene. They’d told him that whatever they’d given to her would make her sleep. Then they escorted Cassie to a blue and white and proceeded to get as much information as they could from her and any of the building’s employees who’d returned early enough from lunch.

Now Jack watched Annabelle sleep. Her long lashes rested, like half moons, upon the apples of her cheeks. Her full, naturally pink lips were slightly open and her soft breath had slowed. He could tell the exact moment that she entered that deeper stage of rest. He’d come to learn about such things long ago.

In sleep, her face took on such an innocent, defenseless cast that Jack found himself wanting a good, stiff drink. And he didn’t drink.

He turned away from her and gazed out the front window, watching the crime scene investigators move about the area that had been sectioned off with bright yellow tape. To his left, a cop waved at him impatiently and then motioned to the street beyond the lot, anxious for him to be gone and out of the way. At the same time, other employees of the building were being sent away or escorted to marked police vehicles, where they would most likely be driven to the station house for questioning.

It was obvious to Jack that even the cops weren’t entirely convinced it was suicide. He wondered what they’d found at the scene that made them suddenly suspect foul play. Was it what he, himself, had noticed? And what about Annabelle? What had made her so positive, at first sight, that Max had been murdered?

He glanced once more at her sleeping form. She was a clever girl. Very clever.

He was thankful, at once, for Annabelle’s uncooperative response to the questioning the authorities had already attempted to put her through. It allowed her to escape the responsibility temporarily, and placed her care in his hands. For now.

It was enough. Jack put the black, shiny car in reverse, backed it out of the parking space, and then drove it from the lot.

Annabelle rolled over and hugged the pillow closer. She blinked, yawned, and then blinked again. Her vision de-blurred and a black framed photograph on the wall came into focus. A single raven, caught in mid-flight filled the frame, its blue-black body in stark contrast with the white matting surrounding it. Annabelle blinked again. She peered into the raven’s eye, taking in the yellow iris, the bottomless pool of inky mystery at its center.

And then, as if coming fully awake from a dream, she realized that she had no such photographs in her home. At least, she didn’t think she did. Her thoughts were still somewhat fuzzy. Did she? No. No ravens.

She blinked once more and rolled back over, taking in her surroundings as she did so. King size bed with black bed sheets, thick and soft. White walls, with black framed photographs or paintings; simple, minimalist and clean cut. Ten foot ceilings, but in here it was recessed so that they were even taller. Black curtains.

At once, everything came back to her. She knew where she was. She recognized the style, even if she had never been in this room before. She knew whose room it was and why she was there. Painfully, her heart slammed hard, once, against her ribcage and she gasped.

Instinctively, she clutched at her chest and curled into herself, closing her eyes.

Max.

Murdered.

She was at Jack’s place. Not his home, because Sherry would be at his home. This must be one of his apartments… Annabelle drew in a tight breath, tensing against the trembling that began to take over her small frame. A flood of memories from that afternoon slammed into her.

She’d had a panic attack and been drugged by the EMT’s. Jack had come. They’d taken Cassie away…

Nausea roiled in her belly. There was something she needed to do. Something she needed to tell Jack. It was why she hadn’t spoken to the cops. She had been in shock, yes, but not as badly as she’d led them to believe. She just needed to see Jack.

“Jack…” she got the word out, through clenched teeth, and then moaned into the blankets beneath her. The world spun. She clutched at the mattress.

Somewhere in her periphery consciousness, a door opened and a man entered the room, quickly moving to the bed, sitting beside her.

“Bella.” A soft but commanding tone. A British accent. She felt strong hands on her arms, pulling her to the edge of the mattress. “Bella, relax. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

She allowed Jack to pull her against his chest. She pressed herself into him, trying to absorb his strength through osmosis. Her body trembled, even as it still felt numb and prickly from the residual effects of the drugs she’d been given.

And then she remembered what she’d needed to tell him.

“Jack, Max’s hands-”

“Shhhh. I’ve got you, Bella.”

“Jack, listen to me.” She pulled away from him and he hesitantly let her go. His blue eyes bore into hers, his attention fixed. She continued, quickly, trying to get it all out at once. “Max is left-handed. The pills were in his right hand.”

Jack was silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, his eyes remaining locked on hers, his face expressionless.

“And Klonapin doesn’t work that way, Jack. I know, because I’ve taken it before. It’s for anxiety – it works slowly.” Tears began to stream from her eyes, but she wiped at them absently and continued, going so far as to grab Jack’s shirt front in desperation. “Jack, can you even think of a drug that works so fast that it knocks the person out while they’re still holding the open bottle in one hand?”

Again, Jack said nothing. However, after a few more tense, silent moments, he shook his head. Once.

“He asked me to dinner, Jack,” and then, quickly, as if she were afraid she would stop speaking before it was all out, “he has a son.” At this point, her voice had risen a few octaves and, likewise, she’d lifted herself onto her knees so that she was at eye level with him. “And I got a message from him. A text message. Cassie and I read it at Taco Bell in St. Paul and it freaked us out so much that we rode back to the office right away…”

Jack blinked then, as if processing some new bit of information and filing it away for later. And then he straightened. Annabelle let go of his shirt. Jack pulled a cell phone from an inside pocket. He looked down at the screen, pushed a few buttons, and cleared his throat. In a deep, emotionless voice, he said, “Forest pink pastel.”

“You took my cell phone.”

“I took everything, Bella. Look for yourself.”

For the second time that day, Annabelle looked down at her own body and found that it was barely clothed. She wore only her underwear and t-shirt, beneath which, she could feel that she still wore a bra. She couldn’t exactly blame him for removing the jeans. They were constricting.

“Forest pink pastel,” he repeated, drawing her attention back to him. “Does it mean anything to you?”

“No,” she answered, her brow furrowed. “Not yet anyway. I have to think about it. And, I’m having trouble thinking.”

“Why did it frighten you so much to receive this message?”

“Because that isn’t like Max. He doesn’t do the cryptic thing. He’s straight-forward and to the point and-” She cut herself off, realizing what she was saying. And then a strange kind of pain, like a combination of heat and cold, assaulted her from somewhere deep inside her chest. In her mind’s eye, she saw Max sitting at his desk, smiling at her, his green eyes sparkling. He was inviting her to dinner. And then he was on the floor of his office, all limp and not breathing and wrong –

“Bella, did you call him after you got this message?” Jack was pulling her out of herself, drawing her to him, keeping her from descending into something awful.

“Yes. I tried his landline,” she said softly, swallowing against the lump that had formed in her throat. Her chest ached. “No answer. So,” she swallowed again, “I tried his cell. It went to voice mail.” Her head began to ache, a throbbing in her jaw that told her she was holding it too tight.

“Bella, look at me.”

She pulled her gaze from the spot at the end of the mattress where she’d gotten lost and forced herself to stare up into Jack’s eyes.

“Can you do this?” he asked. His tone was gentle, his question simple. She knew he was referring to the questioning. Jack was trying to help her. And if she wanted help, if she wanted to figure out what happened to Max, this was how it would have to be done.

She nodded, just once, and closed her eyes. She licked her lips, which had gone very dry. As opposed to her eyes, which were plenty wet.

Jack nodded as well and gave her a moment. Then he asked, “Did you see him this morning?”

“Yes. When I went in. He gave me some jobs.”

“And he asked you to dinner.”

“No, that was later. Before I went to lunch.”

Jack paused for a moment and then asked, “This morning, after you’d gotten in, did anything out of the ordinary occur?”

“No, not that…” Her voice trailed off. Something strange had occurred. A coffee pot hadn’t been where it was supposed to be. “Actually, yes. Max had a laptop. It was Teresa’s. He said he found it in a coffee pot box.”

Jack’s gaze intensified and she knew he was paying extra close attention. “Tell me exactly what he said.”

Annabelle closed her eyes. Her head was sort of spinning. Too much information, too quickly. She tried to sort it out, set it right. What had Max said? “Um…” She licked her lips again. When she opened her eyes it was to find that Jack was holding a glass of water out to her. She stared at it. And then she took it in shaking hands and took a few very difficult swallows. It helped a little.

She handed the glass back and he set it on the night stand. “Take your time.”

Annabelle tried to take a deep breath. It was shaky, but she got it in and out. “He said that he found it last night in his attic. He said there was a leak or something. I guess they were cleaning things out, maybe trying to find out where the hole was.” She paused, wracking her brain. “The laptop was in a box that he’d always assumed had a coffee pot in it. He said he’d thought that the company Teresa worked for had collected all of her stuff.”

“What was the company name?”

“I don’t… Medi-something. I can’t remember.”

“No matter. Anything else?”

“No.” Annabelle ran her hands over her face, rubbing the tears into her skin and massaging her jaw. Her head was now throbbing and her teeth were beginning to chatter. She felt Jack pull a warm blanket around her shoulders and hug her to his chest once more. And then she gave up against the tears and just let them fall.

Through her hiccups, she whispered, “Dylan’s already lost one parent.”

“Shhh. Bella-”

“I have to go see him, Jack. I can’t let him be alone right now.”

“They’ve already told him, Bella. He’ll be at the station house.”

“Jack, please.” She closed her eyes and pushed her face into his shirt. He smelled like after shave and musk and a touch of sweat. He smelled like a man. Against her cheek, he felt like a man.

“You should rest,” he said softly, his rich accent and deep voice wrapping around her as surely as the blanket over her shoulders.

“I will, Jack.” Annabelle pushed herself away from him and looked up into his eyes. As always, his gaze pulled her in, so intensely blue that she felt she was drowning in an ocean of deep, dark influence. What kind of power was that? And why was a human being allowed to have so much of it?

“I will,” she repeated. “But not right now.”

Jack watched her for several long moments more and then he sighed, dropping his head. “Very well. I’ll get your things.”

Chapter Five

Forty-five minutes later, Annabelle sat alone in a plain room, at a small rectangular desk with two chairs at either side. She sat in one chair. The other was empty. Along one wall, a two-way mirror reflected her own somewhat ashen face back at her. She felt cold.

The door opened inward to admit a young man and a woman, both dressed in the dark blue of Bloomington’s police department. The woman carried two cups of coffee in her hands. She set one in front of Annabelle and then sat down in the chair opposite her.

“I have powdered creamer and sugar, if you’d like.”

Annabelle smiled at the woman, though she knew it wasn’t a genuine smile. The woman looked to be about in her early thirties, with shoulder-length jet-black hair and slightly Asian features. Her skin was perfect. As were her teeth when she smiled back at Annabelle.

“Black is fine,” she answered, taking the Styrofoam cup and placing it to her lips. Warm steam wafted up over her lips to her nostrils. She inhaled and closed her eyes. As small a thing as it was, it was comforting.

The woman nodded, across from her. “I’m detective Chen. This is detective Robinson.” She motioned to the man who was still standing against the wall by the door. The man nodded respectfully toward Annabelle. But he didn’t smile.

Annabelle took a sip of her coffee and studied him silently. He was almost absurdly tall – maybe six and a half feet – and very thin. His hair was dark brown, neatly cut. His eyes were a very light blue that seemed at odds with the deep tan of his face. He was maybe twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Very young in Annabelle’s book.

“Miss Drake, do you know why you’re here?” Chen’s voice was soft, empathetic. It went a long way toward easing Annabelle’s frayed nerves. She was just beginning to think she should have taken some of the spilled Klonapin from Max’s bottle…

“Not really,” she lied. She knew why she was there. In the interrogation room. Alone. The boys in blue weren’t convinced that Max’s death was a suicide. And she was the one to find his body. She was a suspect and she was there for questioning. She knew that much. But, she wasn’t going to admit it. Why give them information they didn’t ask for?

Chen blinked, obviously taking the time to choose the right words. “You knew Max Anderson very well. Can you tell me if, lately, he seemed different than usual in any way?”

Annabelle was quiet for a long time, pretending to search her memory. She knew the entire conversation with the cops was going to have to be one giant act. The only thing stressing Max out lately had been his dog. And the laptop. Something about that laptop had set him off… But that was information for her and Jack to sort through. For some reason, Annabelle didn’t want the police to know. It was just… personal.

“He was worried about his dog. Sam. He’s really old. I think Max was afraid he was going to die.”

Chen nodded slowly. From where he stood against the wall, Robinson pulled a pad of paper and a number two pencil from his uniform front pocket and began to make notes. Annabelle took another sip of her coffee. The caffeine was the last thing she needed in her already nervous state, but the warmth of the liquid was soothing. She would take what she could get.

“Can you tell me what happened earlier today, before you went to lunch with Miss Reid?”

Annabelle took her time answering, swallowing another sip of coffee as she thought about what she was going to say. Obviously, they had already questioned Cassie. Annabelle wondered what she had said. She would have to be careful not to contradict anything her friend may have relayed. Then again, Cassie didn’t know much. When you didn’t know anything, you couldn’t spill it.

“I got in late,” she started slowly. “Car problems. When I got there, Max gave us some jobs and sort of briefed us on what was going on with them. I asked how Sam was. He said he was hanging in there. Then he went back to his office. Later, I stopped into his office to let him know we would be going to lunch in a while. I asked him if he wanted us to bring him anything back. He said no. I left.” She paused, took a last sip of her coffee, emptying the small white cup, and then finished. “That was it.”

Chen didn’t nod this time. She watched Annabelle closely, not saying anything for a long while. Across the room, Robinson’s pen scratched noisily. Whatever he was writing was lengthy and detailed. In Chen’s silence, it almost seemed as if she were broadcasting mental notes to the other detective.

“What, exactly, happened when you found Mr. Anderson’s body?” Chen asked then, careful to keep her tone soft and respectful. Annabelle realized that Chen was very good at this. It probably wasn’t the first time she’d questioned someone who’d lost a person close to them.

Annabelle raced through the lunch time events in her head, sorting them out as she did so. She placed them into two mental categories: One to tell Jack about and one to share with the police. When she’d finished, she spoke.

“May I have more coffee?” she asked, keeping her voice soft and allowing a bit of the fear she was feeling to filter through to her tone. It helped win Chen to her side. The detective nodded, signaling to Robinson, who left the room. When Chen turned back around to face her suspect, Annabelle had finished preparing her answer.

“When we opened the office door, all of the lights were off,” she said, staring at the table as if she were lost in memory. She didn’t think it would hurt to share this bit of information. People who were suicidal did strange things like that before offing themselves. And the truth was, Annabelle was almost positive that that was exactly the effect Max’s killers were going for. She knew, instinctively, that they’d turned off each of the lamps to add to the illusion of Max’s supposed suicidally depressed behavior. So, she helped them lay it on. “It was quiet. Too quiet.” She swallowed, blinking back tears that weren’t entirely fake.

The door to the small room opened once more and Robinson came back in with the coffee. He placed a fresh cup in front of Annabelle and stepped back to the wall, resuming his earlier task of note taking.

Chen waited patiently for her to continue.

“Cass said something about Sam maybe dying and Max leaving to take care of his son. But it felt strange to me. So, I went down the hall. Cass went with me.”

“Who is Sam?” Chen asked.

“Sam is Max’s dog. He’s very old,” Annabelle supplied.

Chen nodded. Robinson’s pencil continued to scratch. The sound accompanied Annabelle’s words like an abrasive echo.

“We got to Max’s door and I turned the knob.” At this, she stopped. She didn’t have to pretend to be shaken by this process of review. Her hands trembled of their own accord as she reached for her coffee cup and tried to take a sip without it spilling. She managed a few swallows, ignoring the brief sting of too-hot liquid against her throat.

“Max was on the floor… with the bottle…” She closed her eyes, put down the cup, and ran a hand through her long thick hair. She really didn’t want to do this any longer.

The room was silent, then, Robinson’s writing having ceased. Annabelle kept her eyes closed and pressed her hand to her forehead. After what must have been a full minute, she put her hand down and opened her eyes, looking up at the detective sitting across from her.

Chen’s expression was unreadable. Yes, Annabelle thought. She’s done this before.

Finally, Chen stood and nodded once at Annabelle. “Thank you, Miss Drake. We appreciate your cooperation. You’re free to go; Dylan Anderson has been asking to see you and he’s waiting two doors down. You can take him with you if you’d like.” She moved to Robinson and the two exchanged glances. There was a lot of unspoken knowledge passed between them in that single glance.

“If you think of anything further, Miss Drake, please don’t hesitate to let us know.” Robinson nodded at her one last time and then turned and opened the door. Chen walked through the door, motioning for Annabelle to follow.

Annabelle stood and left the room, Robinson following after her. She stopped just outside it and Chen turned to face her. The dark-haired woman gestured to a door down the hall. “He’s in that room.”

The door was slightly ajar. Annabelle pictured the teenager who waited inside. She wondered what state he would be in. What he would look like.

With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and moved to the door. The detectives disappeared around the corner, but Annabelle knew they wouldn’t be far away.

After a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the door open and entered the room.

“Dylan.”

He was sitting alone at a table that was a carbon copy of the one she’d been sitting at, in a room that was a twin to the one she’d just left. He looked up at her as she entered and she studied him. He looked normal. Dressed in the jeans and t-shirt that were the proverbial uniform of the seventeen-year-old, the high-tops that were standard issue, and the longer-than-acceptable wavy brown hair that fell just to his shoulders, he looked like quintessential Dylan. It was what was in his eyes that brought Annabelle up short. He had his father’s eyes. And there was something unfathomable in those green depths.

“Miss Drake…” When he spoke, his young voice was strained; his throat sounded dry. But even after all that he’d suffered and in the midst of the horror that he would most assuredly continue to suffer for some time, Annabelle realized that the kid was being respectful. Miss Drake.

“Dylan,” she repeated, fighting back the tears that threatened her eyes once more. She rushed to the table as Dylan simultaneously stood, and the two met in motion, colliding in an embrace of desperate pain. One of them had lost a father. The other had lost a friend. Somewhere in there was a connection, as thin as it may be, of essential empathy. For the moment, they had each other.

Like his father, Dylan was tall. The top of Annabelle’s head came to his jaw bone, and he wasn’t a skinny boy either. Hugging him reminded Annabelle of hugging his father. She hiccupped as new sobs assaulted her, and Dylan’s embrace tightened.

If he was crying, he was doing so silently. So, she cried for them both.

Finally, Dylan’s arms loosened their grip and Annabelle reluctantly pulled away. She looked up at him and, without thinking, he brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.

“Can… can we leave?” he asked then, his voice still strained.

Annabelle nodded, let him go, and turned toward the door. Without a word, Dylan followed after.

As they left the double door entrance to the station house, a black Audi with dark tinted windows pulled alongside the walk. The car idled and Dylan gently grabbed hold of Annabelle’s elbow, pulling her to a stop. A new band of tension had taken over him; his body was ramrod straight, his green eyes flashing.

Annabelle looked from him to the car and moved forward to step between them. She turned to Dylan.

“It’s Jack,” she told him softly. “He’s here to help.”

Dylan watched the car for a long, quiet while, several different strong emotions chasing each other across his features. At last, he looked down at Annabelle. “I don’t trust him, Miss Drake. And I need to talk to you alone. It’s important.”

Annabelle looked up at him, her brow furrowed. She watched as Dylan glanced from the car back to the building behind them. He seemed nervous, among other things.

She couldn’t blame him for not trusting Jack. He had a lot of his father in him and, of course, he’d also always known how his father felt about her. Hence, he saw Jack as the same kind of threat that his father did. However, Dylan was very intuitive. His distrust of Jack Thane ran deeper. With him, it was more than jealousy. There was a wary unease. It was almost as if he knew…

“Dylan, let him give us a ride to my apartment. Then we’ll talk.”

Dylan looked back down at her. Jack got out of the car, his expression unreadable. Dylan looked up at him and his grip on her elbow tightened.

“Mr. Thane,” he said, respectfully, keeping his tone low.

“Dylan. I’m so sorry about your father.” Jack’s voice was soft, his British accent lending his words a sincerity that Annabelle was not sure he felt. It was unfair.

Dylan nodded. Once.

“Let me give you both a ride home.” Then Jack leveled his gaze on Annabelle. She felt herself warm beneath its intense scrutiny. “Besides,” he continued slowly, “we all need to talk.”

Annabelle closed her eyes and nodded. She gently pulled her arm away from Dylan and moved to the car. Jack opened the passenger side door. She knew that Dylan would follow. He’d told her he needed to speak with her, and she could tell he meant it.

She got in the front and, after a moment’s more hesitation, Dylan helped himself to the back seat. Annabelle peered at him through the rear-view mirror. He was staring out the window. She looked over at Jack, who slid into the seat beside her and put the car in drive, pulling them silently out of the lot.

After a few minutes in uncomfortable quiet, Jack peered into the rearview mirror, and Annabelle had a feeling that he was pinning Dylan to his seat with that gaze. She looked over her shoulder. Dylan was staring back at him.

At last, Jack spoke, his tone level, his words even. “He gave you the laptop, didn’t he?”

Annabelle’s eyes widened. She looked back at Dylan again. Dylan was still staring at Jack through the rearview mirror. His expression had gone from distrustful to outright angry. A muscle in the kid’s jaw ticked and his green eyes blazed.

“Dylan,” Annabelle said softly, swallowing before she continued. “Dylan, do you have your mother’s laptop? Is it true?”

Dylan finally broke eye contact with Jack and turned to Annabelle. Instantly, his features softened. He took a deep breath and then closed his eyes and nodded, dropping his head a little to run a hand through his hair. His tone was one of resignation as he answered, “yes.”

Annabelle blinked. How was that possible?

“But how? I only left him for about forty-five minutes – fifty, tops.”

Dylan returned to gazing out the window, and Annabelle could see moisture had gathered in his eyes. “I left class early today to take dad out to lunch. Today was their anniversary.” He paused, licking his lips. “His and mom’s. I figured he could use the company. Things have been stressful.”

He shook his head, ran the palm of his hand over his face, and then continued. “I got there right after you’d left. That’s what he told me, anyway. He was totally out of it.” He shook his head again, clearly stuck in his memory, reliving the scene in his mind’s eye. “He was going on about keeping me safe.” Dylan turned his green eyes on Annabelle. “And you too.”

He licked his lips again, cleared some crud out of his throat and went on. “He handed me mom’s laptop and told me to get out of there. He told me to hide it. I refused to leave at first, but there was something in his voice. In his tone. He just kept telling me to get out. He was adamant. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.” Dylan fell silent, taking a moment to compose himself before he went on. “After a few minutes, I agreed to leave just to calm him down. I thought maybe he was having some sort of breakdown.” He turned his gaze back toward the window and the darkness beyond it. “I figured I would just let him breathe.”

Annabelle closed her eyes. Her head began to ache. She searched for the right question, but Jack beat her to it.

“Where is the laptop?”

Dylan took a slow, deep breath and let it out quickly. It was obvious to Annabelle that he wanted nothing more than to curl in on himself and sob with abandon. She knew the feeling that was assaulting him at that moment. The relentless ache, the empty confusion. She’d felt it herself once.

Instinctively, she reached through the opening between the two front seats and placed her palm against his cheek. Dylan blinked and turned to look at her. But he didn’t pull away.

“Where did you put the laptop?” Annabelle repeated softly, knowing it was too important to let go.

“I did what dad told me to do,” Dylan answered. “I hid it.” At that, he turned his gaze upon the man in the rearview mirror once more and Annabelle sighed. He didn’t trust Jack enough to reveal the machine’s location in front of him. Which was ironic, seeing as how, if Jack were as untrustworthy as Dylan considered him to be, Jack would simply find an extremely uncomfortable but highly effective way of retrieving that information from the young man. And, for that matter, the truth was, Jack had a dark side, to say the least, and despite that dark side, Jack Thane would never lay a hand on Dylan Anderson. She knew him well enough to be positive of that, at least.

From the driver’s seat, Jack said nothing. He cut his gaze meaningfully to the rearview mirror and then returned it to the road ahead. Annabelle could sense the wheels spinning behind his blue eyes. She knew the conversation wasn’t over, but that it was effectively on hold for the time being.

And then she wondered where Jack was taking them. It occurred to her, suddenly, that he would not take her to her apartment, as they’d originally planned. Not now that Dylan had revealed Max was worried for her safety.

Annabelle moaned softly and put her face in her hands. “You aren’t taking me home, are you?”

Jack didn’t answer. He simply shook his head once. Annabelle knew him well, indeed. If he was anything, it was protective. If he thought, even for a moment, that she might be in danger, she may as well kiss her normal lifestyle goodbye until the issue was resolved.

She also wasn’t stupid. Her boss had been murdered. Most probably for a laptop, or information on it, that the bad guys might think she now had, herself. Which meant that she could very well be the next target.

And when she put it like that, going back to her apartment didn’t seem like such a good idea after all. So, instead of commenting on Jack’s decision, she closed her eyes again and laid back on the head rest of Jack’s seat for the second time that very long day.

Behind her, Dylan Anderson continued to stare out the window at nothing.

Chapter Six

Annabelle adjusted the headphones on her ears and slugged the tread mill’s green “up” arrow a few times. The tread kicked into a higher gear and she picked up the pace. Already, she could feel the pain setting in. She turned up the music on the iPod. AC/DC screamed in her ear drums. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, letting the guitar riffs sink into her skull, and the words, into her soul.

When she re-opened them it was to find Jack in the doorway, leaning against the door jam, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was inscrutable, but his eyes burned with blue fire.

She swallowed, punched the “up” arrow again, and ran faster. Harder. Jack watched her for a moment more and then straightened. He took the hint. With one last long, glance, he turned and walked down the hall, leaving her alone.

She was grateful. She didn’t want company right now. She wanted her music and her pain. She’d been running for just over twenty minutes and the twinge of ache in her hips was transforming into a constant throb. An ebbing and receding of inflamed agony that drove her on.

A long time ago, she would have stayed off of the tread mill and away from any kind of cardiovascular exercise, in general, because of the snapping hip syndrome and early on-set arthritis that had invaded her hip and knee joints. She’d been very active in her youth – years of dance, gymnastics, 5K races – and the activity had taken its toll on her body. But, over time, she’d learned to live with the pain. After everything she and her doctors had tried – inactivity, physical therapy, MSM, glucosamine and chondroitin tablets, a switch in diets, and anti-inflammatories – failed to solve the problem, she’d decided that it was simply her “cross to bear”, so to speak. And her doctor had finally prescribed Vicodin.

She’d grown fond of the drug since then. Acetaminophen was an effective pain killer, but it was short-lived and notoriously hard on the liver. Anti-inflammatories caused peptic ulcers. Homeopathic remedies sounded nice and green, which she was normally all for, but the truth was, life was too short and too demanding for her to sacrifice the time and patience needed to make them work. And even when they did begin to work, they had nothing on opiates.

Nothing on Vicodin.

Annabelle had a saying. She’d made it up herself once, just as the medicine was kicking in and she was gently being lifted down from a particularly high mountain of agony after running a 5K race in St.Paul and winning second place.

There is no greater pleasure than the cessation of pain.

Her own apartment in Burnsville, which Annabelle knew she wouldn’t see for several days, if not longer, was a two-bedroom apartment with an underground communal garage. One of her bedrooms held her bed, her dresser, a trunk filled with blankets and a Smith and Wesson .357 magnum , and a closet full of clothes and shoes. The other bedroom was dedicated to what she now simply termed, “her pain.”

It was a work-out room that contained a tread mill, an upright stationary bicycle and a rack of weights. Against one wall stood a rolled-up yoga mat. Above the mat hung a Tai-Chi sword and two fans. She took a class two nights a week at the University to learn to use the sword and fans. She’d gotten pretty good. The routines took up a lot of space, so for practice, she used the communal garage on her days off or late at night, when she was certain no cars would be coming and going.

And when her joints began to inflame and the pain threatened to end her work-out, she would turn up the music on her MP3 player and will her mind away from her body. It was one of the reasons she’d eventually converted one of her rooms to an at-home gym. She so badly needed to be alone in order to concentrate enough to force her thoughts away from her body, she’d decided that the only way to realistically go about it was to work out at home from now on.

And, of course, after each work out, she would limp to her bathroom, take a hot shower, drink half a gallon of water, and take a Vicodin. It was the only way she could continue to get the exercise her body and mind craved. She figured it was either hip pain or heart pain and one was definitely worse than the other, in her book. She chose to ignore the consequences to her liver, altogether. Some times it was just better not to know.

Now, as she used Jack’s tread mill and a borrowed iPod, she changed her routine for the first time in years. Instead of willing herself away from her pain, she concentrated on it. She allowed it to consume her. A part of her wanted her body to hurt as much as her mind. So, she ran as fast as she could, as hard as she could, for as long as she could and let classic rock blare into her ear drums.

She ran at level seven out of ten for an hour and twenty minutes before the pain in her legs overshadowed the ache in her heart. She slowed the tread mill and switched play lists on the iPod. Bob Dylan told her about a woman who would give her shelter from a storm. She listened for a while, walking for another half-mile and then she shut everything down.

When she wiped her face with one of the white towels folded against the wall, she realized it wasn’t only sweat she was wiping away form her cheeks. She’d been crying and hadn’t even realized it. How many tears had she shed?

Once she was off of the treadmill, the pain really took hold. By the time she’d made it half way down the hall, her legs were seizing up on her and she was barely able to stumble to the second spare bedroom of Jack’s apartment before they gave out on her completely. She hit the bed hard and closed her eyes.

“Fuck, damn, shit.” She ran her hands over her face and rolled over, opening her eyes again. Her riding jacket and backpack were against the wall by the door. She kept the back pack at Max’s office and rarely used it. But it held a bottle of Vicodin, among other things, and she was desperately glad that Jack had thought to grab it before he’d driven her away that afternoon.

She took a slow, shaky breath and steeled herself against the pain as she stood once more and limped to the wall. She unzipped the bag and pulled out the prescription bottle. It was still two-thirds full, as she rarely used pills from this container. It was her emergency stash.

This qualified as an emergency.

She popped the top off and shook a ten milligram pill into her mouth. Normally, she would bite them in half. But not today.

Once the pill was on her tongue, she scanned the room for her bottle of water. She found it on the floor by the bed, opened it, and drank down the remainder of the bottle. And then she laid back down on the bed and waited.

The throb in her legs had spread to her lower back and ebbed ever so slowly upward, a growing flow of agony like a tide of the damned, flooding her system. She was lost in it. It was so encompassing that she didn’t notice when she slid beneath it and slipped into the welcome, protective darkness of sleep.

In her mind, she was walking down a long hallway. Her stomach rumbled. She was hungry. Why? It was lunch time. She looked over her shoulder. Cassie waited at the other end, behind her, a million miles away, in the light at the end of a strange tunnel-like blackness. Cassie smiled.

“Go on,” she said, and her voice echoed against the walls. “Tell him we’re leaving. I’ll bet he’ll want some pie. He likes those white berries in it.”

Annabelle nodded, smiling. “I’ll ask,” she said. “But they charge too much for it. Costs an arm and a leg. She turned away from Cassie. Max’s door stood before her, the golden knob huge and gleaming in some unseen light source. She placed her hand on the knob, and it didn’t fit all the way around. She brought up her other hand, grasping the handle from both sides and turning it clockwise.

With great effort, she turned it enough that it finally clicked. She pulled the door open, and looked into the room. It was engulfed in flames. Her eyes widened as the flames rushed toward the door, threatening to take her with them. She tried to move back, but her fingers were stuck to the door knob. It grew hot beneath her touch. Her fingertips began to burn. She blinked, yanking with all of her might, but to no avail. They grew hotter and hotter and, finally, she screamed.

In a fit of painful terror, she yanked herself to the right, attempting to turn around and flee, even if it meant that her fingers would remain melted, glued to the door that she couldn’t seem to let go. But her feet were also glued to the spot.

She could not move, and the heat was rising through the floor into the soles of her shoes. The flames from the room drew closer, one of them reaching out to lick her cheek in a fiery kiss. Her toes grew warm, and then hot, the pain matching in intensity to the pain in her fingers.

She screamed and screamed, hoarse with the effort to release the agony within her through the roars she issued forth. She was no longer able to do anything but stand there and suffer. Behind her, somehow coming in louder than her own bellows, came Cassie’s casual words. “Sweetie, where’s the pie? White berry pie. Crap, Max ate it all.”

Annabelle awoke from the nightmare with a scream that hit the walls and was muffled by their sound-proof qualities. But she’d been heard, nonetheless.

Within seconds, the door to the second guest room crashed open and Jack came barging into the room, closely followed by Dylan, who’d stripped down to just his jeans. His hair was a mess and his eyes were red. He must have come directly from the bed of his own guest suite.

Jack, on the other hand, was dressed from head to toe in solid black, as usual, and didn’t appear to be the least bit tired.

He was at Annabelle’s side, fast as lightning. She lay there in the bed, looking up at him and breathing heavily, her chest hitching painfully. “Oh God, oh God, Jack –”

Jack said nothing, but pulled her into his arms for the second time that day. Annabelle buried herself in his chest and shut her eyes tight against the tears. Remnants of the dream lingered about her, touching her fingers and toes with a warning tingle. They felt warm, despite the fact that she shook terribly, as if chilled to the bone.

Eventually, Jack lessened his hold and pulled back slightly so that he could look down at her. Dylan remained where he was, watching from the foot of the bed, his expression a mixture of worry and emotional exhaustion.

Slowly and steadily, all uncomfortable sensation left Annabelle’s body. At the same time, a sense of well-being and strength stole over her, erasing the unease of her dream as if by magic.

Jack’s eyes flashed with keen intelligence, taking in the change in her expression with an expert’s recognition. “Bella, you need to eat something.” His tone was soft, his voice steady.

Annabelle looked from him to Dylan and then back again. The last of the tingling in her extremities faded into comfortable nothingness and, as she sat there, she began to feel very light. The bed seemed to shift beneath her. Whether she had stopped shaking or not, she couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. At that very moment, nothing mattered. Gloriously, mercifully, forgivingly – nothing.

Because she was high as a kite and she knew it. No food for twenty-four hours, a brisk run, and ten milligrams of hydrocodone, and she was on another planet.

It felt good.

She laid her head back down against Jack’s chest and mumbled, under her breath, “There is no greater pleasure than the cessation of pain.”

“Right. Definitely, food.” Jack didn’t wait for any kind of response this time. Instead, he stood, taking her with him. He carried her easily from the room, as if she weighed nothing at all. And that was exactly how Annabelle felt. Weightless. She lay in his arms as he moved from room to room, and she stared up at the ceiling as it passed her by. It was beautiful. The architecture was ingenious, was it not? All those long flat planes and perfect right angles and crown molding and textured paint jobs…

“Dylan, would you mind?” Jack said.

Annabelle heard Dylan come forward, doing something that she couldn’t quite see. Probably moving a pillow from the couch, because that was where Jack set her down. And then the man in black disappeared and Annabelle was staring at Dylan, who was draping a blanket over her. She curled into the blanket, noticing the texture of the fabric against the skin on her bare arms. It felt so good.

Jack was back, holding a plate in one hand. In the other was a glass of white liquid. Milk of some kind.

“Toast and soy milk, Bella.” He handed her the plate and she took it.

Annabelle looked down at the toast. It looked like the most unappetizing thing she’d ever laid her eyes upon. In fact, she realized, she had no desire to eat anything, much less dry toast. Not even the thought of chocolate stoked her interest. She just wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t interested in eating. She wanted to do something else – something more fun. Like sky diving.

“Eat it, Bella.” Jack’s tone was more insistent, this time. His voice, lower. Annabelle looked up into his eyes. It was a mistake. That blue-fire gaze was so compelling. She found herself lifting the toast to her mouth and taking a bite.

“Blech,” she said, the toast bland and crumbly on her dry tongue. “It tastes like crap.”

“It’s all I have at the moment,” he told her calmly, his voice soft. “And it tastes like crap because you’re high.” He took the plate from her and handed her the glass of soy. “How much Vicodin did you take, luv?”

“One pill,” she answered, before putting the glass to her lips. She took a few swallows, and though it was at least wet, it was as tasteless as the toast had been. She lowered the glass and met Jack’s penetrating gaze. “And don’t start with me, Jack. We have more important things to discuss.”

She was incredibly cogent for someone whose system was running on nothing but pain killer and endorphins, but that was hydrocodone for you. She handed the glass back to Jack. He took it without saying anything and put it and the plate on the coffee table beside him.

“You’re right.” He turned to Dylan then and leveled that same penetrating gaze onto the teenager. Dylan shifted where he stood, his bare feet sinking into the thick white pile of the plush carpet beneath him.

“Where is the laptop, Dylan?”

Dylan looked from Jack to Annabelle, who also waited expectantly. And then he sighed, apparently deciding that he had little choice, at the moment, but to trust Jack Thane. After all, it was obvious that Annabelle did. And Dylan trusted her.

“I hid it on campus. There’s a bridge over the river that students paint in. The panels are decorated by different groups. The laptop is behind one of the panels.”

“I know the bridge you’re talking about. It crosses the Mississippi,” Annabelle said as she curled more deeply into her blanket. She just couldn’t get over how great the material felt against her skin. “I love that bridge.”

The bridge Dylan referred to was a walk-way, meant for pedestrians only, though some bicyclists used it as well. It was composed of dozens of square panels on both sides, and each panel was painted in a different and interesting way by the various groups and clubs on campus. One was dedicated to the Black Engineers. Another belonged to a lesbian organization. Still others bore religious references. And so forth. Crossing the bridge was an education, unto itself, if you did it slowly and took time to read.

“Okay,” Jack said, forming his words as carefully as he formed his thoughts. “I need to know exactly which panel.” He turned his full attention on Dylan, even turning his body to face his. “I’ll have to retrieve it tonight.”

Dylan swallowed, and looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the amount of information he was sharing with Jack. But, again, he gave in to the inevitable and sighed, running a hand through his thick hair. “Fifteenth panel on the right. Under the rainbow.”

Jack nodded, once, and turned back to Annabelle. “How are you feeling?”

“Great,” she answered, smiling. It was true. She wasn’t looking forward to the medication wearing off, but at the moment, she felt a bit like Superwoman. No physical pain, no mental anguish, no sense of what it felt like to be human at all, actually. It was heaven.

Jack sighed, his dark blue eyes scanning her face as if he were searching for something he couldn’t find. As he did so, a thought occurred to Annabelle. If she hadn’t been high, it might have been a difficult issue to bring up, but as she was presently, it seemed like nothing more than a curiosity.

“Jack, are they going to do an autopsy?”

Jack blinked, momentarily taken aback by the directness of the question and the abrupt change of subject. And then he nodded. “Yes. And they’ll find nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You mean they’ll find that he committed suicide by overdosing on Klonapin?” she asked, shaking her head. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I told you, I’ve taken that before. It works slowly. At least, it always did for me.” She sat up straighter, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “Besides, I doubt the drugs were even his. He never seemed to have any kind of anxiety disorder.”

Dylan came forward then and sat on the love seat opposite the couch on which Annabelle was seated. “She’s right. The only thing my dad ever had to take was Midrin, for migraines. And that was rare. Brought on by allergies. Mostly cats.” Dylan paused, swallowing loudly. “The cops told me about the Klonapin and told me he had a prescription for it. I didn’t believe them, but they checked the pharmaceutical records.” He shook his head, a bewildered expression on his face. “They told me he’d been taking it for two years!” He put his face in his hands and leaned back into the cushions of the chair.

Annabelle blinked, cut her gaze to Jack, and then looked back at Dylan. There was no way Max Anderson had been taking Klonapin for two years. She would have known.

From behind the hands that hid his face, Dylan continued, “And then they told me that he’d written a suicide note.” He fell silent again, this time for a long time. Jack watched him carefully. Annabelle threw her cover aside and got off of the couch. For an instant, Jack’s hand shot out as if to hold her down, but he drew his hand back, on second thought, and let her go.

Annabelle stood on wobbly, numb legs, and, as if her body simply knew how to do it without her mind having to take part, she moved to Dylan’s side and sat on the arm rest of the love seat. In the next instant, she was holding the teenager, drawing him into a soft embrace, cradling his head against her neck.

“The bastards wouldn’t let me have the God damned note. They said they needed to keep it for their investigation. That bitch, Garcia, said that it could take up to two weeks before I would be able to see it.” Dylan pulled away from Annabelle and looked up at her, his expression one of desperation, anger and frustration. “And the fucking thing is written to me! It’s my father’s note to me, for Christ’s sake!”

He put his face in his hands again and the room fell silent. Annabelle watched as Dylan rocked ever so slightly back and forth on the couch. From behind his hands, he said, “They killed my mom too, didn’t they?”

This time, Jack closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and licked his lips, then opened his eyes again. “Yes.”

“They killed them both. For whatever’s on that fucking laptop.” Dylan raised his head, lowering his hands, and looked up at Annabelle. She gently brushed a lock of his curly hair from his forehead. He lowered his gaze once more, this time staring at nothing.

“My mom and dad grew up in Salt Lake City. They were high school sweet hearts.” His tone had gone even, dead. “My mom was my age when I was born. My dad, a year older. The church was furious with them, as were my grandparents. Sex before marriage and all that crap. When they told everyone they were bringing me here, they were disowned. Literally,” he laughed harshly. “Can you fucking believe that shit? Disowned because they were in love and wanted to leave that God-forsaken hell hole of a town.”

“My mom told me, years later, that my dad and grandfather had one last conversation, over the phone, after he left. It was like that song, you know? My grandpop told him it would never work, that he and my mom would never make it and that they would come crawling back.” He laughed again, this time more gently. Across from him, Jack was motionless, simply listening, absorbing the information silently. “Well, together, we proved them wrong.”

And then Dylan’s face went slack. “But they were right, weren’t they? Mom and dad were cursed.”

Annabelle was about to tell him he was wrong, but Jack’s phone rang just as she opened her mouth. She closed it and she and Dylan turned to watch the man stand and move to the adjoining kitchen, where a portable telephone hung on the wall.

He picked it up. “Yes.”

They watched as his expression became unreadable. He listened for several seconds and then said, “Thank you,” and hung up.

Jack came back into the living room and pinned Annabelle with a blue-eyed gaze of uncomfortable intensity. “Your detective Chen and her partner have been to my house,” he said simply, the Sheffield in his accent coming on strong.

Annabelle blinked. What? They’d been to Jack’s house? But why? She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Of course. Obviously, they thought he might know something. Maybe the autopsy had come out screwy. Maybe he just looked suspicious…

She continued to watch in silence as he moved to the wall where his black sports coat hung on a hook. He pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. He took a long, deep breath, in and out through his nose, as he punched a button and the phone dialed. Who was he calling?

Annabelle could tell Jack was upset. She’d known him long enough to be able to read his body language and, quiet or not, right now there was a bucket-load of tension running through that hard body.

And then she realized why.

If the detectives had linked him to this case, then so would the bad guys, who would probably be keeping an eye on the investigation in order to cover their own asses. And if they saw the cops pay Jack a visit, then they might decide to do the same.

And Sherry would be in danger.

“It’s Thane,” Jack said suddenly, jerking Annabelle out of her realization. She listened.

“Get Sherry out of the country. She’s been wanting to visit Rome. Tell her that I’ve asked her to meet me there.”

He was quiet a few seconds and Annabelle desperately wanted to know what the person on the other end of the line was saying.

“A few days. Four at most.” He paused again and then nodded once. “Good.” He closed the phone and slipped it back into his jacket pocket.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Annabelle said softly.

He turned to her, one eyebrow lifted inquisitively. “It isn’t your doing, luv.”

“Who’s Sherry?” Dylan asked.

“My wife.”

It was Dylan’s turn to blink. He straightened. “You’re married?”

“Yes. And I have children, in case you were going to ask that next.”

Dylan straightened further, running his hands down his pants legs as he studied Jack carefully. Jack, for his part, simply stood there, a figure of calm in black from head to toe.

“How many?”

“I have a daughter your age and a son five years younger.”

Now Annabelle could tell that Jack was trying hard not to smile. He knew that he had Dylan’s utmost attention and was probably relieved to have distracted the teenager from his pain. So, he continued calmly. “My daughter’s name is Clara. She and her younger brother, Ian, live with their mother in Essex.”

Dylan continued to rub his hands on his jeans a few moments more, and then he stood. “I’m gonna get dressed. I’m going with you to get the laptop.”

“No you’re not,” Jack told him simply, shaking his head once. His sculpted, tanned arms were crossed over his chest and his booted feet were planted apart in what could be interpreted as a fighting stance. At the same time, he seemed perfectly at ease.

“Like hell I’m not,” Dylan told him. His green eyes narrowed and his hands balled into fists at his sides.

Annabelle stood and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. “Dylan, it isn’t safe. You and I have probably already been identified by whoever killed your father. They might even know we’re here, and if we step foot out that front door,” she gestured to the apartment door several feet away, “then we’ll be followed. They’ll wait until they know where the laptop is or until we have it and then they’ll take it from us.” She lowered her hand as Dylan turned to face her. “By whatever means possible.”

“She’s right,” Jack said softly, the hint of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. Annabelle turned on him, her brown eyes sparked with a hint of angry amber.

“Yes, I am, Jack. And now that we know the detectives have been to your home, we can safely bet that they know who you are too, and that you’ll be followed just as we would have been. It isn’t safe for you to go either.”

Jack’s eyebrow lifted. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dylan beat him to it.

“I’m not letting some unknown stranger touch my mom’s laptop-”

“Jack knows people that he can trust who can get it for us and bring it to us safe and sound.” Annabelle cut her gaze from Dylan to Jack. She knew she was right.

Jack closed his mouth again and blinked. Then his smile broadened and he shook his head slowly. “Very well. I’ll make a phone call.” He reached back into the pocket of the sports coat and pulled out the same cell phone he’d used before. Then he used his other hand to pull a second cell phone from the opposite inside pocket. The second phone, he tossed to Annabelle, who caught it easily but looked up at him questioningly. “Order a pizza,” he told her as he opened his phone and turned to leave the room. “I have no food in this bloody apartment.”

Chapter Seven

“We’re going to need to get a copy of that suicide note,” Annabelle said, breaking the silence that had enveloped the three of them. They were sitting in the entertainment room of the vast apartment, Dylan on the couch, now wearing a black Rolling Stones t-shirt and tennis shoes with his jeans, Annabelle and Jack in opposite chairs. The furniture set faced a forty-inch screen on which Linda Hamilton, whose body reminded Annabelle of a much skinnier version of Sherry, stabbed a Buck knife into a wooden table and then got up and left. The director’s cut of Terminator Two was a shared love between Dylan and Annabelle. Normally, they would be commenting on editorial mistakes and physical unlikelihoods throughout the entire movie, but at the moment, Dylan stared at the screen as if he couldn’t see it. And Annabelle stared at Jack.

He stared back.

“Yes. I’ve already taken care of it.”

Annabelle didn’t wonder at how he’d accomplished that. She knew him well enough by now. With some effort, she pulled her gaze away from his and glanced, distractedly, at the screen. She ran her hands through her hair, which was still damp from her five-minute shower, and separated the long strands so that they could dry. She’d dressed in clothes that Jack had just happened to have on-hand in this apartment. The man obviously enjoyed shopping at Victoria’s Secret, because she was now wearing a pair of Victoria’s Secret Pink sweats, a few layering V.S. tank tops and a signature Pink zip-up hooded sweat shirt. Everything was in her size. Not Sherry’s, who would most likely need a size or two larger than Annabelle, just to squeeze all of those muscles into. Annabelle couldn’t help but mull that over in her head. Jack, shopping for her. What did that mean?

After donning a fresh pair of white socks, she’d slipped back into her riding boots. They looked preposterous with the rest of her outfit, but she felt more comfortable with them on. They were familiar. They gave her some small sense of power, of control over her situation. They were practically all she ever wore these days.

Besides, she figured she’d set a trend tonight and pretty soon, women across the country would be wearing sweats with biker boots. Or hiking boots. Hell, they already wore sweats with Uggs.

Jack had put back on his sports coat and looked like a cross between James Bond and whatever bad guy wanted Bond dead. There was a knock at the door. One loud bang followed by several seconds of silence and then another loud bang. Annabelle turned a questioning look on Jack and Dylan turned to look at him as well.

Jack took a deep breath and then stood, pulling a gun from beneath his jacket. A long, sleek black silencer had been screwed onto the end of the barrel. Annabelle was all out of emotion at that moment and couldn’t summon up any surprise. However, Dylan could. His eyes widened and Annabelle put a hand on his shoulder.

Jack turned away from them and left the room. Annabelle couldn’t help it. She stood and followed him out, Dylan hot on her tail.

At the door to the apartment, Jack paused and peeked through the eye hole. Annabelle had seen people do that on movies and she’d always thought that it would be a good way to make sure you took someone’s head off – just aim for the peek hole on the door. However, Jack wasn’t a Hollywood boy and his life didn’t follow a script. The door had been bullet-proofed long ago.

Jack re-holstered his gun, then stepped back from the door and unbolted it, swinging it open. A tall, skinny figure in basketball shorts and a baggy shirt stepped into the foyer and Jack closed the door behind him. Annabelle and Dylan stayed where they were, at the edge of the kitchen, and studied the newcomer in wary silence.

He had buzz-cut blonde hair and wore a headband over his forehead. His high tops were brand new LeBron’s. He looked to be somewhere between twenty and forty years old; one of those people who remain ageless for decades. He said nothing to Jack, but nodded at him and then at Annabelle and Dylan. Who nodded back.

Then he lifted his extra-large shirt and pulled the laptop from beneath it. Jack took it just as Dylan came forward, clearly eager to have it back in his own hands. Jack didn’t hesitate in handing it to the teenager, who took it gingerly and nodded once in thanks.

“Thank you,” Jack told the tall man.

The man nodded and smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. “Hey, anything to pay off my debt.” He turned then and left the room. Jack closed and bolted the door behind him.

“Set up in the family room. I have a power strip that’ll fit.” Jack gestured for Dylan and Annabelle to head into the living room, and he turned and walked through the kitchen, heading for a door in the hallway that Annabelle knew led to his office.

He returned with a power strip a few seconds later and Dylan accepted it without a word. He plugged the laptop in and set it on the coffee table. As he worked, Annabelle claimed the love seat across the coffee table.

Within a few minutes, Dylan had bypassed the password protected operating system and gotten into the computer’s D-drive, which was filled with a myriad of documents.

“What exactly are we looking for?”

“Something having to do with forests or pastel pink?” Jack took the seat opposite to Annabelle’s and leaned forward on his thighs. “Unless either of you can recall anything more concrete?”

Annabelle leaned forward as well and closed her eyes. The day was still a blur – a horrible, haunting blur – but pieces of it stood out in her mind like snapshots stuck on pause in a film on fast forward. She concentrated on those pieces, wondering if they might be sticking out in her mind for a reason.

“Forest pink pastel,” she whispered. Why did those words suddenly ring some sort of bell with her? Forest… pink… pastel… Forest… “Forest,” she said aloud as she recalled something. “One of the jobs that we’re working on required a background change – Cassie was going to try a light forest color. It was for Fresh Foods. We talked about it this morning.” How could she have forgotten about that?

“Lovely, Bella. That’s something.” Jack smiled at her and turned to Dylan. “The Fresh Foods job wouldn’t, by any chance, have been transferred onto that computer, would it?”

Dylan didn’t answer. He was too busy checking for the same thing. His finger slid over the laptop’s mouse piece like an ice skater across a rink. His thumb clicked on this and that, opening files and closing them again. Finally, his stern, concentrated expression permitted the tiniest bit of a grin to curl the corners of his lips. “I’ve got something. May be it.”

Annabelle and Jack both leaned closer.

“The format’s been changed. I can’t open it in PhotoShop or any other program that will allow images, but I can get the coding up.” He did a few more things on the keyboard and a white screen with a bunch of mumbo jumbo appeared before them. “Here it is.”

“Okay…” Annabelle blinked and licked her lips. She could recognize some of it right off the bat. A lot of it was her own handiwork. “Hand it here.”

Dylan turned the laptop to face her and she scrolled down through the text. “The fact that Max would transfer the file onto Teresa’s computer has to mean something. He did offer to help me with some of my work load, but he didn’t mention Fresh Foods. He was going to help with Mackenzie. It’s way different than this.” She stopped talking then as she noticed something. Her brow furrowed.

“What is it, luv?”

“Well, the formatting didn’t transfer properly in the first place, which is to be expected. But this part here is totally wrong. He changed the background from the ginger I had it in originally to, of all things, flamingo. That’s pink.” She straightened and looked up at Dylan, then at Jack. “There’s no way he did this by mistake. He meant for us to find it. Fresh Foods wanted a background that better matched their logo – i.e., green. Not pink.”

“Is there anything hidden around that part of the coding that might help us?” Dylan asked. His expression was pinched, tight. He was on edge. Did he feel as if he was getting closer to the people who murdered his father? His mother?

Annabelle turned back to the screen and concentrated. Though the text had a few more commas and colons than strictly necessary, there wasn’t much else that she could find wrong with it. She shook her head.

“Forest pink pastel,” Jack said softly.

Annabelle looked up at him.

Jack sighed and straightened. “What would happen if you turned the flamingo pink into a pastel pink?”

Annabelle blinked. Forest pink pastel. “Well, here, nothing. But if we loaded it into a program that allowed images… Then, I don’t know. Maybe something.”

“Then change it. We can load it onto one of my computers.”

Annabelle thought for a moment and then shrugged. “All right, but it’ll take me a minute. The order has been messed up on this. I’m not sure if he did it on purpose or not…” If he did, she didn’t want to accidentally change it back, in case it was the key to showing them what they needed to see when the file was converted to images. She had to be very careful. She grew more focused and drew the laptop onto her lap as she set to work making the changes.

A few seconds later, the doorbell rang. The sudden noise caused her to jump.

Jack glanced at the door and then down at Annabelle. Their gazes locked. “How long did they say it would be?” Jack asked. Annabelle had to think for a moment to realize that he was referring to the pizza parlor and the pies she’d ordered.

“Twenty to thirty.”

Jack looked down at his watch and nodded. He rose from the couch and moved to the door. Once again, he peeked through the hole at eye-level and then stepped back. He unlatched the three locks and drew the door open. On the threshold stood a very young man in a backward baseball cap, his cheeks covered in acne, his t-shirt and wind breaker a touch too big for his gawky body. He didn’t look much older than Dylan.

“Hi,” the kid said, not exactly looking into Jack’s eyes. He turned his attention down to the three pizza boxes in his arms. “One large with everything, one large pepperoni, mushroom and olive and one medium no cheese, extra sauce with mushrooms and bell peppers?”

Jack turned to face Annabelle. She nodded. That was right.

“Come in.” Jack stepped back out of the way and, after a moment’s hesitation, the kid came in after him. Jack closed the door and then held out his hands for the pizzas. The boy handed them over and Jack moved to the kitchen, where he set the pizzas down and opened the top one. He leaned in for a whiff and then closed the lid again.

“What do we owe you?”

“That’ll be twenty-eight, ninety-seven.”

Jack turned back to face him, reached into his jacket’s interior pocket, and pulled out the gun with a silencer on the end of its barrel. The boy’s eyes widened momentarily and then they narrowed.

Jack didn’t give him a chance to react. He pointed the weapon and pulled the trigger. A splash of red erupted on the door and wall behind the delivery boy. His body jerked a little backward and then he opened his mouth. No sound came out.

Instead, he sank to his knees and somehow, by the grace of God, Annabelle managed to close her eyes as Jack moved forward, placed the gun against the boy’s chest, and pulled the trigger once more.

Dylan was up, his arms out at his sides, his eyes maddeningly wide. “What the- What the fuck? What did you do? Jesus Christ, what the fuck-”

Annabelle cut through this confused and terrified tirade with a question that, in contrast, sounded utterly calm. “How did you know?” She asked as she slowly opened her eyes again and tried not to look at the puddle that was spreading across the floor. Instead, she concentrated on Jack’s eyes. Jack’s blue, blue eyes.

“The pizza’s cold. The parlor is a block away. And he gave me the wrong price.” Jack answered calmly. He held her gaze a moment longer, as if sensing that she needed that contact, however distant it was. Then he knelt, and after re-holstering his gun, he turned the body over. “Pete always includes the tip in the price.”

Dylan, whose eyes were still as wide as golf balls, ran a shaking hand through his long hair and turned in place. His color was paling. His breathing was coming too fast, too shallow.

“What…” Annabelle swallowed. She’d accidentally glanced at the body and its puddle of blood. Nausea roiled in her belly. “What was he going to do? I mean, who is he?” And what are they going to do with his dead body?

Jack didn’t answer right away. With a practiced precision, he unzipped the young man’s jacket and revealed a holster much like his own. It contained a gun of a different, smaller make, but also equipped with a silencer. Strapped to his chest was a harness of some kind, and in that harness were several small vials of liquid, a piece of what looked like white gauze, and two syringes, also filled with clear liquid.

“Amateurs,” Jack whispered under his breath, sitting back on his heels and shaking his head. “He’s just a kid. I doubt his employers explained to him the down side of this line of work.”

“Jesus.” Dylan finally spoke, and sort of fell back into his seat, his face now an official shade of green. Perhaps pastel forest?

“Dylan, he was going to kill us,” Annabelle said softly.

“No. Not all of us, at least,” Jack said then as he stood once more. “He was under orders to take someone alive.” He stepped over the body and its halo of thick red liquid and re-entered the living room. His eyes found Annabelle’s and held her gaze. “Most likely you. Women make for easier questioning.”

“They had no idea that you were-” Annabelle stopped herself just in time and swallowed the lump that suddenly formed in her throat. The color drained from her face and her eyes widened. She’d been two words away from spilling Jack’s secret. It was the first time she’d ever come so close.

She’d simply realized that whoever was after them had figured the pizza delivery trick would be enough to subdue them all because they’d had no idea who they were dealing with. They didn’t know that Jack Thane was a professional killer.

Jack watched her for a moment in silence, his gaze as intense as she’d ever felt it. “No, luv,” he finally said, his tone very, very soft. “They had no idea. But they’ll figure it out soon enough now.”

“Figure what out?” Dylan finally asked, his own voice very soft. Most likely, it was difficult for him to speak around the bile that was probably trying to climb up his esophagus. Annabelle wasn’t sure why the scene wasn’t causing her to feel worse than it was. Maybe it was the Vicodin. Or maybe it was because it wasn’t the first time she’d seen Jack kill someone.

“We have to get out of here,” Annabelle said then, diffusing the question and the situation the only way she knew how. Besides, she was right. And that wasn’t all. “Cass’s in danger too, isn’t she?” She added, as she at once realized that Cassie would be linked to this mess just like everyone else had. Anyone who worked with or around Max or was related to him in any way was fair game. Whatever was on Teresa’s computer was obviously important enough to these people to kill for. They wouldn’t hesitate to track Cassie down and question her to death about it, whether she knew anything or not.

“Yes,” Jack said simply, once more pulling his cell phone from his inner jacket pocket. Annabelle stood as Jack made another phone call, assigning someone to watch over Cassie and her family. Cassie lived with her cousin, Trinity, in a two-story brick house in Woodbury. Trinity had two kids, both girls. They were very young.

Jack hung up and Annabelle could tell from his expression that Cassie and Trinity were still okay. Maybe the bad guys hadn’t thought of them yet. Whatever the case, she trusted Jack to keep them safe. There was just something about him.

“What now?” she asked when he’d re-pocketed the phone.

“Now we leave.” He gestured to the laptop on the coffee table. “Save whatever changes you’ve made and shut it down. Bring the machine with you.”

Annabelle nodded and did as he said. Dylan still hadn’t moved from where he sat on the other side. Jack moved to the teenage boy and stood in front of him.

“Dylan, your father and mother were killed for whatever information is on that laptop.” He knelt before the boy and found his green eyes. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?” He asked softly.

Dylan stared at him, as locked in that blue-eyed gaze as anyone ever was. He didn’t answer, but after a few intense seconds of silence, he nodded. Once. He knew. He knew they had to get out of there and figure out what ever it was that his father had thought important enough to die hiding.

Jack stood and Dylan stood after him. The boy swayed a little on his feet and Jack’s hand came up to his shoulder to steady him.

Jack turned to Annabelle, who’d unplugged the laptop and tucked it under her arm.

“Get your jacket from your room and then head through the hallway and to the right. Last door.”

Annabelle nodded and brushed past them, moving away from the living room and the kitchen beyond it, where a very young, very unsuccessful assassin lay on the linoleum, his eyes glazed over, his blood filling the cracks between the refrigerator and the stove.

She grabbed her riding jacket and back pack from her room then rushed down the hallway to the fourth door on the right. How many rooms did this vast apartment have? Jack was too loaded for his own good.

She turned the knob and pushed the door open to reveal a room that was nearly void of all decoration or furnishings, but for a tall work desk along one wall, and an adjacent pair of closet doors. The desk, itself, was constructed of thick, solid oak, and covered with a variety of tools that appeared both complicated and deadly. Annabelle knew, at once, what profession they’d been constructed for. She wondered where Jack got his supplies. Did he have a “Q”, like Double-O-Seven? Why hadn’t she ever thought to ask?

Behind her, Jack came in after Dylan. He carried a non-descript black bag in one hand. They stepped fully into the room and Jack shut the door behind them.

Annabelle handed the laptop to Dylan so that she could fold the jacket and stuff it into the backpack. Then she slipped the backpack over her shoulders.

Jack strode to the table against the wall. He glanced over the tools on its surface, selected a few, and pocketed some of them, placing the larger ones in the black bag. Then he turned back to Annabelle and Dylan.

“Do you have everything you need?”

They both nodded. Jack turned back to the table, reached beneath it, and pulled some sort of lever that neither of them had noticed before. Nothing appeared to happen and Annabelle turned to Dylan, who looked at her questioningly. Some of the color had returned to his cheeks. She shrugged, indicating that she was at as much of a loss as he was.

Then Jack brushed past them to the closet doors and swung them open, revealing a set of stairs lit up by lamps along the wall. It descended several stories.

Annabelle’s jaw dropped open. How the hell had he managed to dig a stairwell in the middle of an apartment complex filled with other tenants?

“I own the complex,” he told them flatly, as if he could read her mind. “The escape route was constructed before I admitted tenants. Now,” he said as he gestured for them to enter the closet without further hesitation. “If you don’t mind?”

Annabelle shook her head, once, and then descended the stairs. They were made of solid stone and free of dust or dirt. Jack had kept them clean. As she climbed down, she could hear Jack’s and Dylan’s footsteps following behind her.

She reached the end of the stairs and began to make her way quickly down a long stone corridor. There were no windows or turns until she reached the end. As they approached, two large metal exit doors swung slowly outward. Annabelle’s brow rose. Automated? Or maybe it was that switch Jack had pulled beneath the table. Either way, she was impressed at the thoroughness of this escape route. She wondered whether he’d ever had to use it before now.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Jack pull his cell phone out of his pocket once more. Dylan walked in front of him, his gaze somewhat distant. He was most likely in shock. Too much all at once.

Annabelle reached back and took his hand. He glanced down at her. But he didn’t smile. And she didn’t let go. They stepped out of the hallway, into the Minnesota night beyond. It was a moonless, cloudy evening, and the darkness was near absolute. Annabelle moved slowly, unsure of her footing.

“Around the corner, out into the lot. We want garage number nine.” Jack issued the order calmly, speaking in a voice a mere breath above a whisper, and then turned his attention to the phone in his hand. Someone must have picked up on the other end. “We need a nest for the remainder of the evening. Yes.” He paused, waiting as someone spoke to him. “Perfect. Meet us there.” He closed the phone and re-pocketed it just as the three of them carefully rounded the corner to enter a street that shot straight down between two rows of garages.

Annabelle’s vision was adjusting to the darkness. She could tell there were twenty garages in all, so Annabelle assumed that Jack had nineteen tenants.

She located garage number nine and waited to the side of the white-painted metal door while Jack punched a series of numbers into a key pad beside it. Each number made a different-toned beep as he pressed it, and his fingers flew so fast over the pad that it nearly sounded musical. In the absolute silence of the night, the sound was nearly cacophonous and it made Annabelle distinctly nervous. She chanced a glance over her shoulder into the trees that lined the apartment complex. Of course, she could see absolutely nothing. In a second, a mechanical whirring began, another rude noise in an otherwise quiet night, and the garage door slid upward.

Everyone except Jack stepped back, the darkness yawning beyond the door somewhat intimidating. Only Jack knew what actually waited in its depths.

Once the door was open, Jack stepped forward into the darkness and Annabelle lost sight of him completely.

“Come in, Bella,” came Jack’s voice from a few feet away. “I want to shut the door before turning on the lights.”

Annabelle nodded. That made sense. She moved forward, gently tugging Dylan behind her. Jack pressed more noisy buttons and the door slid slowly shut.

“You should get a quieter keypad,” Annabelle said then, if only to hear herself say something out loud.

“Yes, I was thinking the same thing.” Jack flicked a switch on the wall and fluorescent lights flickered on above them.

“Wow.”

“Holy shit.”

Dylan and Annabelle stood motionless where they were just inside the garage. Despite all that had happened that day, the garage’s inhabitants warranted some kind of respectful acknowledgement. And Dylan and Annabelle didn’t disappoint.

“Jack, you’ve been holding out on me.”

Jack smiled, perfect teeth flashing white in a shit-eating grin.

Annabelle blinked, pulled her gaze away from his, and stared at the contents of the room. She counted. A dozen bikes, in three rows of four each, plus one motorcycle in the corner that was hidden beneath a Dowco motorcycle cover. All of the bikes were brand new, or at least they looked it. Chrome and metal-flake paint jobs shimmered like magic beneath the overhead floodlights.

Among the Harleys, Annabelle noticed a Triumph or two and even a Kawasaki Vulcan 2000. Jack wasn’t one to snub his nose at a good bike just because it wasn’t a Harley Davidson. And, he was British, after all.

But in all of the chrome and shimmer, it was the bike that wasn’t shining that grabbed Annabelle’s attention the most. She found herself moving toward it as if she were being pulled by some sort of magnet. The V-shaped engine on the bike had been coated flat black in the factory. The paint job was pitch as night. The exhaust system was straight-shot, different from its sister bikes. It had to be.

This bike didn’t breathe the same air as other bikes. Before now, she’d seen it only in pictures. She came to stand beside it and didn’t even notice that the garage had gone deathly still. Both men in the room were watching her.

Her gaze slid over the motorcycle, from the gauges and controls to the engine cover, through the power train, all the way to the radial tires and machine, slotted disc wheels. It was an artistic study in the dark side. The only thing that wasn’t black was the single blue-white lightning bolt that sliced across the engine cover as if it were actually being struck with a bolt of electricity. It looked so real. It was an amazing custom job and it sent a jolt of something wicked and delicious straight through Annabelle.

It was perfect.

“You have a Night Rod Special,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “When did you get a Night Rod Special?”

“It was one of the first produced. I’ve had it for a while, actually.” Jack said softly, coming to stand beside her. “I got it as a birthday present.”

“Last year? It only has twelve miles on it,” Annabelle said, shaking her head at the odometer readout. “You haven’t ridden it even once since your birthday?” And even then, he had to have only ridden it from the dealership straight into the garage. That was insane! This bike was meant to be ridden and ridden hard!

Jack took a slow, deep breath in and let it out in a whoosh. Annabelle turned to gaze up at him. He shook his head and ran his hand through his thick hair. “Well, the timing is shit, but the truth is, luv, I didn’t get it for my birthday. I got it for yours.”

Annabelle didn’t move. She didn’t really even breathe, actually. She was pretty positive she hadn’t heard him right, but if she had –

“My birthday?” She found herself whispering. It was all the sound she could make. Watching her best friend snuff someone didn’t phase her, apparently, but this did?

“Yes, Bella. You know. The one that happens this Sunday. May seventh.”

She slowly looked from him to the bike and then back again. She blinked. Jack smiled. He leaned in close and she could feel his breath across her ear as he said, “Happy birthday, luv.” His Sheffield accent echoed in her head as he finished, “Now get on it and start it up. We’ve gotta get the hell out of here.”

He straightened and Annabelle watched him move toward the covered bike in the corner. She felt dazed and numb and strange. Maybe she was dreaming? If so, then the nightmare she’d been experiencing was taking a turn for the better.

“Can you ride, Dylan?”

Dylan stared at Jack, still a little wide-eyed. After a moment, he blinked and shook his head. “Uh, no. No sir.” He swallowed and his hands tightened on the laptop he was carrying. “Not really.”

“Then you’ll ride behind me. Give the laptop to Annabelle so that she can put it in her pack.” Jack turned away from Dylan and moved to a bench against the back wall. He selected a pair of riding gloves and slipped them on. Then he reached for a black leather motorcycle jacket that hung on the wall above the bench. He switched it out for the sports coat he’d been wearing and Annabelle was in awe of how effortlessly the new piece melted into the rest of his black outfit. He was the quintessential easy rider. She was pretty sure that on the night he’d been born, a hundred Hell’s Angels were twisting their throttles somewhere in his honor.

She continued to watch him as he then moved back to the hooded motorcycle, grabbed one side of the flame-colored cover, unhooked it from below, and, in one clean movement, pulled it off of the bike.

“Jeeeeezus, Mary and Joseph…” Annabelle muttered under her breath.

Jack stepped back and stared down at the motorcycle he’d just uncovered. He stood there for what seemed like a long time and then he looked up at Annabelle, capturing her gaze. He smiled.

“This one was my birthday present.”

Annabelle could only watch as he gracefully mounted the Triumph Rocket III and turned the key, bringing the machine noisily to life.

Somewhere overhead, a fan system automatically switched on, pulling the bike’s exhaust through the ceiling. Annabelle blinked, gave herself a physical shake, and smiled. The man never ceased to amaze her. He even had sound-activated exhaust systems in his garage. And a Triumph Rocket. Well, of course. He was a bloke from across the pond, was he not?

“Give me the laptop, Dylan!” She shouted at the teenager, who was still staring wide-eyed at Jack and his monster motorcycle.

Dylan seemed to jerk out of his reverie. He moved quickly toward Annabelle and handed her the laptop. She shrugged off the backpack and drew out her own motorcycle jacket, which had been cramped in the pack anyway.

She pulled it on over the hooded sweatshirt, ignoring how idiotic it looked with her pastel sweats. At least it matched the boots.

She slid the laptop inside the pack in its place. Finally, she pulled out the pair of riding gloves that was hidden in the second pocket of the back pack and then re-zipped it shut. The riding gloves were an extra pair that she’d just happened to be keeping in the pack for the past year. Jack hadn’t grabbed her usual gloves or her helmet from the office, most likely because they’d been in the cabinet beneath her desk, hidden from plain sight.

She was just happy he’d thought to grab the backpack.

She shouldered the pack once more and then gestured toward Jack, leaning in close so that Dylan could hear what she had to say. “Get on the bike behind him, Dylan, mounting from the left.” She waited for him to acknowledge her directions and, when he nodded, she continued, pulling on her own gloves as she spoke. “Then wrap your arms around his midsection and hold on for dear life. Don’t lean to either side; just look over his shoulder in whatever direction he’s going. And, for God’s sake, don’t grab the seat or try not to hold on just to look cool. The Triumph Rocket III is the fastest vehicle ever made. If you don’t hold on tight, you’ll fall off. Period. Understand?”

Dylan hesitated, his eyes locked on Jack, who was power-walking the massive, beautiful bike down the last aisle on his way toward the garage door. He swallowed. A bit of his regained color had once more drained from his young face. Annabelle didn’t envy him. She could have offered to take him herself, but she knew that Jack simply wouldn’t allow it. And, besides, the Night Rod was un-tried for her. She definitely wasn’t ready to take passengers on it.

Finally, Dylan nodded. She gave him a reassuring squeeze on his arm and he met Jack at the garage entrance. She turned away from them and concentrated on her own bike.

Her own bike.

Her bike. Her Harley Night Rod Special. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. A part of her was apprehensive about accepting such a lavish gift from Jack Thane. But that part of her was drugged and tired and overwhelmed. It was a rather powerless part of her at the moment. So, she ignored it and did what the happy part of her told her to do, instead.

She slowly mounted the bike, taking the time to enjoy the movement as she swung her long leg over the V-rod and eased her body into the plush leather saddle. There wasn’t a force on Earth that could have prevented the smile that spread across her face in that instant.

She shook her head, utterly unable to stop grinning.

“Christ.”

And she didn’t even have to wear a helmet.

Chapter Eight

When Jack hit the button beside the garage door that sent it sliding open, Annabelle’s heart leapt in her chest. The bike beneath her rumbled dangerously. She was apprehensive, at best, about taking it out into the street, in the dark, for her first try on Harley Davidson’s official racing engine. And, when it came right down to it, she sort of wished she had her helmet after all.

But Jack didn’t give her much time to ponder her situation because, as soon as he had the clearance, he eased his motorcycle out into the night, leaving her no choice but to chase his tail light. She wasn’t sure where they were going. She had to keep up with him or lose contact altogether. And then she’d be a sitting duck. Alone and vulnerable.

Like Max had been.

So, before she could even think about losing sight of the red on the back of his bike, Annabelle eased her own out after him. The Night Rod responded like a dream. She’d expected it to shoot out from under her like a pit bull on a leash of dental floss, but as she exited the garage and executed the turn out onto the main road beyond the parking lot, she found that it basically handled just like any other bike. Same principles. Just a lot more power.

Jack led them down several empty streets, taking turns she wouldn’t have expected them to take. She realized, eventually, that they were being evasive. Did Jack think they were being followed? Annabelle hadn’t noticed any headlights. But then, someone following them probably wouldn’t have used headlights. And there was no way they could have heard the sound of a car over the roar of their own motorcycles. So, she guessed it was a possibility.

But not for long. No car in the world could keep up with the bikes they’d chosen. Especially when their riders were deliberately trying to lose them.

Now Annabelle not only wished she had a helmet; she wished that she had a helmet with a radio inside. As Jack turned one last corner and she found that they were just across the street from an exit onto the freeway, she experienced another jolt of apprehension. She knew that Jack was going to take them both out onto the interstate.

It was dark. She wasn’t wearing protective gear. Her bike was big and it was fast and it was brand spanking new.

Jack, you trust me way too much…

As she’d anticipated, he switched on his turning signal and eased on out onto the highway, picking up incredible speed as he neared the junction. She slowly twisted the throttle and was struck with the real difference between the V-Rod and Harley’s other motorcycles. If the wind hadn’t been hitting her so hard, she’d be breaking into a sweat. The bike was really, really fast. Not as fast as Jack’s, but quite a bit more speedy than was strictly sufficient.

They hit seventy miles per hour in a very few short seconds and kept the speed steady. Jack let off of his own throttle momentarily and kicked back to run even with Annabelle. He looked over at her and their eyes met. The gaze held for longer than it should have before Annabelle broke it and looked back at the road in front of her. Motorcycles tended to go where their drivers were looking. Look left, the bike goes left. Look right, it goes right. Look down, guess where it goes?

She just happened to have enough experience with motorcycles to know how to keep the bike from doing whatever the hell it wanted to just because she chose to enjoy the view. But it wasn’t wise to get too side tracked, so, Annabelle trained her gaze a good fifteen seconds ahead of them and kept it there for the time being. Jack rode steady beside her.

After a while, Annabelle relaxed into position and began to notice things. The road was newly paved and easy on the tires. That was nice. No distracting bumps; just the steady, comforting vibration of the engine between her legs.

There was no wind, which was strange, but a pleasant change. Wind jerked the bike around and caused tension to ride up the biker’s arms and shoulders. No wind was good.

The night was cold, but not as cold as it had been. Though this last winter had been relatively mild, Minnesota was never balmy in May. Tonight, however, was a truly mellow night. It wasn’t clear and there weren’t any shooting stars or anything magical like that, but the overhead cloud cover kept what warmth there was down on the ground.

And it wasn’t raining. The black top was dry and because it was a week night, it was more or less empty. It stretched on and on.

She chanced a glance down at her gauges. She had a full tank of gas. Jack had set her up. How far could she get if she wanted to? Could she leave the state? Head for the sea side? On a Night Rod, how long would it take her to get there?

In the last ten years, Minnesota had iced up her bones and rimed over her soul. Some days, she felt like she would never thaw out. She felt like she could walk through the desert, trudge from dune to sandy dune, and the frost around her heart still wouldn’t melt.

She had come here a decade ago to help her mother, Rachel, who underwent a lengthy surgery that left her handicapped for several years. In that time, Annabelle finished her BA at “The U”, the University of Minnesota, and then signed up for graduate classes. At the same time, she acquired a job at a health sciences university. She was a natural and a quick study. She learned a lot about graphic design and learned it well.

When her mother’s doctor suggested that his patient move somewhere warmer, her mother listened. Rachel and Annabelle talked it over for a long time. The truth was, Rachel was well on the mend and no longer truly needed Annabelle’s help. So, after much deliberation and wringing of the hands, she agreed to move to Florida even though her daughter couldn’t follow.

At the time, there was just too much for Annabelle in the Twin Cities. A good job, classes, the Minnesota Wild – she was a big fan – and the winters hadn’t yet gotten to her. Plus, there was Jack. They’d been friends for four years by that point, and though she’d had friends for longer, she’d never had any that were closer.

Annabelle’s mother had been forty when she’d given birth to her daughter. So, to Rachel, Jack had seemed just as young as Annabelle. Their age difference didn’t much phase the woman. In fact, nothing much phased the woman. And Rachel liked Jack. For some unknown and, to Annabelle, entirely ironic reason, her mother thought Jack was safe.

It was one of the reasons she’d agreed to leave for Orlando in the first place. Rachel figured Jack would protect Annabelle from the world.

Well, she’d been right on that count.

But who was going to protect her from him?

Annabelle chanced another glance away from the road, this time at her handsome assassin companion. Did he know that she dreamt about him at night? Did he have any clue how amazingly attractive she found him? Charismatic? Powerful? Did he know?

Why was she thinking about this right now? Was it the ride, maybe? Was she still high on pain killers? Whatever the reason, she couldn’t seem to help where her thoughts were sliding.

And they were sliding, inexorably, toward Jack.

Did he know that, for some reason she didn’t care to evaluate, she not only didn’t mind his occupation all that much, but she was… well… intrigued by it? Something about Jack holding lives in his hands made her weak in the knees. And that was wrong, wasn’t it? It was wrong! After all, he was a killer. He was paid to end lives!

Still, she believed that Jack was not the kind of person to take a life that didn’t deserve to be taken. She held on to that belief tooth and nail. There were so many nasty people out there. She’d been up close and personal with a few of them; if they ever came across Jack’s path during his career, she could not feel sorry for them.

In that light, Jack appeared to be more a vigilante, really. An outlaw, but one on the side of the good guys. He was strong and fast and very, very smart. He embodied an ultimate form of power, and that was a definite turn on.

And nothing short of an overdose of truth serum would get her to admit as much to him.

But did he know anyway? Did he know that she trusted him like she had never trusted anyone else in her life? It wasn’t even an earned trust. It was an immediate trust that made absolutely no sense. From day one, from the first glance, in that bar on her twenty-first birthday, she’d trusted him. Implicitly. And she had no idea why.

A part of her needed Jack Thane. He was like a piece of her. She often found herself worrying about him and his occupation. What if, one night, a particular job just suddenly – went bad? What if it back fired?

What if he were killed?

Annabelle’s brow furrowed and she jerked her attention back to the road ahead of her. It was a sobering thought. It wasn’t the first time she’d had it, either. As much as she wanted to think of herself as a strong and independent woman, the truth was, Jack Thane represented a piece of her life that simply couldn’t be cut out. Not without dire consequences, at any rate.

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 their 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.

“So, where does one get clothes like these made anyway?” she asked as she sat back down and pried the top off of the peanut butter.

“Cuba.”

“Oh?” She raised a brow, dipping a Saltine into the top of the container and scraping a big brown glob of crushed peanut and hydrogenated fat onto her cracker. “They just make them there like someone would make tie-dyed t-shirts here, huh?” She asked, not a little sarcasm lacing her words.

Jack’s gaze narrowed. “A man in Cuba makes suits for important, but threatened political figures. They’re bullet-proof. One of his workers is willing to supply people in the private sector.”

“How did you get such a perfect fit?” she asked.

“I sent him an old pair of your jeans and a long-sleeved shirt for reference.”

Annabelle stopped eating and looked back up at him. “You took some of my jeans? I never noticed any missing.”

Jack suddenly realized his mistake. He swallowed and leaned back into the cushioned seat. He was treading uncomfortably close to the truth with this new line of conversation. But there was no way out of it now. “They were a pair that you donated to Goodwill. As was the shirt.”

Annabelle didn’t say anything for a long time. She watched him carefully and it was his turn to become uncomfortable under such scrutiny. She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment and her gaze narrowed.

She was figuring it out. He could tell. Her next question would be how he had managed to find just those clothes, and he would have no way of answering. No way but the truth, that is. One of his men had pulled them from the black bag she’d dropped off – after watching her make the drop. Just like they watched everything she did in public.

But, again, Annabelle surprised him. Instead of questioning him, as she had every right to do, and putting him on the spot that he so deserved to be on, she remained silent. She looked down at her crackers and peanut butter and continued to eat quietly.

He wasn’t sure whether he should be grateful. He had a feeling that the subject would come up again and that there would be no such easy escape from it the second time around.

“I found it!”

Annabelle and Jack both jumped as Dylan charged through the hidden door in the corner of the room. Annabelle’s cracker crumbled all over her mouth and shirt front as she accidentally crushed it. She stood and brushed herself off, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Dylan stood in the doorway, a small white piece of paper in his left hand.

Left handed, Annabelle thought. Like his father.

“You found what?” she asked then, brushing the last bits of cracker away from her jeans.

“This,” he said, coming into the room. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed and his color was still pale, but his expression was hopeful. Expectant. Excited.

Annabelle took the paper and looked down at it. She scanned the lines several times, in silence, before finally reading them aloud.

“Fourth S-S plus T, colon, underscore R, A, underscore G, underscore R, A, N, underscore, underscore, and then CUMC.”

Annabelle looked up from the paper and met Dylan’s gaze. “Dylan, this is what was hidden in the pink on pink?”

“Yes. That’s all of it. I checked and double-checked.”

Annabelle turned and looked up at Jack. His expression was once again unreadable. Their earlier conversation would have to wait, but Annabelle would be damned if she would forget about it.

She sighed. “Okay, so it looks like some kind of word puzzle.”

“Right up your alley,” Jack said.

Annabelle looked back down at the sheet of paper. It was true that she loved word puzzles. She did Mensa word puzzles while sitting on the toilet at home. It seemed to be the only extra time she had of late.

And Max had known she was good at them. But how had he even had time to pull all of this together before the bad guys had reached him? She and Cassie hadn’t been gone all that long…

“Jack, how is Cass? Is she still okay?”

“She’s on her way here, actually. Alex went to pick her up.”

Annabelle’s eyes widened. “Is Alex the guy who was here earlier?”

Jack nodded.

“My God, she’s going to flip out. Jack, she has no idea what’s going on. What do you think she’s going to do when Mr. Dressed-In-Black with a goatee shows up on her front doorstep and tells her to get in the car with him?”

Jack’s lips twitched. “Well, if it were you he were retrieving, I’d expect him to get shot. But it isn’t. And Cassie’s a level-headed woman.”

“Christ,” Annabelle sighed. She put one hand on her hip and placed her fingers to her forehead. “She’s going to rip him a new asshole.”

“I gave him your cell number.”

As if on cue, Annabelle’s phone began to ring from inside her jacket pocket. She stared up at Jack, disbelieving.

He smiled.

She blinked and shook her head, then pulled the phone out and opened it.

“Hello?”

“Miss Drake, please talk to your friend.” There was some shuffling on the other end, and then Cassie was on the line.

“Annabelle, is that you?”

“Jesus, Cass. I’m so sorry about this. Trust me, Alex is kosher. He’s cool. Just go with him.”

On the other end, she could hear kids playing in the background. Annabelle’s heart leapt into her throat. “Oh no. Trinity’s with you, isn’t she?”

“Annabelle, he wants us all to go with him. What about Emma and Rose?”

“Them too, Cass. They’re not safe there.” Inside, Annabelle was dying. She couldn’t believe that she’d pulled her friend into such a catastrophic mess. And the kids. The little girls. Would any insane bastard really hurt the girls just to get to the nonsensical message that Annabelle now held, scribbled on a white piece of paper in her hand?

Yes. People were not kind and life was pain.

“I can’t do this, girl. This isn’t good. Trin’s freaking out.”

“Cass, you have to trust me. Please, for the love of God, pack up what you’ll need for a few nights – do it fast. Then go get in the car with Alex.”

“He’ll bring her here,” Jack said, suddenly, obviously able to follow the conversation from where he stood a few feet away. “The others, he’ll take to a safe house outside the city. It’s temporary.”

“Cass, did you hear that?”

“Yes. God, his voice really carries. I heard it all. Hold on.” On her end, Cassie moved away from the phone to talk to Trinity and the girls. Annabelle tried to listen as best she could, but the voices were muffled.

Annabelle covered the phone receiver and pinned Jack with a hard gaze. “Swear to me that they’ll be safe, Jack.”

He watched her for a long, silent time. Finally, he shook his head and gave a slight, slow shrug. “I can’t promise that, Bella. But I swear to you that we’ll try.”

Annabelle was about to reply when she heard the phone being moved around on the other end. Cassie got back on the line.

“We’re going,” she said softly. She sounded resigned. “This is because of Max, isn’t it?” She said then, in the same resigned tone. “He was killed, wasn’t he?”

Annabelle’s mouth opened. She blinked. “How did you know?”

“Klonapin. It doesn’t work that way.”

Annabelle closed her eyes. “I know.” She should have had more faith in her friend’s ability to put two and two together. Cassie had been a medical assistant. She would know things.

“Wait,” Cassie said then, and Annabelle could hear a man’s voice in the background. “He wants to talk to Jack.”

Annabelle held the phone out to Jack. “He wants to talk to you.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. This was odd. He couldn’t think of anything he’d left out of his instructions. He gently took the phone from her and held it to his ear.

“Mr. Thane,” Alex said.

“Yes.”

“I just got word from Nicholas. Your daughter’s at the airport.”

Chapter Ten

Annabelle had never ridden in a limousine before. For prom, during her Junior year, her date had offered to pick her up in one and she’d refused. The limousines they used in her home town all came from the funeral home. Ick and more ick.

But this was different.

For one, it wasn’t white and didn’t have the words, “Samson and Miller, Since 1906” painted on the side.

It was black. Deep, dark, forever black, and the windows were tinted to match. No one in the world would be able to see its passengers from outside. They were invisible. Nonexistent. Like shadows that people forget are there.

It also possessed the most disgustingly opulent interior she’d ever experienced. The seats were constructed of such a soft leather that she was certain whatever animals had provided the skin had died before their first birthdays. There were mirrors on side panels and round tables that came out of the floor boards at the touch of a button and whirred around 360 degrees. There were speakers all around them and, behind a curtain on one end was a large flat-screened television.

To Annabelle, it was overkill. Something about it felt wrong. And it wasn’t just the dead babies she was sitting on. It was sort of like… a lie. Dress up a cage in silks and satins and it was still a cage.

And it didn’t seem like Jack. Not the Jack she knew.

Or thought she knew.

With that uncomfortable contemplation, she turned to stare out the window once more and forced her thoughts in another direction.

They were on their way to the airport. Jack was in the front seat with Alex, effectively cut off from the passengers in the back. Trinity and Cassie sat across from Annabelle and Dylan sat beside her, his own gaze turned to something beyond the windows. Something only he could see.

The two girls sat on the plush carpeted floor boards, engrossed in a game of Hang Man. Emma and Rose were four-year-old twins. And they were brilliant. They’d known how to read before their fourth birthdays and could now write several impressively thorny words.

One of which, Rose now tested Emma with on a small pink pad of paper that had Hello Kitty on the front.

Annabelle knew what the word was. She’d always been good at Hangman. For some reason, she’d deduced this particular word after Emma had only guessed the letter “E”.

Escape.

She wouldn’t give the answer up, of course. How thoughtless would that be? Besides, Annabelle had her own riddle to puzzle out at the moment. For the gazillionth time that night, she looked down at the white piece of paper in her hand.

Fourth SS plus T: _RA_G _RAN_ _ at CUMC

A word puzzle. The underscores could only be missing letters. But what did the “fourth SS” part mean? And the plus T? Was “fourth SS” actually a number and you had to add the “T” to it?

That wouldn’t be good. A puzzle with a mixture of numbers and letters had far too many possible outcomes. Game theory could be a bugger.

What about the CUMC? Sounded like a University.

Annabelle’s eyes widened.

“A University!”

Dylan turned to face her. “What are you talking about?”

“The CUMC. It could be the initials of a University. Do you know of one? Maybe… Colorado University or California University… No...”

“Columbia.”

Annabelle and Dylan looked up at Cassie, who’d spoken from her seat across from them. “Columbia University Medical Center.”

Annabelle looked from her to the paper and back up again. “Jeez, Cass, I think you got it!”

Of course she would get it. Duh.

Cassie smiled gently, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was tired. And she was scared – and she didn’t know half as much about their situation as she would like to. But Annabelle had told her everything she’d known. So, they were in the same boat. It just wasn’t a comfortable boat. It was rocking and it had leaks in it.

“Columbia University Medical Center… It makes sense,” Dylan said, leaning forward now to look at the paper again. “Mom worked for a pharmaceutical company. And before that, she was in medical school. She got an MD on a full scholarship but quit to go to design school because she decided, one day, that medical school had been wrong. She regretted what she’d done. All the dissections and things.” His voice got softer then, and his eyes glazed over a bit. “You’d have liked her, Miss Drake. She loved animals too.”

Annabelle placed her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“Let me see that, Ann.” Cassie had leaned forward as well and was eyeing the paper in Annabelle’s hand. Annabelle handed it over and Cassie turned it around to study it. “This other mess is a mystery to me. What are these underscores?”

“I think they’re missing letters.”

“What about the ‘fourth’ and the ‘ss’ nonsense?”

“I don’t…” Annabelle’s voice trailed off. She straightened. “Cass, when you filled out those forms for the doctor you worked for, what was the abbreviation for a person’s social?”

“SS.”

“You think it refers to a social security number?” Dylan asked.

“Could be.” Annabelle said.

“A ‘fourth’ social security number?” Cassie asked.

Annabelle shook her head. “I have no idea. If it is a social security number that Max referred to, then was it one of four numbers?”

“Maybe it was four specific numbers inside the social,” Dylan suggested, getting excited again.

“Which four?” Cassie asked. “And whose number?”

“It would have to be my dad’s,” Dylan said. “This message was for you, Miss Drake, and he wouldn’t want you off searching for some un-known person’s social, right?” He paused then, and considered something. “But you don’t know his social, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Then he knew that we’d be working together. Because I do.”

Annabelle took a deep breath. “Well, we don’t know for sure that his social is what he was referring to, but if he was, Dylan, which four numbers? The last four? They’re easy enough to separate out. A social security number is three groups of numbers – three, three, and then four.”

“Fourth SS. That has to be it.” Dylan was definitely excited now. “The last four numbers are three-nine-two-four.”

“Mama, my crayon broke. Can you get me another one?”

Trinity hadn’t yet moved from where she’d been sitting beside Cassie, listening in on the conversation. But now, she turned to her daughter and spoke at last. “Sure, baby. Why don’t you go ahead and get it. In my purse. You know where they are.” Her purse was on the floorboards, beside Cassie’s purse and bag, and Annabelle’s backpack.

Emma dug around in the bag for a few seconds and then came out with a box of crayons. She dumped the whole box on the carpet and chose the purple.

“No, I want yellow.”

“It doesn’t show up on the pink paper, though.”

“I know, but it’s my favorite color,” Emma insisted. “Can you highlight with it?”

Highlight? Annabelle was impressed. How many four-year-olds would think of doing that?

“So, so far we have four numbers and a clue that leads to Columbia University,” Dylan said, drawing Annabelle’s attention back to the matter at hand. “We still need to fill in the missing letters.”

“And don’t forget the ‘plus T’ part.”

Annabelle chewed on her lip for a moment, staring at the paper that Cassie now held between them all. And then she blinked. “If the ‘plus T’ is attached to the numbers, then either the ‘T’ represents a number, or the numbers represent letters.”

“Well, heck, that’s easy enough to figure out. What are the third, ninth, second and fourth letters of the alphabet?” Cassie asked.

“C, I, B and N.”

They turned to Trinity, who had instantly supplied them with the letters.

“That’s impressive, Trin. How’d you do that so fast?”

“I’m a kindergarten teacher.” Trinity smiled. It was the same smile that Cassie had given Annabelle earlier. Tired. Scared. But willing to help out, if she could.

Annabelle placed the letters, in order, in the spaces. “Crap, I think we have it. Craig Brand.”

“Plus T,” Dylan reminded her.

“Okay, Craig Brandt. Columbia University Medical Center.”

“Well, I guess I know where we’ll be headed next.” Cassie said as she leaned back in her seat once more and sighed heavily. “That is, after this business with Jack’s daughter.” She cut her gaze to Annabelle. “By the way, what’s going on with that, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think she’s supposed to be here, though. Jack was really surprised. And not at all happy. He practically barked the order for her to wait for him at the airport. I’m guessing she stopped by to see dad without dad’s permission.”

“Or her mother’s, I’m betting.” Cassie said. “Where does her mother live?”

“In Essex, apparently,” Dylan supplied. He wasn’t one to forget what little information Jack Thane was prepared to give him. “With another of his kids. A twelve-year-old boy.”

“His name is Ian,” Annabelle nodded. “And I’ve never met either of them. Or their mother.” What Annabelle was more interested in, at the moment, was how Jack had found out so quickly that Clara was at the airport. Did he have friends currently staking out the airport? Unless it was needed for some job he was currently working on, she sort of doubted it.

What was far more likely, and what made Annabelle markedly uncomfortable, was the prospect that Jack was having his kids watched. She could see that. They would make easy targets if someone wanted to send him a message.

And that’s what made her uncomfortable. She made an easy target too.

“What’s his ex’s name?” Cassie asked then, breaking the silence that had stolen over the group.

“Beatrice, I think,” Annabelle answered.

“When did they get divorced?”

“The year before we met. So… Ten years ago. He’s been re-married three times since then.”

“Unbelievable,” Dylan shook his head, his expression one of barely hidden disgust. It was readily apparent to everyone in the car what he thought of Jack Thane.

“That is pretty impressive,” Trinity finally offered. “I mean, he’s pretty hot, I’ll admit, so I can see why someone would marry him. And he’s loaded, too. That’s obvious,” she gestured to the car around them. “But why can’t he hang on to a wife?”

“Cass thinks he’s codependent.” Annabelle said, smiling as she leaned back into her seat and closed her eyes. “Getting married for the wrong reasons, maybe. To the wrong people.” The Vicodin was beginning to make her sleepy. That, and the majorly stressful events of the past twenty-four hours. And the rough night of partying she’d had before that. Sheesh, when she really thought about it, she was running a rather hefty sleep deficit.

No one said anything after that. The car’s inhabitants fell into a weary silence. Even Rose and Emma curled up on the soft carpet of the car and Trinity covered them each with one of her sweaters and the Victoria’s Secret hoodie that Annabelle offered.

In a while, the limousine rolled to a smooth stop and everyone looked out the window.

They sat silently and waited while a door opened in the front and Jack got out of the cab. He moved around the car to the door on Annabelle’s side and opened it.

“I would ask you to stay here, but I realize that’s pointless,” Jack said as he leaned in, his arms draped over the door and the top of the car. He looked Annabelle in the eyes. She smiled wearily.

“Yup. Pointless.”

“Hell, I’m coming too. I’ve been looking forward to this.” Cassie leaned over Trinity to open the other door. Trinity took the cue and climbed out of the car to let Cassie out after her.

Annabelle watched and then looked back up at Jack.

“And by the way, luv,” he whispered as he straightened and she climbed out as well. “I am not co-dependent.”

Annabelle’s brows rose. “You heard?”

“Everything. The car is wired. It’s a Business vehicle.”

Annabelle smiled. And then she laughed. That explained a lot. The car didn’t seem like Jack because it wasn’t. It was part of the façade he wore when… working. And it was probably the only vehicle he owned that would comfortably fit eight people.

“Okay. Sorry about that.”

“And, nice job with the puzzle. I’m impressed,” he added, leaning in to whisper the words against her ear. The feel of his breath across her skin made it tingle and his deep accent made her blood sing.

He’s a married man, Annabelle. And you need sleep.

“What’s going on with Clara?” She asked, wanting to turn the subject away from herself as quickly as possible.

Jack didn’t answer right away. He looked over his shoulder at Dylan, who was getting out of the car after them, and then he turned back to face the expansive garage and the doors to the stairs at the other end.

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

Annabelle left it at that and didn’t ask him any more questions. The look on his face told her he was more than a little distracted and had more than his fair share on his mind. She fell in step beside him and the others followed, including Alex, who brought up the rear. Cassie carried one of the sleeping girls and Trinity carried the other. They were out for the night.

Annabelle envied them their peace.

The group of eight made their way through the garage and into terminal. After a tram ride and a long hike down moving walkway after moving walkway, they entered the baggage claim area. It was crawling with late-night business travelers, people visiting their families on vacation, and tourists who flocked to the Twin Cities during its warmer months.

Annabelle was not happy. Airports were some of her least favorite places on the planet. Every time a plane took off overhead, she cringed. And prayed that its passengers would have a safe journey.

“’S about time, da’.”

Jack spun around at the sound of his daughter’s voice. Annabelle turned as well. Before her stood a very attractive blue-eyed girl with jet-black hair and a nose ring. Her makeup was perfectly applied and genuinely enhanced her features, which included the afore-mentioned eyes, and lips that were exquisitely pouty. Annabelle knew where she’d gotten the eyes. The lips, on the other hand, must have come from her mother.

And her figure wasn’t anything to laugh at, either. Dressed how she was, that much was easy to see. The girl was tall – perhaps an inch taller than Annabelle – and proportioned like a model. Pre-anorexia.

She looked like she worked out a lot. In ultra-tight jeans filled with holes in all sorts of strange places, and a short, stretchy t-shirt that touted the finer qualities of some British band by the name of “Hundred Reasons”, Clara represented the quintessential daddy’s-little-girl-coming-of-age.

Annabelle took a deep breath and thought, Oh boy.

Dylan was apparently thinking the same thing, because he came up beside Annabelle and stared unabashedly.

“Who’re your bosom companions, da’? Like to introduce us?” Clara suggested as she stared back at Dylan, a sly smile on her face. Her accent was so pronounced that Annabelle realized Jack almost sounded American in comparison. He’d been in the states too long.

“Clara, a word in private please.” Jack stepped forward and firmly took his daughter by the elbow.

“Jack, you right bugger! What in bloody ‘ell took you so long?”

Jack let go of his daughter’s arm and looked over her shoulder.

“Oh, Christ,” he swore softly. His entire body went rigid. A woman had come out of the bathroom and was making her way toward them. Sort of. She was weaving, really, was more like it. As if there were a line of orange cones in between her and Jack and she needed to wind in between each one to make points.

“Oh yeah, da’, forgot to mention. Mum’s here,” Clara smiled. “And she’s ri’ pissed.”

“Cor, blimey, but what a beastly flight,” the woman continued when she’d neared Jack. Still, she swayed slightly from side to side, as if she were a tall building in a strong gale. “You’ll have to forgive me, Jackie, but I’m a bit bladdered. You know how bleeding boring that flight can be and you can’t exactly bonk-” She stopped mid-sentence when she realized that she and Jack were not the only two people in the terminal. She swayed a little, her green eyes moving from Annabelle to Dylan to Trinity and so forth. And then she smiled a great big grin and opened her eyes wide.

“Well hello!” she exclaimed, waving her arms above her head theatrically.

“Right,” Jack said, taking sudden initiative. He moved forward, trading a grip on his daughter’s arm for one on his ex-wife’s, and proceeded to steer her out of the middle of the busy aisle, toward a row of seats along the windows on one wall.

The others followed, including Clara, whose interest was currently divided between Dylan and the promising spectacle that her mother was making.

Annabelle found herself hanging back a bit, feeling the need to give Jack and his ex-wife some space. It was a need that apparently she, alone, felt, because everyone else crowded around the couple, like piranhas.

Beatrice Hughes, formerly Beatrice Thane, was a woman of average height and average build, but with anything-but-average cat-like green eyes and extra-pouty lips. Yup. Clara had her mother’s mouth.

That thought brought a secret smile to Annabelle’s own lips.

Beatrice’s hair was blonde, like her ex-husband’s, so Annabelle assumed that Clara’s jet-black mane was an excellent dye job. And it sort of complemented her very fair skin and very blue eyes. In essence, Clara had gotten the good genes from both of her parents. At least, on the outside. Who knew what went on beneath a person’s skin.

“What in bloody hell are you two doing here?” Jack asked his ex-wife, his tone hard, his whisper loud enough to carry well past Annabelle. His jaw was tense and his posture was unyielding. As was the look in his sapphire eyes.

“Oh, don’t be such a nark! We ‘aven’t seen you in a donkey’s years and you never give us a bell. Besides, I’ve always wanted to have a shufti at that gigantic canyon thing – is it far?” Beatrice leaned very far over to have a look around Jack’s looming figure, and nearly fell off of the seat when she did so. She barely seemed to notice Jack steadying her, as her gaze had once more fallen on Annabelle. “Is this your lovely new b-”

“Beatrice, this is truly a terrible time. I’m putting you back on a plane tonight-”

“Like bloody hell, you are!” That got her attention. She snapped straight and pinned Jack with a blood-curdling gaze. It would have had more the effect she was looking for if she hadn’t been swaying in her seat. She burped. “Sorry.”

“Da’, we’ve come too far-”

Jack whirled on his daughter and pinned her to the spot with his angry gaze. “I told you, Clara. It isn’t a good time.” He said the words carefully and slowly. His expression was incredibly meaningful.

And it hit Annabelle. Clara knew what he was.

Clara stared at her father belligerently. And then she blinked. She turned to look at Dylan. Then Annabelle. And then the rest of them. Her gaze lingered on the two little girls.

“Them too, da’? Did you drag two babies into one o’ your messes?” Her tone was a touch more subdued now, but it was still evident that she was seventeen years old and had a rebellious streak. She was walking a thin line. Skirting around the subject but touching it ever so gently, teasing the truth like one would a rabid dog.

Yet, Annabelle could see real concern in the girl’s blue eyes. She could empathize with that. Annabelle was worried about the girls too.

But it wasn’t Jack’s fault, and she was about to say so when Beatrice sighed loudly.

“Cor, dammit Jack.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, as if staving off a headache. “Can’t the chin wag wait? ”

Now it was Jack’s turn to sigh.

But whatever he’d been about to say was put forever on hold when Alex interrupted him. “Mr. Thane, we have company.”

Jack turned to face him and the black-haired man gestured toward the terminal doors a hundred feet away, where detective Chen and her partner were holding up what looked like photographs and questioning airport security.

Jack swore softly under his breath and ran a hand through his thick blonde hair. With a meaningful look toward Alex, who nodded, he leaned over and took hold of his ex-wife’s upper arm and pulled her from the seat. “We have to go, Bee.” He turned to fix his daughter with the same meaningful look and she, too, nodded.

As Jack, Annabelle, Trinity, Cassie and Beatrice made their way hastily in the opposite direction from where Chen and Robinson stood amongst men in button-down white shirts and name tags, Clara and Alex spoke with each other hastily, blocking the aisle as much as possible with Clara’s bags.

Annabelle glanced back just in time to witness what appeared to be a lover’s spat break out between Alex and Clara, shoving and all, as Jack’s group disappeared more deeply amidst airport travelers, eventually obstructing Annabelle’s view entirely.

All she heard as they rounded a corner and joined a mass of people who were headed out into the taxi-laden streets was Clara’s voice, raised in faux anger, spouting obscenities at Jack’s employee, who, according to Clara, had cheated on her with an American bimbo from Texas.

Up ahead, two airport security guards received radio calls and headed in the opposite direction of Jack’s group, passing Annabelle without a second glance. She knew, right away, that they’d been called to help break up the fight that Clara had started. The decoy provided just the right amount of time and distraction for Jack to lead them out into the Minnesota night and into the closest parking garage.

When they were amidst cars and shadows, Annabelle moved up beside Jack, keeping pace with his long strides. “Is she going to meet us somewhere?”

“She’ll try. She knows the drill.”

Jack didn’t say anything more. His posture was tense and his expression was troubled. He had a lot on his mind. So, Annabelle didn’t ask him how his daughter had been dragged into his messy line of work. Maybe it wasn’t any of her business anyway. And, maybe it wasn’t all that hard to get dragged into your father’s business… After all, Annabelle had found herself amidst it and she and Jack weren’t even related.

Annabelle walked quickly beside Jack and glanced over at his ex-wife. She was mostly being held up by her ex-husband, but she managed to get one foot in front of the other, even if her eyes were closed most of the time. Annabelle wondered if she knew too. She wasn’t demanding to know why they’d suddenly gotten up and departed in a hurry, leaving her teenage daughter and a thirty-year-old stranger behind to fight loudly over a big-titted Dallas blonde who didn’t really exist.

So, maybe she knew after all. Maybe this wasn’t the first time Jack had put his family through something like this.

Maybe, Annabelle thought, that’s why she divorced him.

Jack glanced over at that moment and caught Annabelle’s gaze. She blushed. She felt almost as if he knew what she’d been thinking. She tore her gaze away to find that they’d managed to make it all the way back to the limo.

Jack pressed a button on the key fob in his pocket and the doors unlocked. Annabelle took Beatrice’s arm, gently pulling the woman out of Jack’s grip. He let her go and made his way to the front of the car, claiming the driver’s seat. The rest of the crew piled into the back. Cassie helped Trinity with the twins while Dylan put his hand on Beatrice’s head to help her duck into the cabin of the car.

When all of the doors were shut and everyone was safely inside, Jack pulled out of the lot.

No one spoke for a long time.

And then Cassie took a deep breath and blew it out in a loud sigh. “So, I guess we’re going to New York.” She turned to Annabelle and fixed her with a meaningful gaze. “Kind of a long drive, Ann.”

“That’s why we’re flying,” came Jack’s voice over what sounded like an intercom system that had been wired throughout the car.

Annabelle narrowed her gaze. “Like hell we are.”

Chapter Eleven

“No, Jack. No way. No how.” Annabelle put her hands on her hips and stared Jack down. She was standing in the back yard of a two-story house on a quiet neighborhood block in Ham Lake, a suburb city north of Minneapolis. Only she and Jack were outside, the rest of the group having congregated around the refrigerator and bar in the open kitchen and living room on the other side of the sliding glass doors. The night air was cool and the grass was wet with dew.

“You know it’s our only option, Bella. We need to get there before Max’s killers get there and we can’t go without you.” Jack stood opposite her, his hands likewise on his hips, his expression pleading.

“I said no.”

He tried to reason with her. “You would let everything Max and his wife died for fall into the wrong hands just because you are afraid of fly- ”

“No, Jack. Not afraid – terrified. Planes make no sense, for Christ’s sake! Big, heavy metal objects with little bitty wings that don’t even flap! How the hell does it even stay up there! No. Not me. Not now. Not ever.”

“You could get plastered.”

“Not plastered enough.”

“Take your Vicodin.”

“I’d still know, Jack. I’d still know that the engine could die at any minute and that you can’t just pull the frickin' plane over on a cloud and hop out and peek under the hood like you can a god-forsaken car, Jack!”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t care.”

Annabelle glared at him. She took a slow, deep breath and exhaled through her nose.

Jack took the opportunity to target her soft spot. “Dylan is depending on you, Bella. He’s lost both of his parents. Are you going to let him-”

“Oh, don’t even go there, Jack!” Annabelle let out a sound of frustration and threw her hands up. She turned away from him and pinched the bridge of her nose. Jack didn’t say anything else, but then, he didn’t have to. Annabelle knew he was right. Even if Jack didn’t really care about Dylan Anderson, the truth was, Annabelle did. Jack had hit her where it hurt.

When she turned back around to face him, he was waiting expectantly, his hands on his hips, his blue eyes blazing. She sighed, but it came out shaky.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Jack. I might freak out on you mid-flight.”

He considered her words a moment and then sighed as well. “Not a problem, luv. I think I’ve got just the thing.” He offered her his hand, and she hesitantly took it, feeling as though she was tentatively taking the hand of the devil. He smiled a smile that didn’t help assuage that notion and then led her into the house.

When they closed the sliding glass door behind them and re-entered the kitchen, Annabelle was surprised to see Clara seated on the edge of the kitchen counter, her shoes propped up on one of the stools, Dylan seated across from her on the counter beside the fridge. Annabelle’s brow lifted.

Clara noticed the surprised expression. “All ri’?”

Annabelle blinked. “Umm…”

“She means, ‘hi, how are you, and why are you surprised to see that she suddenly appeared in the kitchen when the last time you saw her, she was getting into a fight with one of my men at the airport.”

Clara blinked, brows risen, and cocked her head to one side, her gaze flitting from her father to Annabelle. Annabelle smiled and blushed.

“Cor, da’, no need ta get narked. I get the point.” She turned to Annabelle again. “Sorry, Miss Drake.”

“Clara is familiar with this house and… unfortunately, with the little act she pulled in the terminal.”

“I was aces, yeah? Alex wasn’t too shabby either. Once we agreed to leave the airport, they let the cuffs off and Alex got us a ride. We drove around for a while to throw any taggers off and, then bob’s your uncle, here we are!” Clara smiled a brilliant, white smile and winked at Dylan, who tried to act cool about it but was very obviously blushing beneath his calm demeanor.

Jack didn’t say anything. Annabelle watched him carefully. There was a carnival of thought going on behind his shaded blue eyes.

“Right, then!” Clara jumped down from the counter and brushed her hands on the legs of her jeans. “I’m off to spend a penny.” She brushed past her father and Annabelle and headed through the living room, where a hallway led to a bathroom and two bedrooms beyond.

“Spend a penny?”

“Use the restroom.”

“Oh.” Annabelle ran a hand through her hair. And then she stopped. She’d been temporarily distracted from their previous conversation and the source of her extreme agitation, but it came crashing suddenly back as the thought of getting into a tin can with teensy wings and rocketing to 37,000 feet sent a horrible chill down her spine and formed a tight knot in the pit of her stomach.

“Come with me, Bella.” Jack gently grabbed her by the upper arm and steered her through the living room, down the same hallway through which his daughter had just disappeared.

They moved to the last door on the left and Jack turned the knob. He led Annabelle inside and closed the door behind them. Then he released her and moved to the black bag that sat at the edge of the bed. He leaned over, unzipped it, and pulled a small black bottle from an interior pocket. He turned to face her.

Annabelle watched as he opened the bottle and shook a pill out into the cap. It was small, round, and white, with a single line down its center. To Annabelle, it looked like an aspirin. And felt like something much more sinister.

“Drugs, Jack? I didn’t think you were a fan.”

His eyebrow shot up and the corners of his mouth curled up slightly. “I’m not, luv. These aren’t for me.”

Annabelle’s brow furrowed. And then she straightened. “Oh…” She looked from him to the pills in his hand and, at once, recognized them for what they were.

Murder weapons.

“You want me to take something that you were planning on using on one of your marks, Jack?” Again, her hands were on her hips. They seemed to have taken up residence there. “Poison?” Her expression was incredulous.

“I never use poison, Bella. That’s far too obvious. Only an amateur would consider it.” He shook his head. “Stick with the basics and no one so much as bats an eye.” He moved toward her, took her hand, and opened it palm-up. “This is a mild tranquilizer. It’ll get you on the plane.”

Annabelle stared down at the pill in her hand. The world spun around her. Jack Thane was giving her drugs. It was, honestly, the very last thing she would have expected from him. He didn’t even so much as drink. He was a clean string bean.

“Nope.” She shook her head once and made to hand the pill back to him. But he didn’t take it.

“In less than three hours, we’ll be boarding a private jet at a private landing strip,” he told her, his tone dropping into a more serious note. “At that time, our little group will consist of myself, Dylan, whose parents were the target in this cover-up, Cassie, who has useful knowledge in the pharmaceutical arena, and you, Bella, who are at the center of this entire mystery, whether you like it or not.” He took a deep breath and continued. “I need you to be ready and willing and able to help. None of which will you be if you are too busy dreaming up all of the wonderfully imaginative ways in which a plane might crash and its occupants might expire.” There was more than the smallest note of sarcasm lacing his deep, British accent.

Annabelle’s gaze narrowed. She glanced down at the pill and then back up at him. “Who’s going to be flying the plane?”

“An old mate of mine who actually owns the plane.”

“And exactly how old is this mate of yours? Scratch that – actually,” she shifted her stance onto her other hip, a thoughtful expression joining the one of doubt that had already occupied her face. “I’m guessing you’re referring to Sam, so I already know. How old is the plane?”

“The plane is new,” Jack answered calmly. “And Sam has been flying for the better part of thirty years.”

Bella stared up at him for several long moments. She slowly closed her fingers over the pill in her palm and then sighed. “I’ll think about it. In the meantime, we’d better check on Beatrice – and I want to give Trinity a call to make sure she and that guy you sent her and the twins off with got to the safe house all right.”

Jack followed her out of the bedroom without saying anything more, for the moment. His mind was moving at a thousand RPM’s and showed no signs of slowing any time soon. Fear coursed through his veins in unfamiliar territory. He didn’t like fear. It made people do strange things – unplanned things – and messed up their ability to reason logically. It had been a while since Jack had experienced it. The real stuff, anyway. A few worries and your mandatory concern here and there – but not fear. Real, live dread.

And it wasn’t a plane ride that had him on edge.

He watched as Annabelle moved down the hallway toward the living room and kitchen and the phone that hung on the wall between the two. He didn’t fail to notice when she covertly snuck the pill he’d given her into her jeans’ front pocket. He smiled grimly. The next few days were going to be hell on wheels.

“Mr. Thane,” Alex intercepted them as they entered the living room. He was holding what looked like a walkie-talkie in his right hand and a gun, un-holstered and loaded, in his left. The gun was easy at his side, pointed toward the floor. The radio, he held out toward Jack.

Alex was left-handed. Annabelle always noticed things like that.

Jack took the walkie-talkie that Alex handed him and clicked a button on its side. “Go.” He said, and released the button.

“We have a touch-down. Give him a few to re-fuel and run some checks and you guys can head on over.”

“Fine.” Jack clicked and un-clicked the button one last time and handed the radio back to Alex, who waited patiently for instruction.

“Wake up Cassie and find my daughter. Tell them to gather whatever they think they’ll need from the stores in the basement. We’ll move out within the hour.”

Alex nodded and Annabelle watched him leave the room. Her stomach leapt up into her throat. She thought about the pill in her pocket. Jack’s voice cut through her thoughts.

“Join me for a cup of tea, Bella.”

She turned to watch him move around her and into the kitchen, where he began pulling containers and mugs from the cupboards. He filled a tea kettle with water from the tap and placed it atop the stove. It was a very old-fashioned way of making tea, to her mind. She had practically married her microwave over the last five years. Her stove would be obsolete if she didn’t love spaghetti so much.

“Tea? If you weren’t British, I’d think you were pulling my leg.”

Jack smiled. “Chamomile,” he said as he held up a tea bag for her perusal. “It calms the nerves.”

She shook her head. A professional killer touting the benefits of homeopathic tea remedies? Her smile matched his own. “I’m allergic to ragweed. Isn’t chamomile a relative?” She teased.

Jack’s smile broadened. “Just have the tea, luv. And you can take the time to tell me more about the clue you unearthed in the car.”

Annabelle shrugged. “Well, you heard all there really is to tell.” As she thought about the clue that she and her companions had riddled out in the back of the limo, she also thought of Max. And then came the familiar and unwelcome tightening in her chest.

She tried to ignore it by continuing to talk.

“The letters and spaces were a name and location. The name, Craig Brandt, isn’t one I’m familiar with. I don’t recall Max ever mentioning him, but then he probably wouldn’t. My guess is that it was someone his wife knew. Teresa.”

Jack nodded, listening quietly. The tea kettle began to whistle. Jack turned off the stove and poured the boiling liquid over the tea bags in two mugs. Annabelle went on.

“Columbia Medical was most likely where Teresa went to medical school. I can’t ask Max… obviously…” She paused and cleared her throat. Jack turned to watch her carefully. “But I seem to recall him mentioning at some point that he used to live in or around the Big Apple. Dylan was probably too young, at that time, to remember much of any detail, but he didn’t seem to object to the idea of his mom being associated with Columbia.” She paused and considered something. “There may be records at their house. Which, of course, is now off-limits.” She shrugged. “The school, at least, should have her academic record, at any rate.”

She stopped and cleared her throat again and then reached for the mug she chose as hers before Jack could hand it to her. It had an owl on it. She liked owls.

She took the mug and then also pulled out two of the five tea bags from the pot and dumped them into her own cup. She wanted them to seep an extra long time.

“Do you have soy creamer?” she asked as she opened the refrigerator.

“Yes. In the top shelf of the door.”

Annabelle found the small container of unsweetened creamer and closed the fridge door. She gave the carton a good shake and then screwed off the top, pouring its white, creamy contents right on top of her tea bags. She grabbed the tea bags by their strings and pumped them up and down, mixing the creamer into the tea, before pulling the bags out entirely and tossing them into the trash.

“Pull that in England and the queen will see you drawn and quartered,” Jack said, his tone softly teasing.

“I’m an American, Jack. We’re all savages.”

Jack chuckled and held his mug out to her. “To your health, luv.”

Annabelle clinked his mug with hers and then took a sip of the milky tea. It was warm and soothing and even though chamomile wasn’t her first choice of teas and definitely not the one she’d have chosen for an accompaniment to soy creamer, she had to admit that, from the first sip, it seemed to settle her nerves a little.

She swallowed a few hot gulps and then continued where she’d left off. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it since our brief stop at the airport. My guess is that Teresa stumbled upon something while in New York. Maybe this Brandt guy knows about it too. Maybe they were even partners or something. But whatever it was she discovered or overheard or figured out – got her killed.”

And Max, came the silent thought that followed.

Jack took another sip of his tea and mulled that over. He’d been thinking along the same lines.

“You make enough for all of us, da’?”

Jack and Annabelle turned as Clara walked into the kitchen, closely followed by Cassie, Dylan and Alex. Now the whole group was together. Except for Beatrice, whom Annabelle guessed was still sleeping off the effects of one too many diminutive, over-priced bottles of airplane liquor.

“Of course, dear daughter,” Jack replied wryly. “I always consider everyone affected by each and every one of my actions.” His deep voice dripped of sarcasm, and in his British accent, it was nearly taunting. “It would be selfish and inconsiderate of me to do otherwise.”

Annabelle’s brows rose, as did Cassie’s and even Alex’s. There was more than a little double meaning to Jack’s words, and the narrowed gaze that his daughter shot in his direction confirmed as much.

Clara gave the pot a sniff and wrinkled her nose. “Chamomile. Not my cup o’ tea.”

“I’ll take some,” Cassie interjected, brushing past everyone to move to the cupboard where she’d correctly guessed that the coffee mugs would be located. She pulled one down and turned to face the others.

“So, when do we leave?” She asked as she lifted the pot off of the stove and poured a good helping into her mug.

“Soon,” Annabelle answered, opening the fridge to get the creamer for her friend.

“Wow. Tea on the stove. Quaint but cool.” Cassie returned the pot to its place and took the creamer from Annabelle with a nod of thanks.

“Microwave your tea in England and the queen will have you drawn and quartered,” Annabelle offered, smiling softly.

Jack shook his head once and put his empty mug in the sink. When he turned and made to leave the kitchen, everyone stepped back, affording him the room. Annabelle wondered at their actions. It was amazing to her how some people simply commanded the area around them, demanding a certain amount of deference and space.

When he was gone, Alex opened the fridge, took out a can of soda, and followed his employer out of the kitchen. Dylan followed, wearing a distracted expression and leaving Annabelle, Clara and Cassie behind in the kitchen.

“So, what’s the deal, Clara? Did you seriously just decide to visit, on a whim, and now was the best time?” Annabelle asked, pinning the teenager with a hard gaze. She’d had some time to consider Clara’s actions and, while on the face of them, they might appear to be the normal rebellious and spontaneous actions of a teenage British girl who hadn’t seen the states and needed an excuse to do so, the truth was, the timing was a little too off on all fronts.

Clara would still be in school in England. If Annabelle was at all familiar with the academic systems in Jack’s territory, then Clara was finished with her required, or as they termed it, her “compulsory” education, but just like in the states, education didn’t stop there. Clara would have begun college or would currently be stuck right smack in the middle of what the British termed “sixth form college”. Annabelle likened it to community college or maybe even finishing school. But whether she was in sixth form or had already begun at some University in England, this time of year would be testing time. So, for Clara, now was literally the worst time to be absent from her classes.

Clara narrowed her gaze on Annabelle and leaned casually up against the counter. She chewed on her cheek for a moment, perhaps wondering whether or not she should bother explaining herself to the woman in front of her.

“You know, I was sort of wondering the same thing,” Cassie said softly before she took another sip of her tea, eyeing the girl over the rim of her steaming mug.

Clara snorted and then straightened. Then she tossed a long lock of her jet-black dyed hair over her shoulder and brushed past the two of them to exit the kitchen.

When she was gone, Annabelle and Cassie looked at each other. They shrugged simultaneously and returned to their teas.

Chapter Twelve

“You’re wearing a hole in that carpet, hon’,” Cassie sighed and sat back against the couch as she watched her friend pace back and forth in front of all of them.

“How long is the flight again, Jack?” Annabelle asked, running a hand nervously through her long hair. She turned at the end of the small living room space and walked hurriedly in the opposite direction. Again.

Jack tried not to grit his teeth when he answered, for the third time in the last hour, “Approximately two hours, luv.” He, too, sighed and sat back against into the love seat across from Cassie and Dylan. “And seventeen minutes, give or take.”

“Thanks for that, Mr. Spock,” Clara shot him an aggrieved look.

Jack shrugged, eyebrows lifted. His daughter, who was seated in a love seat adjacent to the couch, only smiled in response.

“Miss Drake, the flight will be over before you know it. It’s like – take off, level out, get a drink, and then land. Or, at least that’s what it’s like when you fly commercial,” Dylan told her. His voice was soft and his tone somewhat deadened, but his words were meant to comfort. And, coming from him, at this point in time, that was something that Annabelle could appreciate.

She stopped pacing and turned to face him. “Are you sure, Dylan? Because that chamomile tea was nice at first,” she shot a look at Jack and then looked back at Dylan. “But it sure as hell didn’t last all that long.” Her own voice shook a little and it was obvious that she was so distracted by her own fear, she’d given up on social niceties hours ago.

“I’m sure, Miss Drake,” Dylan straightened a little, now that he felt he’d actually said or done something useful toward the situation. “We can play cards. Your pick. I’ll even try to win this time.” He smiled a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and stood.

Annabelle blinked. “Okay.” She chewed on her lip and forbade herself from resuming her nervous back and forth stride.

“I’ll find a pack,” Dylan told her and then turned to Jack, who was watching the exchange with quiet interest.

“In the kitchen,” Jack said, before Dylan could ask. “First drawer on the left.”

Dylan nodded and left.

Jack didn’t fail to notice that his daughter watched Dylan go, a strange expression on her pretty face. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

He re-focused his attention on Annabelle, before he could give the matter too much thought. Annabelle’s temporary sanity didn’t fool him one bit. Her posture was rigid with tension, her hands were gripped tightly in front of her, and he knew her too well. He stood and closed the space between them in two long strides. She watched him with large eyes.

He bent and whispered in her ear. “You’re still terrified, aren’t you, luv.”

She let out a shaking breath with a whoosh and nodded, closing her eyes.

“Blimey… My head’s pounding like a bung-load of African drums…”

Annabelle and Jack both turned to see Beatrice emerging from the hallway that led to the room where she’d been sleeping for the past two hours.

“Mum, how are you feeling?” Clara stood and approached her mother, concern across her young features. Annabelle was instantly struck with the dichotomy of how she acted toward each parent.

“I need an aspirin,” Beatrice said softly, as if speaking to Clara alone. Clara nodded and turned away, heading toward her own black backpack, which she’d draped over the arm of one of the chairs at the kitchen table. While she was gone, Beatrice took a moment to eye the living room’s occupants.

Dylan had returned with the deck of cards and had already placed them inside his jacket pocket and re-claimed his end of the couch. Cassie sat back against the other end of the couch, more or less quiet, but watchful. She met Beatrice’s gaze head-on. Annabelle and Jack, of course, stood in the center of the room, watching her as well. No one spoke.

“Well, Jack,” Beatrice sighed and claimed her ex-husband’s abandoned love seat. “I suppose you’d best go on and explain this mess to all of us now – that is, unless everyone else has already been de-briefed and I’m the only one still in the dark.”

“No, actually,” Dylan said then, turning his attention to Jack, “I’d kind of like to know what’s going on as well. Mr. Thane?”

Jack met the boy’s gaze. Dylan’s expression was hard and unyielding. Annabelle was momentarily distracted from her fear of the upcoming flight by Dylan’s strange behavior. What did he mean by asking Jack to explain the situation? Didn’t Dylan know, as well as Jack did, what was going on? This whole mess was centered around his own parents, after all.

Her brow furrowed.

“What do you mean, Dylan?” she asked softly.

“Oh, you know…” Dylan shifted and shrugged, his expression going from hard to feigned puzzlement in a second flat. He held his hands up at his side. “I guess I was just wondering about a few things,” he continued. “Like, why a quote-unquote business man who dealt in real-estate would need a secret passageway in his apartment complex and what looks like spy gear in his closet.” He settled his green eyes on Jack again. Jack didn’t move a muscle.

Dylan didn’t stop there. He went on, “and why he has a black bag full of black-ops-issue weapons on the bed in the other room.”

So, Dylan had gone exploring.

“And why he seems to have something like a dozen different men, all wearing black, working for him.” Dylan was on some sort of role now and the occupants of the house had grown unnaturally still and quiet. The air was thick with tension as Dylan continued.

“I wonder, Mr. Thane, what kind of business, exactly, it is that you do that would require no fewer than three safe houses in and around the Twin Cities area. I also found the wired limousine a little odd…” he smiled a grim smile at Jack’s raised brow. “Yes, I noticed the devices, though you tried to hide them well. I’ve read a lot of science fiction novels, Mr. Thane. I could recognize stuff a lot more sophisticated than that. And I know enough to recognize that a real-estate mogul would have no need of it.”

Annabelle’s mouth had gone dry. Her feet felt numb, her legs weak. She had, by this time, entirely forgotten about the flight to New York. She had much more immediate concerns to deal with, such as the health and well-being of everyone in the room – especially Dylan Anderson.

She could feel the presence of Jack Thane at her back like a weight, tall and dark and heavy. She found it hard to breathe.

And then Jack’s cell phone rang. No one moved, not even Jack. The air between him and Dylan felt positively charged. It almost crackled.

“Saved by the bell, Mr. Thane.” Dylan said.

Jack very slowly pulled the cell out of his inside jacket pocket and flipped it open. Amidst dead silence in the room, he spoke into the receiver.

“Thane.”

Dylan smiled smugly. But there was something dark in the teenager’s eyes.

Jack’s gaze never left his as he said, “Good. We’ll be there in fifteen.”

Desperate to diffuse the situation, Annabelle turned to face him. “Was that Sam?”

Jack hesitantly took his eyes off of Dylan to look down at her. His expression was deadpan, his blue-eyed gaze impenetrable. “Yes.”

He turned to everyone else. “Get your things. We’re heading out.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in for everyone, the last few minutes had been so intense. But, eventually, Clara stood and moved toward the hallway, walking past Dylan as she did so. Annabelle didn’t miss the dirty look she shot the kid. Dylan’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

Beatrice was the next to rise. She did so slowly, but steadily. Without a word, or a look at any of them, she followed her daughter down the hallway and to whatever room Clara had disappeared into.

Cassie got up next and, in an act that Annabelle considered infinitely wise, she moved to Dylan, took him gently by the upper arm, and pulled him off of the couch.

“Come on, Icarus. You can help me make sure we have everything we need for the trip.” Cassie forcefully turned Dylan around, who went willingly, though reluctantly, and marched him down the hallway, leaving Jack and Annabelle alone in the living room.

Annabelle looked up into Jack’s face. He wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“Jack, he’s just a boy.”

Jack looked at her then and his blue eyes glittered eerily in the lamplight. For what seemed like a long time, he didn’t speak. And then, softly, he said, “I know, luv.” His tone was strange. It wasn’t one she recognized.

“Get your things,” he told her then. “We have to meet Sam in ten.” He stepped around her, turning his back to her and leaving the room to move down the hall toward the last door on the left. Annabelle hugged herself. She felt cold, despite the warm central air and the fire in the hearth.

They were getting closer and Annabelle could feel it in her bones. It was like this deep buzzing sensation, riding up her legs and into her spine, causing her whole body to tremble and scattering her thoughts like bouncy balls in a mirrored room. Her teeth chattered behind her lips and her jaws ached from pressing them together in the vain hopes of making them stop.

Jack took one look in the rear-view mirror of the van they now rode in and shook his head. “You should have taken my advice, Bella.”

Annabelle shot him a dirty look. She knew he was right. She should have taken the pill he’d offered her. She was terrified to the point that it was painful. A tranquilizer would have helped. But a part of her was also afraid of being out of it or incapable of defending herself or Dylan if something happened. If they were attacked – if another pizza boy assassin came out of the woodwork while she was in a happy haze.

She just didn’t like the idea of being out of control. Not right now.

Jack pulled the van into an empty paved lot in the middle of nowhere. A few yards away, sitting alone on a vast black tarmac, waited a private white jet with blue and gold striping down its side.

Annabelle had no idea what kind of plane it was or how old it was. They all looked the same to her. One metal-winged death machine was the same as another.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God…” She muttered under her breath. Stars started to swim in her vision. Air was having a difficult time finding its way to her lungs. She bent over in her seat and hugged her knees, closing her eyes. “I can’t do this.”

“Jesus, Ann, you’re gonna pass out anyway. You should have taken the drugs. At least it would have been pleasant for you.” Cassie unbuckled her seat belt and knelt beside Annabelle. She patted Annabelle’s back as she spoke. “At this point, the only thing that would hit your system fast enough for it to do any good for the flight would be an injection.”

Annabelle’s back stiffened under her touch.

“Yeah, I know. I don’t have a syringe full of it anyway.” Cassie sighed.

“I do.” Jack’s voice cut through their conversation like a hot knife through butter. Annabelle sat up immediately, her face having gone utterly pale, her eyes as wide as saucers. Jack had opened the side door of the van and was waiting in the beckoning darkness.

At Annabelle’s reaction, he held up a hand in placation. “Easy, Bella. No one’s making you do anything.”

“Except get on the plane,” Dylan stated. He stood just outside of the van now, hands in his pockets. He’d exited through the back. Clara stood beside him, watching the exchange inside the van.

“Thank you once again, Dylan.” Cassie told the boy, her brown eyes narrowed into warning slits. Jack ignored him, his attention focused on Annabelle, who seemed to be hyperventilating.

“Well, well,” came a deep voice from behind Jack. Jack turned to watch a tall figure move toward him through the darkness between them and the plane. “Traveling with a goddamned circus now, are we, Jack?”

“Sam,” Jack said and turned to face him. A smile spread across his features, despite the situation. It’d been too long since he’d last seen Samuel Price. And yet, it seemed like only yesterday.

Samuel stepped into the beam of the van’s headlights and Jack got a good look at him. He hadn’t aged a day in fifteen years. And yet, he was fifty-five. How had he managed that?

His hair had grayed more, Jack supposed. Going from silver at the temples to nearly a full head of white. But his skin was as tan and clear as ever and his body looked as strong as it had the day they’d met.

“It’s good to see you, Jack,” Sam said then, his tone softer, his gray eyes twinkling. He smiled, flashing straight white teeth.

Jack moved toward him, shaking his head. “Likewise, you old bugger.” He closed the distance between them and the two hugged.

Annabelle watched, mystified. She was once more distracted from her fear of the inevitable flight and was instead focused on this new man. Samuel Price.

She’d heard Jack talk of him before. In passing. An occasional “Sam” here and there would pop in and out of his conversations. Late one night, he’d even told her all about him and given her a brief account on their history together. But now here he was – Jack’s mentor – the man who had taken Jack under his wing twenty-five years ago and made him into the assassin he was today.

She stood from her seat and climbed out of the van to join the others, all the while watching the stranger.

If Annabelle had had any previous inkling of what the man looked like, she would have been struck long ago with how fitting the name “Samuel” was for him. With his tall frame, silver hair, hard and handsome features and full mustache, he looked like Sam Elliott. Almost exactly.

Cripes, they could be twins.

And his accent had been southern. Maybe even Texas. What are the odds of that? Did everyone from Texas look the same?

“Sam, thank you for this.”

“Forget it,” Sam answered as they separated. “Now give me the run-down.”

Jack turned to Dylan and fixed him with a hard gaze.

“This the kid?” Sam asked, obviously recognizing Jack’s expression for what it was.

Jack nodded and then looked away from Dylan, who seemed rather bewildered by the strange exchange.

“This is my daughter, Clara.” Jack gestured to his daughter, who nodded once in greeting.

Sam did the same, his smile steady.

“Cassie Reid,” Jack nodded toward Cassie.

“You remember Beatrice,” Jack said, gesturing toward his ex-wife. Sam’s smile broadened and he came forward to take Beatrice’s hand, kissing the back of it as if in a scene straight out of a period movie. “You bet your nuts I do,” he said softly, grinning ear to ear.

Beatrice returned the smile, but shook her head reprimandingly. “You ‘aven’t changed a whit, Mr. Price.”

Annabelle noticed that she wasn’t all that quick to withdraw her hand.

“Why thank you, darlin’. I ‘preciate that.”

“And this is Annabelle Drake.”

Samuel straightened and turned to face Annabelle. His gaze was steady, his gray eyes pinning her to the spot with some strange kind of intensity.

“My, my,” he said as he came forward. Annabelle noticed that Jack moved with him. “The lovely Annabelle. It is a pleasure, Miss Drake.” He bowed slightly, as a knight would to a lady, and winked.

What was the wink for?

“Okay, Jack, load ‘em up.” Sam turned then, all business again, and issued the order to his friend.

Jack nodded. “Everyone to the plane.”

No one had to be told twice. Except Annabelle. Who didn’t move a muscle.

Jack was un-phased by this. He’d fully expected it. Without another word on the matter, he strode toward her and then bent and, in one clean, swift movement, picked her up into his arms.

“What-”

“We have to go, Bella.”

“Jack, put me down!”

“Not bloody likely.”

From where he stood beside the plane, making what Annabelle assumed were pre-flight checks on plane parts that she knew nothing about, Sam watched Jack carry Annabelle toward the plane. He shook his head. Annabelle didn’t care.

At twenty feet, she choked on a sob and tucked her face into his neck. “If the plane goes down, will you knock me out so that I don’t have to feel the fall?”

“I promise, luv.”

“Okay.” She said nothing further.

With that, he climbed the stairs and ducked into the plane’s interior, making sure to pull Annabelle’s head in at the same time.

Chapter Thirteen

Jack ducked into the cockpit of the plane and took the co-pilot’s seat, buckling in as he did so, out of habit. Sam glanced over at him from where he sat in the pilot’s seat, and then turned his attention back to the controls.

“So, you wanna fill me in on why I had to drag myself and Betsy half-way across the Northern American continent to take you and a boat-load of kids to New York City?” Sam’s voice was calm, his tone even, but there was more than a touch of lighthearted sarcasm lacing his words.

Jack’s brow furrowed. “Betsy?”

Sam shot him an incredulous look. “Betsy! Betsy Ross, here!” He patted the control panel of the plane affectionately. Jack smiled.

“Of course.”

“Well?” Sam urged.

“It’s a long story, Sam. And the truth is, I’m not that clear on everything myself.”

“It’s a two-hour flight. Get talkin’.”

Jack chuckled. “Very well.” He paused, forming his words carefully in his mind before he continued. “You met Annabelle.”

Sam gave a low whistle. “Yes, sir.” He shot Jack a wicked grin. “Sweet thing you got there. An’ she’s stuck with you for almost ten years?” At Jack’s nod, Sam shook his head in wonder. “That’s a hell of a lot longer than Bee.”

Again, Jack nodded.

“Her boss was murdered yesterday.”

Sam’s gaze remained locked on the controls, but his brow was furrowed. He was thinking. Jack let the silence stretch. And then, quietly, Sam said, “Was that the Anderson fellow?”

Jack nodded. “You know of the job, then.”

“Was offered to an acquaintance of mine,” he turned to look at Jack then. “Who turned it down, by the way. Bad timing or some such nonsense. I’m not sure who eventually took the assignment.”

“An amateur,” Jack supplied. “Botched it. Even the cops are suspicious.”

Again, Sam whistled, this time shaking his head. “Not good.” He paused then, cocking his head to look at Jack askance. “What’s this got to do with you and Miss Drake, Jack? She involved?”

“She is now.”

“An’ I s’pose that means that you are too.”

Jack didn’t bother answering. His look said it all. He was with Annabelle come hell or high water. Just as she’d always been with him.

“Fair ‘nough,” Sam said. “What’s so important in New York?”

“Max Anderson left a clue for Annabelle before he died. He knew his life was in danger. The clue points to Columbia University.”

Sam was quiet for a long while before, finally, he asked, “You gonna lead the cops to one of us, Jack?”

“No.” Jack’s answer was swift and firm. He knew that Sam would be wary about giving anything away to the police, so he wasn’t surprised that Sam asked the question. But for some reason, he was a little irritated by it.

The silence stretched between them for several minutes. At last, Sam sighed and leaned back, switching on the auto pilot. “From what I could tell, it didn’t look like Drake was all that thrilled to get on the plane. What are you doin’ up here if she’s a loose cannon back there?”

Jack smiled. “She sent me up here to make sure you weren’t drunk or asleep.”

Sam threw back his head and laughed deep and loud. “God damn!” he said, shaking his head again. “Good thing I left the JD at home this time around.”

“It’s no use,” Annabelle muttered as she laid down the twelfth losing hand in a row. “This isn’t working. Either Dylan’s playing with marked cards or I royally suck right now because I can’t bloody-well concentrate on anything but my impending death.” She sighed and ran a hand through her hair while Dylan gathered up the cards for another shuffle and deal. “Anyone got any alcohol?”

“No’ on me,” Clara chimed in with a helpless shrug.

“I might be able to scrounge somethin’ up, dear,” Beatrice offered, unbuckling her seat belt and rising from the plush leather seat where she’d been sitting next to her daughter. “Why don’t you and I head to the back an’ see what we can find?”

Annabelle glanced up at Beatrice, who smiled reassuringly. Eventually, she nodded and stood. She may as well give this a shot. At the very least, getting to know Jack’s ex-wife a little better might prove a welcome distraction.

They moved through the private jet’s luxe interior, walking, un-impeded and with plenty of room, between the large, plush leather chairs. They reached the back of the plane and turned a small corner to enter a tiny kitchenette, complete with microwave and refrigerator.

“Let’s see now…” Beatrice pulled her large blue hobo purse off of her shoulders and began fumbling around inside of it. “Ah, ‘ere we are.” When she withdrew her hand, it was clutching a half-full, apple-shaped bottle of Laird’s Applejack brandy. Annabelle’s eyes widened. She’d heard of this stuff. It was something like ten years old.

“This here’s left over from Christmas, it is,” she said as she took off the top and pulled a glass cup down from one of the skinny cupboards above them. “It’s twelve years old an’ pricey as a bugger, but to all good things, there is a season, right?”

Annabelle only smiled and took the glass that Beatrice handed her. The woman poured a good amount of the amber liquid into each glass and then re-capped it and slid it back into her purse. With that, she raised her glass.

Annabelle chinked her own softly against it and Beatrice nodded, immediately taking a long swig of the sweet digestif.

Annabelle watched her for a moment and then shrugged. It was time to join the party. She put the glass to her lips and took a big swallow.

The liquid slid across her tongue, stinging her throat all the way down and filling her mouth and nostrils with the smell of apples as if she were inhaling a heady perfume. She almost coughed. But, she managed to get the first too-large swallow down and amended the second sip to be much smaller.

Beatrice smiled at her, a new twinkle in the woman’s gorgeous, feline green eyes. “I never ‘ave liked flying much either, you know,” she said, her smile never wavering. “So, I always carry emergency stashes. ‘Course I don’t shit bricks over it like you do, but still, I can completely understand.”

Annabelle couldn’t help the smile that stole over her face. She could imagine that her own eyes held somewhat of a twinkle at that moment, and not all of it was due to the liquor.

“Now, dear, let me get a few things aired out with you, if you don’t mind,” Beatrice continued, as she extracted the bottle from her purse and poured herself another serving. “I ‘ave to admit that I ‘aven’t got much in the way of.. oh, say.. feelings for Jack any longer. He’s just too no-nonsense and goody-two-shoes for my liking. But ‘e’s a good man, nonetheless, and I want you to know that.”

Annabelle could only stare at Beatrice. Jack? Goody-two-shoes? Did Beatrice have any inkling of how far off the mark she was with that one?

“Oh, I know all about his little career choice, dear,” Beatrice leaned in close and whispered, her grin ear to ear. “Tha’s why I married ‘im, see?”

Annabelle’s jaw dropped open. “What?”

“For the fun of it, Annabelle!” Beatrice’s whisper had grown louder and Annabelle now glanced over her shoulder nervously. She peeked around the corner of the kitchenette to find that everyone was as they’d left them except that Dylan was now staring blankly out the window and Cassie was sound asleep.

She turned back to face Beatrice. “What career, exactly, are you talking about?” Annabelle asked, just to play it safe.

“Oh, you know, the little shooty-shooty.” She made the sign of a gun with her free hand. “Bang, bang, somebody’s dead.” She laughed, taking another swig of her drink. Annabelle watched her begin to rock very slowly from side to side.

Beatrice Hughes either had the metabolism of a rabbit or was a severe lightweight. Or both.

“So, you know,” Annabelle repeated, slowly. “What he does for a living.”

Beatrice’s eyes widened and her expression became incredulous. “A living? Posh! Dear, do you have any idea how many sovs that man makes, doing what ‘e does? It’s no small potatoes, I can assure you!”

Annabelle said nothing, deciding to allow Beatrice to do all of the talking. She took another small sip of her brandy.

Beatrice’s expression became serious then and she put her drink down, turning her full attention onto Annabelle. “But the sad truth is, Annabelle, I was young. It was the shrapnel I was after, in every sense of the word. I liked the danger and I loved the money. And I never really loved Jack.”

Annabelle put down her glass. “That’s why you divorced.”

“Aye. Just after Ian was born, I told Jack ‘ow I felt.” Beatrice’s gaze slid from Annabelle’s face to stare over her shoulder at some unseen place far away and long ago. “I can remember the look on ‘is face. Jack nodded, see, and said ‘e felt the same. The divorce was finalized in two days flat.”

“What about Clara and Ian?” Annabelle asked, her tone soft, in deference to the subject matter. She was filled with curiosity. She really wanted to know more about this stage in Jack’s life.

“Jack was content to leave them with me. We’ve always known that it was risky bringing children into his world. But we loved Clara so much and then… Ian just happened.” Beatrice shrugged and picked her glass back up, finishing off its contents in one swallow. “I was on two forms of birth control at the time, too…”

She put the drink down and turned back to Annabelle. “He said ‘e’d come back whenever ‘e could to see the kids. An’ ‘e does, more or less, but they still miss ‘im.”

Annabelle felt cold, suddenly. She hugged herself and felt goose bumps lining her arms. She imagined Jack’s kids and how much they would need their father. She imagined how much Jack must need them. But he lived here, in the states, and even if he lived in England, could he ever really be with them as much as he wanted to? Would his past follow him around? Catch up to him?

Threaten his family?

“I don’t think Jack ‘as ever really loved anyone but you, Annabelle.”

Annabelle blinked. The sudden change of subject and its directness was nothing short of shocking. “Pardon?”

“Oh, please,” Beatrice had come out of her memory stupor now and was smiling again. She took the opportunity to wink at Annabelle, nudging her in the arm. “You don’t think I ‘aven’t been able to wheedle enough info out of him over the years that I know all about you now, do you?”

“He talks about me to you?”

“Why, of course, dear!” She gave Annabelle a slightly reproachful look. “I am a woman, you know. An’ I can tell certain things. That man’s been in love for nigh on ten years now. Since he met you.”

“But he’s married two other women.”

Beatrice’s brow furrowed then and she blinked. Then her eyes got wide and her mouth formed a perfect “O”. “You mean you don’t know what’s really going on with those –”

A shadow fell over them and Beatrice looked up. She immediately blanched, an expression of guilt and a touch of fear crossing her pretty features.

Annabelle spun around to find Jack towering over them, an unreadable expression on his handsome face. His blue eyes burned bright as he gazed down at Beatrice. And then the gaze slid to Annabelle and she felt the full weight of it. She swallowed.

Had they done something wrong?

“Beatrice, please take your seat. We will be landing soon.”

Beatrice nodded once and immediately slid past the two of them to disappear around the corner. Annabelle stayed where she was. Not because she wanted to. But, because Jack blocked the exit.

He watched her in silence for several long moments, taking in the glass in her hands and the glitter in her eyes and probably a million other things that Annabelle wasn’t aware of because she wasn’t a professional killer.

Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer. “What is it, Jack? What did we do wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong, Bella.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, what did Beatrice do wrong?”

At this, the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. “Don’t get me started on that one, luv.”

Annabelle’s gaze narrowed. He was going to play games? Okay. Fine. She could play too. “What was Beatrice about to tell me with regards to your other wives, Jack?”

Jack’s smile disappeared.

And then the plane bucked under them and Annabelle’s glass slipped from her hands to shatter at her feet. She cried out in surprise as she was thrown off balance and her boot slipped on the now wet floor. She would have gone down if Jack hadn’t caught her.

Samuel Price’s voice sounded overhead, through the intercom system. “Sorry people – just some warm air playin’ with Betsy. We’re comin’ in for a landing, so get to yer seats and best buckle up.”

Annabelle’s heart was racing painfully in her chest. “No, Sam! No warm air! No turbulence what so ever! Do you hear me!” She screamed at the unseen intercom system, unable to hold her fear in check.

Jack helped her around the spilled brandy and out of the kitchenette. His grip on her arms was tight. He could feel her muscles bunching up under his grasp. She was going into terror mode.

“Annabelle, calm down. Sit here.” He lead her to the closest seat and sat her down, somewhat forcefully, because she wouldn’t sit at first. He could tell that she would have much preferred to run. To bolt at any second and make a mad dash for the door. Which would be very bad.

He kept his hand on her shoulder, effectively holding her down. “Buckle the seat belt, Bella.”

Annabelle didn’t hear him. She couldn’t. The plane bucked again and all of the breath left her lungs. Stars swam in her vision. She felt nauseated.

Jack knelt beside her and buckled her in himself. Though she didn’t try to leap out of the chair and sprint away as he was doing so, she sat stiff as a board, rigid from head to toe with mind-altering fear.

“Bella, look at me.”

She didn’t, of course. He’d come prepared for the worst of all possible eventualities as far as her fear of flying was concerned. That was why he had the syringe filled with tranquilizer waiting in his jacket’s breast pocket. But he didn’t want it to come to that. She wouldn’t easily forgive him – if ever – for sticking a needle into her arm. And, it wouldn’t be an easy task to accomplish anyhow. Annabelle wasn’t a weak woman.

It would be much, much better for everyone if she would just calm down and listen to him.

“We’re going to die,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence between them.

“No we’re not,” he told her firmly. He took her chin in his hand and forced her to look into his eyes. It wasn’t as easy as he would have preferred. “We’re not going to die, Bella. Not on this plane, anyhow. Sam is landing right now.”

“You’d better get in your seat, da’,” Clara told him as they could all hear the landing gear being dropped.

Annabelle pulled her face out of his grip and began to chew on her lip. She squeezed the ends of the arm rests, digging her nails into the leather. “Sit down, Jack,” she told him, gritting her teeth as she spoke.

Jack blinked. Had she just given him an order, despite her current state?

She looked up at him, her almond eyes shooting daggers. “Sit the hell down, Jack!” she yelled at him and he found himself automatically moving to the nearest seat.

Jack sat down just as the wheels touched the runway and Sam put on the breaks. If he hadn’t been sitting, the force of the stop might have thrown him down the aisle.

The plane slowed and Sam pulled it around to park it parallel with another waiting limousine.

Annabelle stared out the window at the waiting car. The sun was coming up on the horizon. To her, it seemed like the loneliest thing in the world – a nearly empty tarmac in the early morning light. It was like John Denver’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane”, put into a picture. And she was so, so tired…

Still, she wasn’t so tired that she wasn’t the first one off of the plane when they were able to disembark. She stepped down from the last stair and then turned and looked up at the plane she’d just exited. From where she stood, at that moment, she could admire its streamlined splendor and giant engines and even the stout-looking wings.

Planes were so much more beautiful when she didn’t have to be on them.

“Okay, let’s get the hell off of this air strip,” she told Jack in a low whisper. He smiled and led them to the limousine, holding the doors open for them as they climbed in.

Sam came down the plane’s stairs and strode to Jack, who closed the door he’d been holding open and turned to face him.

“You coming?” he asked.

“No, you know me,” Sam smiled. “I never ride in cages. And, besides,” he added, “I need to run some checks on Betsy. Where ya headed?”

“Forest Hills.”

It was roughly a forty to fifty mile drive from Monticello, where they’d landed.

Sam nodded. “I’ll catch up with you later. In the meantime, get some grub goin’, will you?”

Jack chuckled. “Fine. If you’re late, you’re eating it cold.”

Chapter Fourteen

During the ride South through New York, the inhabitants of the limousine more or less kept to themselves and gazed out the windows. It was May in New York state and the snow was melted, trees were beginning to green again and a few hearty, stubborn flowers were beginning to bloom. At some point, Jack turned on the radio, which carried through the car’s interior over a high-tech stereo system.

Apparently, it was going to reach sixty-five degrees later that day and then shoot down into the upper forties over night.

“Have you ever been to New York before, Dylan?” Cassie suddenly asked, breaking the silence. Dylan turned to face her, yanked from what Annabelle figured were probably none-too-comfortable thoughts.

“One Christmas, when I was five. We came to see the tree at Rockefeller Center.” He paused, swallowed, and then turned to gaze out the window again. “It was my mom’s last Christmas.”

Cassie’s eyes widened. She turned to Annabelle, a helpless look on her face. Annabelle gave her a sympathetic shrug and a slight smile. It wasn’t Cassie’s fault. She was only trying to be nice. Annabelle guessed that any topic at all, at this point, would most likely remind Dylan of his parents in some way.

“I think someone’s following us,” Clara suddenly stated.

Annabelle turned to her. The girl gestured out the back window and Annabelle followed her gaze. “See the red Altima?”

Annabelle nodded.

“Three blocks back, it traded with a silver Azera. A few blocks before that, I noticed a blue Toyota SUV. Might have been one of the new highlanders. They all had black tinted windows.”

Annabelle watched the red Altima. It was true that the windows were too dark to see through. Her heart began beating faster.

That was how they really did it. Not like it was in the movies. One car didn’t follow a few cars behind you the whole way. No. A child would notice such a thing these days. What a tail actually did was switch off. They were all linked via radio. One car would follow for a while, trading places with another later on. This made a tail virtually undetectable, unless you knew what to look for.

And, apparently, Clara did. Her father taught her well. Annabelle wasn’t sure whether to be happy for her or to feel pointedly sorry for her.

“Jack, you catch that?” Annabelle asked, raising her voice for the benefit of the intercom system.

“I’m way ahead of you, luv. Nice going, Clara.”

There was a pause in his speech, at which point Beatrice patted her daughter’s cheek proudly. And then Jack continued. “Before the highlander, it was a black Impala. And I believe that took the place of a silver Taurus.”

“Wow, they really made sure to mix up their brands, didn’t they?” Dylan sat forward, his hands on his legs, his expression now distinctly nervous. “What do they want?”

Clara shrugged. Cassie couldn’t answer. Everyone looked at Annabelle.

She took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. Even Jack deigned to come to her rescue, as the intercom remained annoyingly silent. “Most likely, they’re after the clue that your father left behind, Dylan. They want to know where we’re going – that we’re looking for Craig Brandt at Columbia University.”

“Who are they?” was his next question.

“I don’t know,” she answered.

“I do.” Jack said.

Everyone looked toward the front of the car, even though a barrier separated them and the man in the driver’s seat. There was another stretch of silence.

“Of course!” Clara suddenly stated excitedly. “They’re hit men. Only hit men would know to follow this pattern.” She chewed on her lip, her cheeks flushing pink. “But who hired them – that’s the question.”

“Jack?” Annabelle prompted.

“Sorry, Bella. I haven’t got an answer for that one.”

“What are we going to do?” She wanted to know next.

“Try to lose them.”

“In a limo?” Dylan asked incredulously. “Is he serious?”

“He’s got a point, Jack. We haven’t got much of a chance.”

To that, Jack didn’t reply. And the inhabitants of the car fell into an uneasy silence. Dylan’s eyes were wide. Clara sat on the edge of the seat. Beatrice clutched the “oh shit” bar above the car’s back windows. Annabelle chewed her lip and looked toward the front of the car. Jack wasn’t speeding up and he wasn’t making any particularly difficult maneuvers or abrupt turns. So, what was he doing? What was the plan?

They kept driving, coming to a slow as they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and entered Manhattan’s major populated area. Yellow taxi’s dominated the streets, criss-crossing lanes with what seemed like reckless abandon but was actually practiced expertise.

“The Altima just changed lanes.” Annabelle said.

“Getting ready for another switch. It’s a long drive for an effective tail.” Even through the slightly metallic filters of the stereo system, Jack’s British accent and calm, confident tone gave Annabelle comfort.

“And there’s the black BMW. Bit of an obvious choice, don’t you think?” Clara stated, with a shake of her head.

Annabelle nodded. A black BMW had taken the place of the red Altima. It was a bold move. Everyone noticed a jet-black BMW with black tinted windows. Especially one as shiny and new as that one. But then again, in New York City, they were literally everywhere. It was a frequent and utterly commonplace sight. To the unsuspecting and ignorant mark, a black BMW that suddenly appeared and then disappeared just as quickly would raise no suspicion. And that was apparently what the people following them were counting on.

Which meant they didn’t know that their quarry included Jack Thane – and his highly observant daughter.

That thought made Annabelle smile. It was a definite trump card if their followers didn’t know who they were dealing with.

“What the-”

Annabelle turned to face Cassie, whose expression had changed from worry to one of surprise as she stared out the window at their changing surroundings. She followed Cassie’s gaze to find that they had just pulled into the covered lot of the prestigious City Coach Limo rental office.

Limousines of every size, mostly black, stretched across literally hundreds of parking spaces. There were limo’s set up for anywhere from six to maybe twenty-five passengers, all lined up according to size and color. Scattered here and there among them were the occasional Mercedes Benz S500 and Lincoln Town car. All in black.

A smile spread across Annabelle’s face. Jack was a bloody genius.

They parked at the office entrance and Jack got out to open the back door. As everyone piled out, Annabelle watched the black BMW ride smoothly past the rental office to continue down the street and disappear around a corner several blocks down.

“After you, luv,” Jack waited until everyone else had gone in and Annabelle was still standing beside him. She shot him a smile and then followed the others into the building’s showroom. At that point, Jack moved to the front of the group and approached the sales associate that greeted him.

With gestures both well practiced and incredibly smooth, Jack led the man away from the group to speak with him in private. He turned his back to them as he dealt with the salesman and Annabelle couldn’t tell exactly what he was saying or doing.

“What do you suppose he’s planning, luv?” Beatrice asked Annabelle. She watched Jack carefully and then turned to Beatrice, who was leaning up against the black Mercedes Benz that had been placed on display at the center of the room.

“My money is on diversions. We’re surrounded by limos that look exactly like the one we rode in on.” She paused and bit her lip. “Or maybe he wants to make a trade…”

Then the salesman left Jack and slipped into the back of the offices. When he returned, it was to nod at Jack reassuringly and step to the side. A second later, five drivers, all dressed in their professional white and black uniforms, two female, three male, stepped out of the back offices and nodded to Jack as they approached him.

Again, a conversation in hushed tones ensued. After a few minutes, the drivers indicated that they understood Jack’s orders and would comply, and then they turned and left the show room, exiting through the door that led to the parking garage beyond.

“Diversions, then.” Annabelle concluded.

Jack approached Annabelle and the others, who waited expectantly to hear the plan.

“So, what’s the Jackie, da’?” Clara asked.

Before Annabelle could shoot her a confused look, Jack told them what he’d set up and within a few very well choreographed minutes, the entire group, minus Jack and Annabelle, was seated in the back of one of the five different vehicles, which each left City Coach Limousines at exactly the same time.

Jack drove. He didn’t want to involve an innocent driver in what was already a strange, mixed-up mess and that had resulted, thus far, in more than one homicide.

This time, Annabelle sat beside him, in the front seat. “There were at least five cars used in the tail, Jack. All they have to do is send each of their cars out after each of the limos and, chances are, we’ll be found out.”

“They have to realize what happened, first.” Jack told her. “It’ll take them some time. Hopefully, we’ll be at our destination before they’re the wiser.” Then again, whoever was after them had managed to determine their location in the first place. That, alone, was impressive. How had they been found in New York? They should have been off of the radar a long time ago – since before ever getting on Sam’s plane.

Jack took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. These guys were good. Too good. Which meant they were top-of-the-line and highly paid. Which meant that the mess Annabelle had gotten mixed up in was either very, very big, or very, very bad.

“Medicine,” Annabelle said suddenly. Jack gave her a side-long glance. She turned to him and blinked. “Sorry, it’s just that I think I just realized this all has to have something to do with medicine.”

“Oh?” Jack asked. “Explain.”

Annabelle had been thinking about this for a while. What could Teresa Anderson have stumbled upon that would be worth her life? In the movies, only a few things were worth killing someone over. Honor was one of them. Jealousy or revenge. Love, of course, was the biggie. And then there was the nasty one. Money.

“Teresa worked for a pharmaceutical company. I’m betting that Craig Brandt did too. Maybe they worked together, even. Like lab partners or something.”

“Go on,” Jack prompted.

“Pharmaceutical companies rake in the big bucks. We’re talking billions. For the people in charge, that’s a nice thick pocket-lining.”

Jack nodded.

“So, what if Teresa found something out that threatened this cash flow somehow?”

“And Brandt?” Jack prompted.

“I don’t know… He obviously must know something too. Maybe she told him. Or maybe he’s the one who found it out and he told her. Or perhaps they discovered it together. Hell, maybe they even caused it.”

Jack mulled this over for a minute. “And you think this has something to do with medicine, rather than administration?”

Annabelle gazed out the windshield for a few silent seconds. There was something about this case that pointed toward medicine. Drugs. She wasn’t sure what it was – couldn’t put her finger on it. But her instincts were screaming at her. She could feel it in her bones.

“Yes, I do.”

That was good enough for Jack. He glanced over at her once and then turned back to the road.

“So, where are we going, exactly?” She asked.

“A house in Forest Hills. I rent it out occasionally, but it’s empty at the moment.”

“You own property in New York?” Annabelle was surprised. She knew that real estate was his cover, but she’d had no idea how wide-spread it was.

“A few complexes and two homes.” He answered.

Annabelle blinked. How much money was that? And, where else did he own real estate?

“Do you own stuff in every state?”

“No.”

“California?”

“Yes. Two condominiums and a beach house.”

Annabelle’s eyes widened. “Oregon?”

“A light house museum and a few acres inland.”

She chewed on her lip for a moment and then asked, “Hawaii?”

He smiled. “I might have a little something there,” he told her as his gaze cut to her. “Why are you asking, luv?”

She blushed and shrugged. “No reason.”

They headed East through Manhattan and into Queens, the taxi-yellow on the streets thinning out, making way for cars of other make and color. As they progressed, the buildings became shorter, the sidewalks newer, and the foliage more plentiful. Eventually, they were driving down a prestigious neighborhood, lined with marble mansions and lawns that were already emerald green.

Jack’s was one of them. They drove through a wrought-iron gate that seemed to open for them automatically and then pulled up alongside the curb of the front walk. The house was isolated on the street, tall ever-green trees blocking them from the views of other homes or passers-by and lending the building a mansion-in-the-woods ambiance.

“You make entirely too much money for snuffing people, you know that?” Annabelle muttered, with a shake of her head.

Jack laughed out-right. But he didn’t reply. They parked and he opened his door. A second later, she opened hers and exited the car. Behind them, Dylan had already climbed out of the cabin of the vehicle. With a wary glance in every direction, he made his way over to Annabelle. Clara, Beatrice and Cassie followed.

“What is this place?” Dylan asked. His hands were in his pockets and his posture was such that he looked cold. Annabelle guessed it was just nervousness. Or maybe he actually was chilly. It was New York in May. And he wasn’t wearing a big jacket.

“Oh, it’s just a little place I like to get away to sometimes,” Annabelle replied haughtily. She tossed a long lock of her hair over her shoulder and assumed a vogue stance. “You know – it isn’t much, but it does keep the doldrums away.”

Dylan smiled at that. She was glad to see the kid smile. She winked at him and took his elbow in hers. “Come on. Let’s go check this dump out.”

“You’ll need this, luv,” Jack called out from behind them. She turned around and he held out a small silver key. She took it, her brow raised in mock surprise.

“What, no servants? No butler to open the door for us?”

“I’ve sent them away,” he replied, matching her aloofness with a haughty smile of his own.

Annabelle grinned and shook her head. Then, slipping back into Hollywood celebrity mode, she gave a snooty toss of her hair and strode up the walk and to the front door, Dylan in tow.

On the step, she let go of Dylan and slid the key into the lock. When the door suddenly swung inward, the key stayed in the lock and was jerked out of her hand. She had no time to react as an arm shot out of the darkness, grabbing her by the shoulders and spinning her violently around. She was roughly pulled against someone’s chest and something cold and hard was placed to her left temple.

Around her, people seemed to be shouting and moving all at once, a chaotic dance that she couldn’t keep track of. Her heart had leapt into her throat from first contact and stayed there, making it hard to breathe.

Through the fuzziness of her sudden terror, she could make out Jack, in a film of red, standing a few yards away, his hands out at his sides in a placating gesture.

“Take all of your weapons and place them on the ground in front of you, Thane.”

Jack nodded, once, and ever so slowly pulled his jacket away from his body so that Annabelle’s captor could see the gun in the shoulder holster. He then, just as slowly, pulled the gun out of the holster, using only his thumb and index finger on the grip. He bent and placed the gun on the ground in front of his feet, never breaking eye contact with the man behind Annabelle.

“All of them.”

Annabelle noticed that the man didn’t have a particularly deep voice. And it wasn’t exactly loud. But there was a magnetism to it.

Jack didn’t say anything. He simply proceeded to carefully and gradually rid himself of various weapons on his body, placing them on the ground beside the gun.

“Everyone else, get in the house and close the door behind you. Thane, you and Miss Drake are coming with me.” It was a voice of reason, actually. So perfectly collected and self-possessed. It was hard to argue with a voice like that.

It took a minute for the order to sink in, but after a brief, shocked pause, Cassie moved to Dylan, who had fallen back a few feet away from Annabelle. She took him gently by the arm and pulled him around Annabelle and her captor to head for the door. Beatrice and Clara followed after, Clara holding Beatrice’s arm just as Cassie was with Dylan.

“Close the door.” The man reminded them. Cassie nodded and shot Annabelle one last look before stepping inside. There was a lot of unvoiced sentiment packed into that look. Fear, regret, disbelief – and hope. Annabelle could recognize it because she refused not to see it. If her captor was insisting on leaving the others behind, then maybe she and Jack had a chance. Maybe Cassie would figure something out. Maybe Clara would. Hell, maybe her father had trained her for this kind of thing…

One could always hope. And, so, she did.

The others closed the door and the man holding Annabelle turned his attention to Jack.

“Turn around and get back in the car. Nice and slow. Thane, you’re driving. If you decide to find another weapon somewhere in the car, don’t forget where the first bullet will land.” Again, the orders came in tranquil composure and, again, Jack said nothing. He simply did as instructed, turning around slowly and heading back to the limousine. Annabelle watched him go, feeling utterly helpless and completely terrified. Then she was moving, being pushed forward by her captor.

Jack went around the car and opened the driver’s side door. It occurred to Annabelle that if they’d been in their original car, he might have actually had a hidden weapon somewhere within it. If they hadn’t traded off for another limo back at the City Coach rental office, they might have had a chance of getting out of this mess before it really ever started.

Then again, she might just get shot. It didn’t take much time at all to pull a trigger. The man holding her hostage would certainly have at least that much time to react. And that would be all he needed.

“When you get inside, open the passenger side door and swing it wide.”

Jack nodded once and slid into the car. In another second, he was reaching across the seats and opening the front passenger side door as well. The man holding Annabelle moved her forward and then let her go, keeping the gun to her temple as he placed his other hand on her head, forcing her to bend and enter the car.

She didn’t fight him. As she climbed in, her eyes found Jack’s and their gazes locked.

“Start the car, Thane.” The man behind her said, and Jack broke eye contact to focus on the road ahead. He straightened, stuck the key in the ignition and started the engine.

The man got in beside Annabelle and, luckily for her, the front seat was a bench seat or she would have been balancing between two bucket seats or seated uncomfortably atop a storage compartment.

The gun was moved from her head to her ribs, which was decidedly more uncomfortable, as he found the need to dig it in somewhat.

But she refused to complain, as a bullet between the ribs would have been far more uncomfortable, still. Instead, she wondered, rather frantically, whether she was going to survive this day.

And then, when she felt the very old, familiar stirrings of panic spring to life somewhere at the base of her spine or the pit of her gut, she decided to try to focus on something besides her fear and discomfort. Now that her captor was seated beside her, she was able to get a good look at him. He was not the most physically imposing figure she’d ever seen. He couldn’t have been much taller than her, in fact, and though he was slim and trim, he was not what she would call “built”. He had a balding head and wore wire-rimmed glasses. His body was unimpressive, all in all. His face, however, held a certain charisma. It was appealing, in a sense, because he seemed… kind. It was ludicrous. He had a kind face. How did a professional killer wind up with a kind face?

And he was dressed in a three-piece cage. He wore a gray pin striped suit and tie with a black wool trench coat over it. The clothes gave him a well-kempt, slightly blue-blooded appearance.

He looked like a sympathetic, soft-spoken attorney. Yep. If she had to put his appearance into words, that’s how she’d do it. A snake in sheep’s clothing.

“Drive down the street and take the first left. Then go two blocks and take a right,” he instructed.

“What do you call yourself and who do you work for?” Jack asked, suddenly. His tone was as calm as the other man’s and his expression did not change. He continued to look straight ahead, at the road.

“At the moment, I work for the Colonel,” the man answered, easily, as he pulled a cell phone out of the front breast pocket of his jacket. “And you can call me Reese.” He pressed a few buttons on his phone and lights flickered on the LCD screen. “I’m sorry to have to do this to you, Thane.” He said it as if he truly meant it.

Jack glanced to his right and his gaze met Reese’s. Then Reese pressed the Talk button on his phone.

The explosion was several blocks away, but it was powerful enough that it still rocked the limousine. Jack’s foot slammed down on the break, sending Annabelle forward to bump her head on the dash board. Reese caught himself easily with the hand he held the phone in. Annabelle straightened and absently fingered her forehead as Jack threw open the driver’s side door and jumped out of the car.

She and Reese followed after.

Jack stood beside his open door, his gaze directed over the houses in the distance. A billowing cloud of black smoke rose from behind several roofs and a thick copse of trees. Sirens could be heard from somewhere not too far away.

“Oh my God…” Annabelle whispered as realization dawned on her. The smoke was rising from Jack’s house. A wave of dizziness washed over her. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

Cassie… Dylan…Clara.

Jack’s daughter had been in that house, along with her mother.

“Oh my God,” she said again, not able to stop herself and unable to think of anything else to say.

“Get back in the car, Thane,” Reese said then. His tone was gentle enough, perhaps spurred into a sick sort of tenderness through professional empathy, but his gun was once more directed at Annabelle. She barely noticed. And she barely cared.

Something inside of her snapped. She lunged forward, ready to rip the gun out of his hand and maybe take his arm with it. But he reacted as if he’d expected the outburst, easily stepping to the side, grabbing her outstretched arms, and wrenching them in front of her to spin her around and pin her to his chest once more.

“I suggest you calm down, Miss Drake. You’re all Mr. Thane has left in this world. Don’t make me take you away from him as well.” He spoke the words with calm authority.

Annabelle looked at Jack over the top of the car. His eyes caught hers. His expression was unreadable, but something terrifying danced in their cobalt depths. Their normal sky blue had turned slightly dark, slightly gray. Like an impending storm on a Summer’s day.

“Now, get back in the car. We have a meeting with someone and I’d rather not be late.”

Reese released Annabelle and gave her a slight shove. She ducked and crawled back into the front seat of the limousine. Half way, she had to pause and wipe her eyes as she realized she was crying and the liquid was blurring her vision. She sat down in the middle of the seat and stared straight ahead, unseeing.

A thousand thoughts chased each other through her mind. And they all seemed silenced. Muffled. Even as the tears continued to stream down her cheeks, there was a numbness spreading through her. Nothing made sense any longer.

In the last twenty-four hours, she’d lost three of the people in the world whom she cared for the most. And Jack had lost more than that. He’d lost his daughter.

There was no coming back from that. There was nothing worse you could do to a human being.

“Four-ninety-five West to Two-seventy-eight South. Red Hook.” Reese instructed.

Jack put the car back in gear and began driving. Silence filled the cabin. In the rear-view mirrors, the sky continued to darken with billowing black clouds of smoke. At some point before reaching the Interstate, they passed several fire trucks and an ambulance.

Jack’s gaze never wavered. His expression never changed.

Annabelle silently cried.

Chapter Fifteen

It was with feet that wouldn’t move quite right that Annabelle followed Jack down the trash-strewn alley ahead of them. She tripped over herself twice and had to be righted by Reese, who walked behind her. Their footsteps mingled with the graffiti on the tin-covered walls, fading into rare shadows like a muffled cacophony of sound and color.

The warehouse hadn’t been used for industrial purposes in quite some time. This was made evident by the piles of rubble built up around the rusting chain link fences and borders of chicken wire that attempted to block off the larger equipment of an adjacent construction project which appeared to be all but abandoned. It was also made evident by the dated signatures of various gang members and their ilk that layered themselves like strata on the inside of a man-made mountain. At one point, someone had spray-painted a sign, in red, on a white strip of metal, stating that the premises were not to be used as a bathroom. Just beneath the sign were the foul remnants of what people thought of that sign.

The smell of human waste was muted, however, by the overlying stench of rotted fish remains and sea weed, as the warehouses jutted out over the docks and the polluted water below them. At high noon, as it was, there was no place for the refuse to hide from the rays of the sun and, even in early May, it was enough to create a heady, unpleasant perfume.

Absently, Annabelle wondered if this was the place where she would die. She guessed she wouldn’t be the first…

“The door ahead,” Reese instructed.

Jack came to stand before a metal-lined door in the side of a large square building. The warehouse was set apart from the buildings around it, not by any sign or new construction, but by the type of graffiti that graced its outer walls. A painting of Shakespeare’s Ophelia, done entirely in spray paint, stretched horizontally across the tin slats, her graceful figure laid flat atop a moat of water-lilies and cat tails. Her eyes were closed in sublime surrender, her right hand floated by her side, open and empty, her white gown and long, red hair soaked and ethereal. She was a drowned angel in a world of damp metal structures. A failed mermaid in a sea of dead fish and garbage.

Annabelle found herself staring at the figure, focusing on Ophelia’s closed eyes and that open hand.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Reese, who had come to stand still behind her. “It was painted by a young man the Colonel found decorating an alley in Harlem. He was paid quite well, I must say. The Colonel fancies Shakespeare. The tragic figure of Hamlet’s unrequited love is his favorite, I believe.” He spoke as if in casual conversation and then, before either Jack or Annabelle could respond, he used his gun hand to gesture once more toward the door.

Jack grasped the handle of the door and pulled it open.

The vast cavity beyond was utterly dark, but unlike the musty, stuffy atmosphere Annabelle had been expecting, the air smelled fresh and conditioned and felt to be a comfortable room temperature.

Reese nudged her forward and she hesitantly put her hand up to touch Jack’s back, following him in as he cautiously stepped into the darkness.

The sound of their footsteps altered and Annabelle could tell that the surface they stood on was considerably smoother and more polished than the rough, trash-strewn concrete outside.

A clanking sound and a following thunk reverberated throughout the vast black space before them and then a humming sounded overhead. Jack knew enough to shield his eyes, but Annabelle was a little slower and the flash of brilliant white light that came next temporarily blinded her.

In a moment, she lowered her own hand and blinked, willing her eyes to adjust to the light.

“Please do come in,” said a voice from somewhere in the room. The words were heavy with a Southern accent, instantly bringing to mind peach trees and Spanish moss.

Annabelle looked around.

The interior of the warehouse was a veritable study in contrasts to the world outside the door behind them. There was no hint of spray paint or rubble or warped, mildewed wood. The large room had been furnished with two simple but comfortable and expensive-looking couches, facing each other across a coffee table at the center. A few side tables stood against two of the walls, and the floor had been re-finished in a cherry polished hard wood. The walls were stark white and decorated with canvas copies of famous paintings such as “The Dance” by Henry Matisse, and “Sunrise” by Claude Monet. He seemed to like color, abstract, perhaps, and beautiful.

But along one wall, there were no paintings. Instead, there hung steel manacles, crude, cruel and cold in their otherwise pleasant environment.

Annabelle stiffened when she saw these, and found herself scooting closer to Jack, who reciprocated by moving his tall body in front of hers.

There were several men in the room – Annabelle would wager somewhere between a dozen to fifteen.

All of them wore black but one.

That one was smiling. “My dear, don’t let the ornaments frighten you,” the man said. He was tall and portly, nearly round in the middle, and he was dressed from head to toe in white. His white shirt was tucked into a white pair of perfectly creased pants which appeared to be held up by nothing less than white, gold-clasped suspenders. On his feet were white wing-tipped shoes.

His face was of the friendly, familiar sort. It sported a mustache and beard, also white, and wire-rimmed glasses. Santa Claus?

No, Annabelle thought. Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Her eyes widened. The Colonel!

The Colonel glanced from her to the manacles on the wall and gave her a reassuring gesture. “Those aren’t for you, sweet heart,” he said in his thick Southern drawl. And then he looked away and nodded toward one of the other men in the room. “Gentlemen.”

At that, the throng of darkly dressed brutes in the room rushed toward Jack.

It was an instant brawl. Annabelle was thrown back into Reese, who caught her and pulled her back against the door, to relative safety.

Almost immediately, Annabelle could see why the Colonel had gone to the trouble of hiring so many strong-arms. By the time Jack was actually pinned to the wall and locked into place, all but five of the men originally standing were lying on the ground.

Annabelle’s heart pounded hard behind her rib cage. She found herself moving toward Jack, breathing heavily as if out of empathy for him. But Reese had tightened his grip on her arm. When she looked over at the him, he gave her a single shake of his head. Behind his glasses, Reese’s hazel eyes locked onto hers.

There was something there.

But Annabelle didn’t have a chance to decipher it before the Colonel’s voice once more grabbed her attention.

“Whew,” he said softly as he pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and proceeded to wipe his brow as if he had been the one fighting. “Such a fuss.” He tsked. “Such a fuss.” He replaced the handkerchief and then gestured toward one of the two plush couches that furnished the large converted room.

“Please, Miss Drake. Have a seat.”

Annabelle hesitated, shooting a glance toward Jack. But he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was focused straight ahead. His expression had gone dead. An entirely unreadable and nearly unrecognizable mask.

Reese nudged her forward and she hesitantly moved toward the white couch nearest to her.

“That’s it. Make yourself comfortable.”

Annabelle moved to the middle of the couch and sat down, facing the wall that Jack was manacled to. She stared up at him.

“I’m sure you’d both like to know what this mess is all truly about,” the Colonel said then. He moved so that he stood in between Annabelle and Jack, drawing her attention away from the wall and to his own portly presence.

So, she stared up at him instead, taking the opportunity to narrow her gaze and release a little of the pain and hatred she felt into the space between them. He only smiled at her.

“I can understand your ire, Miss Drake. Reese has had to do something which I’m not entirely a fan of, but which was necessary, nonetheless.” He explained, his speech slow, the drawl a veritable caricature of his namesake’s. “Mr. Osborne wished that this matter be dealt with in such a way as to guarantee no further unwelcome disclosure of vital information.” He splayed his hands out in supplication. “Why, what was done simply had to be done,” he continued. “And that’s all there is to it.”

He moved around the couch and drew her attention to a side table which was topped with a tray containing several tea cups, saucers, and a few plates of cookies and muffins. He picked up the tray and brought it around to the small coffee table between the couches.

He took a seat on the couch opposite her. “Though it may be hard, try to eat something. I find certain foods soothe the soul.”

Annabelle didn’t move. Instead, she glared up at him. “Are you for real?” Her fevered, furious brain recoiled from the man in front of her. Surely, the Colonel Sanders thing had to be a joke. No one looked like this in real life. Was the facial hair stick-on?

He ignored the expression and went about pouring himself a cup of tea. “‘All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.’” He put the tea pot down and stirred the sugar in his tiny china cup. “Shakespeare.”

“I know.” She told him through gritted teeth, her glare still in place. So, it was an act. He probably looked a little like the Colonel at first and maybe someone started calling him that. So, he decided to live it up. The bastard was eccentric, and that wasn’t good. Geniuses tended to be eccentric. Evil geniuses were always bad news.

“Now, where was I…Oh, yes. You’ll want to know what is transpiring. Please allow me to enlighten you. You see, my employer, a one Mr. Godrick Osborne, is the current president of research and development for the pharmaceutical company, MediSign.”

“I was right,” Annabelle said blandly. “It’s about medicine.” Her voice sounded far off, even to her own ears.

“Indeed, you are correct, Miss Drake,” the Colonel told her with a slight nod of his head. “Perhaps you have heard of the ‘Burning Man Syndrome’?” he asked.

Annabelle shook her head once.

“I’m not surprised, really. It’s quite rare and until recently, was so obscure as to be considered no more than a genetic anomaly. However, a very prominent politician happens to be unusually close to a particular case in North Carolina. His niece has Burning Man Syndrome, you see. She is eight.”

He paused in his speech and lifted his tea cup to his lips, taking a dainty sip that, when executed by a man of his stout stature, appeared at once farcical. “I won’t mention names, but let’s just say that this politician holds quite a lot of sway in his particular seat.” He took another sip. “Now it so happens that our Mr. Osborne is an adept business man with an eye for opportunity,” he continued as he replaced the cup in its saucer and set them both down on the coffee table. “Roughly eight years ago, he applied for a sizeable grant to study a drug for cholesterol already being used in Europe. When he applied for this grant, he was noticed and approached by the prominent politician. And he knew a prospect when he saw one.”

“Let me guess. The politician offered him more money if he promised to try to find a cure for Burning Man Syndrome,” Annabelle said. The pieces were locking themselves together in her head. Despite the muddled mess that was her current consciousness, she was beginning to understand where this was leading.

“Indeed,” the Colonel went on. “A lavish sum. The disease, known as Erythromelalgia in the medical community, is so obscure, Mr. Osborne claimed that the necessary equipment and materials would have to be concealed. MediSign would not approve of the studies. The operation would have to be somewhat… clandestine.”

“So he told him it would cost a fortune.”

“Which our politician was eager to pay. The money would come from lobbyists and special interests groups, over the course of several years. Mr. Osborne subsequently became quite wealthy.”

The Colonel picked up a sugar cookie from one of the delicate China platters and took a bite, spilling a few crumbs onto his white suit. With a furrowed brow, he brushed the crumbs away and took a napkin from the table as well, which he pressed against the corners of his mouth.

“Mr. Osborne, as any man would, had grown inclined to his supplemented income, when something happened which threw a kink in his designs.”

“Jesus.” Annabelle sat back against the couch. She’d figured it out.

“My dear, our Lord Christ has nothing whatsoever to do with this, I’m afraid.”

“Someone found a cure, didn’t they?” Annabelle asked softly, her gaze far away as she thought of Craig Brandt and Teresa Anderson. It must have been them…

“Mm,” the Colonel agreed solemnly, with a bow of his head as he replaced the napkin on the table and put down what remained of the cookie. He then placed his thumbs beneath his suspender straps and leaned back into the couch. “Well, now, a cure was the last thing Mr. Osborne wanted. With a cure would come an end to his money.”

“He had Teresa Anderson killed.” She had been working for MediSign six years ago, when she was murdered. But not in the research and development capacity. And even if she had, there was no guarantee that Osborne would have included her in his secret research project. She’d been a graphic designer. So… Maybe that was where Craig Brandt came in. They must have known each other. Maybe he worked in R and D. Maybe he worked on the Burning Man cure. And maybe he found one…

“Yes, that is so,” the Colonel admitted, with a nod. “And, it would seem, a few others as well.” He pinned Annabelle with a hard stare. “Which is where you come in, Miss Drake. I’m afraid I must ask that you tell me all you know about the message your former employer left for you. It is of grave importance. Mr. Osborne does not care to have this matter brought to anyone’s attention, for obvious reasons.” He paused, seeming to consider something for a moment.

With a frown, and, as if to himself, he muttered, “I am not the only man he has hired to clear up this mess.” Then he added, speaking directly to her again, “And I intend to do the job he has paid me to do.”

Annabelle blinked.

“Don’t tell him anything, Annabelle.”

Jack.

She stood, unable to stop herself. The Colonel was seated in front of her, blocking her view of Jack, and she needed to see him. It was the first time he’d spoken to her since the explosion. Their eyes met and his bored into hers. Blue sparks were flying in their depths. Blood trickled from his lip and a small cut marred his left cheek, where a bruise was blossoming beneath it. She swallowed, a sudden, hard shiver forcing her to hug herself.

The Colonel sighed. He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up off of the couch.

At this point, most of the men who’d been laying on the ground after their struggle with Jack had awakened or come to their senses and pulled themselves up to take position along one wall. They watched the Colonel as the large man left the sofa to move toward a small half-oval table against one wall. On the polished wood table was a single wooden box. The Colonel opened the box and pulled out a whale bone pipe, which he placed between his teeth. Then he prepared the tobacco, shaking a good amount out of a small black packet and holding it in his left hand.

Annabelle watched as he rubbed it between his palms and, after pulling the pipe back out of his mouth, gently shook the tobacco into the end of the pipe. She realized she was sort of mesmerized by what he was doing and shook herself out of her stupor in time to look away as the Colonel began to tamp it down and reach for the lighter in the box.

She turned her attention back to Jack, who was watching her with nothing short of death in his eyes. Her heart slammed against her ribs. That was what he looked like. Death. And, well he should, she supposed. He was surrounded by it. His daughter, his ex-wife… And now probably Annabelle would kick the bucket too; maybe right in front of him, if he didn’t do it first.

“I wouldn’t put too terribly much stock in what Mr. Thane tells you to do right now, Miss Drake. He’s a grieving man and may not have your best interests – or his – in mind at the moment. Such is the nature of grief.”

“You killed his daughter.” Annabelle couldn’t stop herself. It came out as a growling accusation. “You don’t have anyone’s best interests in mind but your own.”

The Colonel finished lighting his pipe, took a few small puffs, and then blew the smoke out with another sigh. “It was a regrettable necessity, as I’ve said. Young Clara was a lovely girl-”

At this, Jack jerked against his bonds, but it had no effect other than to cause the hard steel to dig into his flesh. Annabelle swung around and gasped when she saw blood trickle from those wounds as well.

The Colonel said nothing for a while and then put his pipe down in its stand and went to sit on the couch again.

“I’ll ask you once more, Miss Drake. What did Max Anderson leave for you?” His tone was resigned and he seemed slightly agitated. But more focused as well.

It made Annabelle very nervous.

She opened her mouth to tell him about the lap top, but a rattling of the chains against the wall stopped her short.

“Do NOT tell him a god damned thing, Annabelle.” Jack ordered through gritted teeth.

Don’t make Clara’s death worth nothing… The thought, which, at the moment, Annabelle wasn’t quite sure was entirely her own, echoed through the corridors of her mind.

“Very well.” The Colonel stood and gestured to two of the men against the wall. They moved toward Annabelle. Her eyes widened and she reflexively jumped up onto the couch to get away from them.

They hadn’t been expecting such a move. Perhaps outright fighting, yes, but avoidance through climbing furniture was not necessarily in their repertoire of techniques to deal with. So, it was somewhat clumsily that they dove for her as she jettisoned herself over the back of the couch to land solidly on both boots on the other side.

The two men quickly went to move around the couch, each going an opposite direction, so she simply reversed her tactic and dove forward, using strong arms to flip herself over the back of the couch in the other direction. Gymnastics classes from the time she’d been a toddler and on into her teenage years were finally coming in handy. Her strong legs found steady purchase on the top of the coffee table, sending tea cups, saucers and hot tea flying in every direction.

The glass shattered with an almost pleasing, tinkling sound as it impacted with the wood floor or other pieces of the tea set. The sharp shards and hot tea would have harmed Annabelle’s feet and legs if she hadn’t been wearing her riding boots, so she was grateful for that.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, boys,” the Colonel gave a wave of his hand and several other men moved forward to assist in Annabelle’s capture. She shrieked as someone grabbed her wrist from behind while she was watching two of them come toward her from the front. She yanked just hard enough to catch her captor off-guard and freed her arm. Then she leapt mightily and landed on the back of the opposite couch.

It began to tip backwards beneath her weight, so she used the momentum to kick one of the men in front of her, catching him square in the chin before the couch slid out from under her, throwing her, off-balance, to the floor.

The man she kicked tumbled backwards to land against one wall, only half-conscious, but the man she hadn’t kicked was on her in a heart beat. Before she had any more time to consider further action, she was being wrenched from the floor and held by three of the Colonel’s black-clad brutes, their grips bruisingly tight on her tender skin.

She didn’t even try to yank away this time, knowing the movement would do nothing but cause her injury and pain.

“My sources tell me that you are one of these, how shall we say, tree huggers,” the Colonel said. He paced back and forth across the room, gesturing as he spoke, choosing not to address her violent evasive actions, as if they meant very little anyway.

“Since you care so little about your own well being that you take to riding motorized cycles, which everyone well knows are nigh a perilous mode of transportation, I can only assume that you choose to reduce, reuse, and recycle,” he said, uttering the terms by way of saber-rattling banter, “and, even, to refrain from eating animals, because you possess a great deal of empathy.”

Annabelle said nothing, but Jack had gone very, very still. She could sense a new wave of fury coming from him, even across the room. She watched him as the Colonel spoke.

“I must admit, my dear, that I normally find such a thing to be a charitable trait in a woman. There is a reason you are referred to as the fairer sex.” He stopped and turned to face her. “So, it is with some regret that I have found myself in a situation where a woman’s empathy must be used against her.”

He nodded then, and one of the men who had been holding her let her go, leaving the other two to hold her fast. In the next instant, the one who had released her was standing in front of her. He pulled his right arm back and balled his hand into a fist. Annabelle’s eyes widened, but she had no time to react. No time to draw a breath before he drove that fist deep into her gut.

He didn’t pull his punch. He hit her as hard as he could.

The impact was like nothing Annabelle could have imagined. It hurt more than anything she had ever before experienced. Though she possessed a strong mid-section, which Jack often referred to as a “six pack”, she hadn’t thought fast enough to flex these protective muscles, and, as a result, her internal organs had absorbed the vast majority of the impact.

She was fairly certain she was dying. A horrendous coldness climbed up her spinal cord and settled at the base of her skull. When the men released her and she fell immediately to the hard floor, she barely felt it. There was no sensation in her world other than the agony that was inside of her, the cold fear engulfing her, and a growing need to breathe. No air would come, no air would go. She wanted to vomit, to pass out, to die. Any of those three would have been some kind of relief, but none would come.

Though white spots swam around in her vision and her legs writhed of their own accord, the darkness refused to engulf her, leaving her viciously trapped in her world of pain. She laid there, like a speared fish, squirming on the end of a stick, her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection, her eyes shut tight against reality.

It was several horrible millennia before she was at last able to draw in a breath and she did so desperately. The sudden intake of air only made her nausea much worse. She retched, but as she hadn’t eaten much in the past few days, nothing came up. She gulped in air and retched again and the white swimming spots slowly began to recede.

As her retching unconsciously flexed her abdominal muscles, a hard ache settled into her mid-section. She wondered if she’d suffered real internal damage. Could he have ruptured something? Was she bleeding internally?

“You’ll have to take my word for it, my dear, though it feels as if it truly is the end of the world as you know it, it is only pain, nothing more. I assure you, I have not allowed any real damage to occur to you.” The Colonel’s Southern drawl sounded like the voice of the devil, just then. It was, quite literally, the very last thing she wanted to hear at that moment.

But she was forced to hear it some more.

“I’m afraid this was a necessary evil,” he continued. “You see, I need you to fully comprehend what it is that my men are about to do to Mr. Thane.”

That got her attention. She managed to pull herself up just enough that she could make out the Colonel’s portly figure across the room. Then she turned a little more so that she could look up at Jack.

More blood trickled in various rivulets down his arms from his wrists and it was obvious that he’d been pulling at the manacles viciously, mindless of the pain. His eyes locked on hers and willed them to not look away. His teeth were gritted against his anger, against his grief. He held Annabelle’s gaze as if it were a lifeline. As if it were all he had left in the world.

And perhaps it was.

Annabelle coughed and managed to push herself up a little more, settling into a seated position, some of her weight on her left arm. Nausea continued to roil in her gut, but she no longer felt it bad enough to retch. There was just a throbbing pain now, and a wretched, frantic fear.

“I will, of course, ask you one last time, Miss Drake. What did Mr. Anderson leave for you?”

As he asked the question, his men positioned themselves around Jack. Annabelle tried to push herself up further, forcing shaky legs beneath her. She watched as one of the men pulled his arm back and balled up his fist, just as the other goon had done with her.

Jack’s gaze moved from Annabelle to the man in front of him, and then back at Annabelle again. He shook his head, once.

And the man hit him.

“No!” Annabelle screamed, or, at least, tried to. It came out half-croak, half-scream, as her body still didn’t have quite enough air. Jack bent in his bonds, unable to curl inward due to the manacles keeping him upright. His eyes shut tight against what Annabelle knew, first-hand, to be excruciating torture.

She stood up the rest of the way and was instantly accosted by the Colonel’s lackeys once more. They held her back as she tried to move toward Jack.

“Stop!” she yelled, this time managing to get some force behind her voice.

The man hitting Jack pulled his fist back to ready for another strike, but the Colonel held up his hand and the man stayed his action.

The Colonel looked at Annabelle. She looked at Jack.

Jack opened his eyes and peered back at her. There was a world of hurt behind those blue eyes. But Annabelle recognized other things there as well. And either it was her imagination, or he truly did not appear to be in as much pain as she had been.

“Don’t worry, luv,” he told her, from his bent position. His Sheffield accent was thick in his softly-spoken words. They brought comfort to her, even in this dire situation. “It’s not as bad as it seems.” She knew he was telling her this solely for her benefit. He didn’t want her to be afraid for him. He really didn’t want her to give in. “I was expecting it,” he said, glancing at the guy in front of him. “And this plonker hits like a little girl.”

At that, the Colonel lowered his hand and the man in front of Jack slugged him again, this time harder than the last. As Jack bent forward once more, the guy back-handed him, sending his knuckles cracking against the side of Jack’s skull.

Annabelle screamed for them to stop. She struggled in her captors’ grips, but it was all to no avail. She insisted, loudly, that she would tell the Colonel whatever he wanted to know. No one was listening to her now. The man hitting Jack was joined by another, who also began to beat on him. Neither of them pulled their punches and neither slowed in their torture, no matter how much Annabelle pleaded with them.

For several eternal minutes, this continued, until Annabelle’s vision was completely blurred by the hot tears she was crying as she begged them to leave Jack alone.

And then there was a loud bang and a crunching sound behind them as the door they’d come through buckled inward, nearly coming off of its hinges. Everyone stopped and turned to look as the roaring sound of machinery grew louder outside, drawing nearer to the building.

“Kill Thane and bring the girl!” The Colonel cried as the crashing sound came a second time and the door flew into the room, nearly landing on a few of the men who had been standing in front of it. The large man moved to a rug on the floor and kicked it aside, revealing a trap door beneath. He quickly pulled up the trap door and disappeared into its recesses, followed by several of his men.

Reese, who managed to get out of the way the first time, ran toward Annabelle, grabbing her away from the two men still holding her. “I’ll take her! See to the Colonel’s safety!” He told them over the noise of a loud engine and rending metal.

“Get away from me, you son of a bitch!” Annabelle shrieked at Reese as they released her and he grabbed tight. Fury fueled her strength as she thrashed in his grip, bringing her legs up to kick as well. She managed to get him good in the knee with her right boot, and he instinctively let her go to double over in pain.

She needed to get to Jack. They were going to kill him. She peered around Reese’s figure, even as he recovered and dove for her once more. She lunged right, taking Reese off guard, and then dodged to the left, moving around his body with an agility she didn’t know she possessed.

Two men stood in front of Jack now, and one had pulled out an automatic hand gun. Annabelle rushed at the man, diving in low and using her shoulder to absorb the impact as she slammed into the side of his midsection, knocking him away from Jack. The gun went off, the bullet driving into the plaster above Jack’s head.

The bullet sliced through the wall and struck the metal siding beneath it, bouncing back in a ricochet that shattered the tea pot on the coffee table several yards away.

Annabelle and the Colonel’s goon hit the ground hard, but he rolled and had her beneath him in an instant. He acted fast, taking the opportunity to backhand her just as he had Jack. The impact cracked Annabelle’s jaw and forced all sensation to spin away from her as if she were falling through Alice’s rabbit hole.

Her eyes were shut, so she didn’t see it, but she felt the weight of the man on top of her being lifted away. She wanted to look, but she also didn’t. All desire seemed to fall away just as sensation had. She was certainly no longer in any pain and sound began to fade. Before it went out entirely, she thought she heard a familiar Texan accent.

She couldn’t make out the words, though. And then everything went black.

It was Reese who had pulled the thug off of Annabelle. He spun the man around and shot him a seething look. “You idiot,” he hissed, “you could have killed her!” He shoved the man aside. But as he bent to retrieve Annabelle’s unconscious body, he, too, was grabbed from behind and spun around.

The man who had grabbed him, however, wasted no words on him, instead choosing to slam his knuckles into Reese’s face, knocking off Reese’s glasses and sending him reeling back several steps to stumble into the thug he had just shoved away.

The first man turned and ran in the direction he’d seen the Colonel go. Reese slid to the ground, temporarily stunned.

“God dammit, Jack, what the hell kind of mess did you get yourself into?” Sam turned toward Jack, whose eyes were on Annabelle’s prone form. Sam unfastened the manacles around Jack’s wrists and Jack bent to undo the ones around his ankles. Then he was at Annabelle’s side.

“You look like shit, buddy,” Sam said softly. And it was true. Jack was covered in his own blood. His hair was matted with it and parts of his black t-shirt were stained blacker with the dark liquid.

But Jack barely noticed. He placed his fingers to Annabelle’s neck and then closed his eyes, releasing a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “She’s alive.”

“Not that she’ll be happy about it when she wakes up,” Sam said. Jack bent to lift Annabelle into his arms and Sam helped the man stand back up. Once he was on his feet again, Jack swooned ever so slightly and Sam shook his head.

“They had a field day with you.” He looked Jack over from head to toe. “Looks like it got personal. Which means you pissed ‘em off, didn’t you?”

“Not now, Sam.” Jack brushed by him to lay Annabelle on the couch nearby. And then he turned toward Reese, who was only now gaining enough of his senses back to attempt to get onto his feet.

Jack didn’t give him the opportunity. He strode to the man, gripping Reese’s shirt and vest front in his right hand, and hauled him up off of his feet altogether. Then, without warning, he shifted his weight and slammed Reese’s body against the wall behind them. The impact stunned Reese once more and the man’s eyes closed momentarily.

Jack let him drop to the ground and then he turned and strode back to Sam.

“Give me your piece.”

Sam didn’t question him and he didn’t hesitate. He pulled his weapon out of its place in his shoulder holster and handed it to his friend.

Jack moved back to Reese and stood looking down at him. Then he raised the gun, a revolver, and cocked it.

“No, da’! Don’t shoot him!”

Jack froze. He looked over his shoulder.

A massive fissure had been carved into the opposite wall of the converted garage by what appeared to be nothing short of an armored bulldozer, which was now sitting, motionless and clanking amidst the wreckage and air-borne dust. Jack recognized it as one of the large pieces of machinery that had been sitting, untended, in the nearby construction site.

Through the chasm it had ripped, several figures made their way carefully over the bits of scrap and debris hanging from the surrounding walls or jutting up from the ground. One of those figures was a tall, slim woman with long black hair and bright green eyes.

“Clara…” Jack blinked. He watched the girl and her mother make their way over the last of the rubble and then break into a run toward Jack.

“Da’, don’t kill him. He tried to save our lives.” Clara reached her father and stood a few feet away, the expression on her face a mixture of pleading, gratefulness, and a sudden onset of heightened concern over the physical state Jack was in.

“Oh, da’. They gave you a right pasting. You’re bleeding something awf-”

Jack cut off her words by moving forward and pulling her into a fierce embrace. She hugged him back, despite the blood he was sharing, and closed her eyes. “Sorry to scare you, da’.”

He hesitantly pulled away and looked down at her. “You knew to get out.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling. But, remember how ‘e kept tellin’ us to close the door?”

Jack spared a glance to the man now sitting against the wall, watching the exchange with nervous eyes. Then he turned back to his daughter and nodded.

“On the back of the door was a note. He warned us to get out.” She glanced down at Reese. “Told us where the back door was, and what route to take.” She looked back up at her father. “Had a few seconds to spare.”

Jack looked down at her, a thousand thoughts racing through his head. His gaze cut to Reese again, who stared back. Then he looked over at Sam, whose expression was unreadable.

“We have to get out of here.” It was Cassie who at last spoke. A voice of reason slicing through the stunned silence that had come over the room. She stood beside Annabelle’s unconscious figure, her fingers on her friend’s throat, searching for a pulse, as Jack had. When she found one, she straightened, her hand remaining on Annabelle’s arm. “The cops will be on their way. We’ve broken a thousand laws.”

Dylan stood beside them. He took off his jacket and laid it over Annabelle, not saying anything.

“An’ the bad guys might come back, eh’?” Beatrice added, nodding toward the now shut trap door across the room. In-between them and the trap door were several strewn bodies, all with pools of blood spreading beneath them. Jack assumed these had been dispatched by Sam.

The only living employee of the Colonel’s left remaining in the building was Reese. Who wasn’t moving and wasn’t talking. He was wise enough to keep even his breathing on the quiet side.

“Bring Reese. I have some questions for him.” Jack gave the order and then moved back to Annabelle. Cassie and Dylan stepped out of the way and watched, apprehensive looks on their faces, as Jack shoved Sam’s gun into the waist band of his jeans at the small of his back. Then he bent and once more lifted Annabelle into his arms.

Sam grabbed Reese’s upper arm and yanked the man off of the ground. “Come on, hoss. Step to it.” Reese stumbled ahead of him, shrugging his jacket straight as he did so.

Jack led the way out of the building, holding Annabelle in his arms. Once outside, he looked around, searching for a mode of transportation.

“Two lots down,” Sam supplied. “There’s a boat tied to the pier.”

Jack moved in that direction. In the distance, sirens wailed.

Chapter Sixteen

Jack gazed down at Annabelle’s sleeping face. A nasty bruise had blossomed across her right cheek bone and there was a bluish darkness beneath her long, thick lashes. Her skin was pale, her lips cracked. And she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

His fingers shook as he brushed a lock of her long hair from her forehead. The man who’d hit her hadn’t held anything back. He’d been angry at Jack’s foolish comment, that much Jack knew. And then Annabelle had prevented him from killing Jack, which hadn’t quelled the thug’s wrath any. He’d taken it out on Annabelle, striking with everything he had.

“How are you feeling?” a voice asked from behind Jack.

He turned to face Cassie, who was poking her head through the low door of the cabin. He shrugged, and then winced a little as he did so.

“I’m fine,” he told her. “Thanks for patching me up.”

“It’s my job.” Cassie shrugged, ducking into the cabin. “Or, it used to be.” She felt strange, now, making eye contact with the man who sat on the make-shift bed beside Annabelle. There was a lot about Jack Thane, and to be frank, his older friend from Texas, that made Cassie distinctly nervous.

During his rough treatment by the Colonel’s men, Jack had been sliced in several places, where someone’s rings or brass knuckles had dug into the flesh of his abdomen and sides and ripped gashes across his skin. By fortunate chance, other than a small cut on his left cheek, his face had been left intact, but more than a little bruised. Cassie had blithely asked for the necessary material to create stitches, which she honestly felt he needed on a few of the deeper cuts across his stomach. But she’d only meant it as a joke since they were on a boat and nowhere near an emergency room.

However, Samuel Price had produced the materials without so much as batting an eye, and Jack seemed to think nothing of it.

That was strange enough. To add to it, however, was the fact that when she’d been tending Thane’s wounds, she’d noticed two very palpable things about him. One, he had a body like granite. It was large and sculpted and rigid and it looked, for lack of a better descriptor, incredibly functional. She doubted he ever ate carbs.

Two, there were scars. A lot of them. Some of them weren’t at all small.

Plus, there was this relatively old tattoo on his left shoulder. She could tell it was old because another scar actually ran through the tattoo. The color was also no longer exceptionally vivid. It took several years for a tattoo’s color to fade. This tattoo was enigmatic. A number and a strange symbol. It wasn’t like any she’d ever seen before. She couldn’t help but wonder what it meant. She also couldn’t help but wonder whether Annabelle had ever seen the tattoo. And whether she knew what it meant.

Cassie was vitally aware, now, that there was not only a lot about Jack Thane she didn’t know, but that whatever it was, it was… violent. And she wasn’t sure she was interested in ever learning what it was.

She moved forward to place the palm of her hand against Annabelle’s forehead. She pulled one of Annabelle’s eyelids up, and then the other. Then she moved her hand away and went to the sink to get a glass of water.

“How is she?”

Cassie seemed to consider her words before she spoke. She took a deep breath. “Only a concussion can knock someone out like that, and if I had an MRI machine, I’d insist on a scan. However…” She returned to his side and placed the water on the low table next to him. “Her pupils look all right. She wakes up whenever we shake her, and she knows who the current president is – along with all sorts of trivial things that Clara and Dylan came up with to ask her. So, she’s got her head still screwed on, even if someone did try to knock it off her shoulders.”

Cassie sat down next to him and continued. “All in all, she wasn’t out long. We know there’s no amnesia, and apparently no confusion. Other than the brief bout she experienced when she woke up to see all of us standing over her. I think she was pretty sure she was dead at that point.”

Jack nodded, a small smile playing about his lips.

Cassie continued. “She’s got an incredibly hard head, I have to say. I think she just sort of… turned out her own lights.” She sighed and stood again. “I’m pretty sure she’ll be okay. If I wasn’t, I would tell you to get her to a hospital. But, we should keep waking her up every twenty minutes or so, just in case.”

Jack nodded again, this time in compliance.

“Try to get her to drink something,” she finished and then tried to leave.

Jack’s voice held her back. “We need to talk, Cassie.”

Cassie swallowed and hesitated before turning around, in the doorway, to face Jack once more. “Why?” she asked, forcing a smile. “You breaking up with me?”

This brought a smile to Jack’s face as well. In that instant, Cassie could see what it was about him that had Annabelle so enthralled. Whatever else he may be up to and whatever else he may have done, Jack Thane had a killer smile.

“I want to thank you, Cassie,” he started, his Sheffield accent massaging her nerves, “first, for being such a good friend to Annabelle.”

This caused Cassie’s brow to furrow. “Jack, I’m not Annabelle’s friend for your benefit,” she told him, matter-of-factly. “I’m her friend because she’s a good person, well worthy of friendship.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll second that. However, I am still grateful for it. Is that so wrong?” He asked softly.

Cassie honestly couldn’t think of anything wrong with it, so she shook her head.

“Second, I know you noticed the scars.”

She blinked. And then she blushed. And then the color drained from her face – all in quick succession. There was no point in denying it. An utter retard would have noticed the scars. So, she shuffled on her feet and then nodded.

“I know you’re wondering where they came from and I think it’s time you knew.”

“That’s all right,” she stumbled. “You really don’t have to tell me.”

Again, he smiled. Again, she melted a little, but she was distinctly nervous now.

“Annabelle will never tell you,” he said. “She’ll never betray my trust. But you’ve already seen too much.”

Cassie held her breath. Her heart hammered against her rib cage.

“Sit down,” he told her. She found herself moving to a chair beside a small built-in desk and sitting down.

“Sam and I are paid assassins. Sam has been doing it for longer than I can remember and he’s the one who trained me.”

Cassie didn’t move. She still didn’t breathe.

“However, it’s imperative that you understand two things.” He paused for effect. “Number one, you’ll never have to fear for your own safety, Cassie, or for the safety of your friends and family. Not from us – not from anyone. Do you understand me?”

She did not respond.

He leveled his powerful blue gaze on her and repeated himself. “Cassie, do you understand?”

Cassie blinked and drew in a breath, only then realizing that she’d been holding it for too long. She felt dizzy. But she found herself nodding. She had been right when she’d told Annabelle that there was something dangerous in Jack Thane’s eyes. She just hadn’t know how right she was.

He was a hired gun.

And now she knew.

“And number two is that you must never tell any one.” The gaze hardened, his tone dropped an octave. “If you do, number one is forfeit.”

Killer smile, indeed.

This time, she nodded right away. Emphatically.

Two minutes later, when they were once more alone, Jack peered down at Annabelle. Then he ran a hand through his hair and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He closed his eyes.

His conscious mind combed through the events of the last several hours. Images and emotions criss-crossed his perception, like flashing scenes cast by a broken movie projector. Clara closed the door of the manor behind her. Reese pressed a green button on his cell phone. A massive portrait of Hamlet’s Ophelia floated in a blackness. The Colonel took out a whale-bone pipe and tamped down the tobacco. Annabelle leapt over a couch.

But running through every image, like a warping fold in the video tape, was his overwhelming fear for his daughter. It was a fear to end all fears, like a culmination of things you prepare for, try to prevent, hope never happen. You teach your child to look both ways before they cross the road. To hold someone’s hand. You teach her not to talk to strangers. To use the buddy system. To buckle her seat belt, get home before dark, not walk at night, alone.

Every day, a father faces fear. Every day, a new one presents itself as an old one takes a back seat – still there, but not as pressing as the new one. Every day, a father does his best to protect the ones he loves. He has no choice. It’s a requisite to his sanity.

And in the end, in a single moment, in an unforeseen happenstance or an act of incredible evil, all a father does becomes obsolete.

He had asked himself so many pointless, painful questions, as he’d stood there, chained to the wall in the Colonel’s hidey-hole. He’d asked, Did she get out? Did she know enough? Had he taught her well enough? Had she caught the look he’d given her? Did she understand?

Questions to kill what was left of a man’s reason. Questions more torturous than anything the Colonel’s men could have done to him.

Only time would have given him the answers he so desperately needed. And each passing second had been agony.

Jack’s gaze rested on Annabelle again.

The rest of his fear had been for her.

The minutes that he’d spent fearing that something horrible had happened to Clara and would happen to Annabelle next had been the longest, most hellish minutes of his existence.

He closed his eyes again, once more resting his face in his hands. The only thing he’d come to know for certain in the time since that fear was that he never wanted to feel that fear again. Never.

Ever.

He’d made a decision. He was taking Clara back home to England and Annabelle was coming as well. He could protect them there in a way he never could here.

“Jack, I need some Excedrin.”

Jack’s eyes flew open and settled on Annabelle, who had just placed her right hand to the bridge of her nose. She pinched it there, her brow furrowed, her eyes shut tight against what must have been some pretty bad pain. “I’m getting a migraine.”

“Try a little food first,” he told her as he helped her to sit up. She winced when the movement sent more agony playing about behind her closed lids.

“No doing,” she said, coming to a comfortable position. Her head was hammering. She was a little queasy. And she felt frustrated. Just beneath her consciousness, something important slipped from her grasp, fading away with her waking awareness. “I want what all good torture victims want. Morphine. And if I can’t have that, then any pain killer will do.”

“Drink a little, then,” Jack suggested, holding out the glass of water for her.

“I always drink when I swallow pills,” she replied, giving him a pointed look and ignoring the water.

He blew out a small laugh, replacing the glass. “You’ve a very hard head.”

“Lucky for me.” Annabelle blinked against the cabin’s overhead light and then went back to rubbing the bridge of her nose and her temples, alternating between the two. She couldn’t decide which helped more. But she was positive that neither helped enough. She was also positive that Jack wasn’t going to give her any pain killers at that moment. Protocol for concussions. Still, it felt better to complain about it.

“Where are the others?” She asked as she rubbed.

Jack gestured toward the doorway and the deck beyond. “Either on deck or in the other rooms. I’ve warned them to try to stay below as much as possible.”

“Where’s Reese?”

“Bound and gagged in the ship’s hold.” A bit of an exaggeration, since the boat had no real “hold”. Reese was actually bound and gagged in a trunk in the captain’s cabin.

Annabelle digested the information. She’d woken up at one point to see Sam tying Reese up in the corner of the room, so she knew they’d brought him along. “Where are we going?” she asked then.

Jack didn’t reply. There were two answers to that question, and he just realized that he only knew one of them. Where they were going eventually – as soon as humanly possible, given the circumstances – was Britain. But where they were going right now, on the other hand, he had no idea. He’d been so concerned over Annabelle’s well-being that he’d forgotten to ask.

And their immediate destination was most likely the one that Annabelle was actually interested in. Besides, telling her about her upcoming UK trip and the eight hour flight it would require was something better left to another time and place. Like, when she was drunk, maybe. And handcuffed to a sturdy chair.

He stood up slowly, giving Annabelle a very gentle kiss on the forehead as he did so. “I’ll be back, luv. Sit tight.”

Annabelle watched him go. Her brow was furrowed. Something ate at her consciousness. There was some knowledge skirting the boundaries of her awareness, teasing her senses, slipping just out of reach like a phantom itch. Elusive.

She sighed.

She knew, on the one hand, that the events that had transpired over the last few days were more than your average human being were really meant to handle. She knew that trying to wrap her head around the realization that Max was murdered and that she’d watched Jack get tortured and that she’d suffered a concussion and that Clara and Dylan were presumed dead and then suddenly weren’t dead was just more than could be expected of a normal person.

But she also knew that she wasn’t normal. She never had been. If she’d been normal, Jack’s profession would have bothered her a lot more than it did. She would have run, screaming, from Jack Thane and everything that he represented. If she were normal, she would eat meat and drive a gas-guzzling SUV. She would go to church on Sundays, or something like that, and she wouldn’t listen to Tenacious D or ride motorcycles or write-in Scooby Doo at the polls during election time.

She wouldn’t be able to accept everything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours, concussion included, and still be capable of utterly rational and coherent thought.

Luckily, she wasn’t normal. She was a “D”-loving, Scooby-Doo happy, tree-hugging, vegetarian motorcycle enthusiast who was in love with a professional killer.

Annabelle blinked. In love?

Okay, she thought. Better not go there. Not just now. Other things to deal with just now.

Like figuring out what Craig Brandt had to do with MediSign before the bad guys figured it out first. She needed to get to Columbia University before Godrick Osborne’s goons did. She needed to solve this mess and bring Max’s – and Teresa’s – killers to justice. She needed to do this. For so many reasons. And for Dylan.

And she wanted drugs. And she needed a gun. She was goddamned tired of being beat up.

Sam looked up from the helm as Jack ducked into the captain’s quarters. The older man nodded in greeting. “How’s she doin’?”

“Well enough,” he said. “Hard head and all.” Jack made his way across the cabin. He looked out through the windshield, watching the multitude of barges and yachts make their way from Upper New York Bay, into the endlessly traveled waterways of the Hudson.

“She saved my life,” he said then, before he even knew he was going to say it. He hadn’t realized it had been on his mind. But his sudden words made clear the fact that he’d been subconsciously mulling it over. Annabelle had saved his life. She’d taken down the man who would have otherwise shot Jack point-blank. And now that he was openly considering it, he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Stunned, maybe. Overwhelmed, certainly. If he hadn’t already known he couldn’t live without Annabelle Drake, this would have been the waving flag.

Sam looked over at him. Then he turned back to the windows and shook his head, whistling low. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch, Jack Thane. One lucky son of a bitch.”

To that, Jack said nothing. It was true. And there was nothing more to say on the matter.

He spared a glance at the large chest in the corner of the cabin. Holes had been shot into its lid to provide for breathing. He wasn’t at all sure what to do with the chest’s occupant. In this Business, you either befriended a fellow assassin or you killed him. Jack hadn’t yet decided which route to go with Reese.

“You tell Annabelle’s friend about us?” Sam asked then.

Jack looked over at Sam. He was talking about Cassie. “Yes,” he replied.

Sam nodded to himself. “Figured you would. Probably best. Think she’ll keep quiet?”

Again, Jack said, “Yes.” Then he changed the subject before Sam could ask about Dylan, which he knew he would do if given the chance. “Where’d you get the skiff?”

“Borrowed it.” Sam made small corrections with the steering column, his eyes skirting the horizon as the yacht rode above the gentle waves to some unknown destination. “Like I said, Jack, you’re lucky. If the Colonel’s hole hadn’t been on water, you’d be dust.”

Jack could second that. If Sam’s arrival had been timed any later, Jack would be dead and Annabelle would have been carted off to Osborne, only to be killed later. As a point of fact, Sam’s timing had been next to godly.

“Chalk it up to karma,” Jack muttered under his breath.

In the corner, the man inside the chest laughed heartily. And Sam shot Jack an incredulous look. If there was such a thing as karma, Jack Thane, the assassin, couldn’t have collected a whole lot of the good kind.

“What’s our heading?” Jack asked, trying his best to ignore both of them. In his tired state, his Sheffield accent was particularly strong.

“Columbia University. ‘S’where you needed to go, right?”

“Yes.” He should have known that Sam would be one step ahead of the game. “Dock just after Lincoln Tunnel and we’ll take a bus onto campus.”

“Was plannin’ on it.”

Jack looked over at Sam and his gaze narrowed. “By the way, when did you learn to operate a bull dozer?”

“Had to put myself through school, now, didn’t I?” Sam smiled at Jack and winked. Samuel Price had been a professional killer for more than thirty years. But before that? The truth was, Jack wasn’t at all sure what Sam had done in his youth.

The two fell into a companionable silence then.

After a few minutes, the Holland Tunnel floated over them. The sound of the boat’s engines echoed off of the cement of the bridge’s foundations.

Jack instinctively looked up as the shadow engulfed the boat’s small captain’s cabin. Absently, he rubbed one of the bandages encircling his many wounds. He’d never liked tunnels. He’d never been overly fond of dark, wet spaces. But their trip was nearly done. One down, one to go. Lincoln Tunnel was next.

They traveled the remaining four miles upstream and crossed under the second bridge. Jack faced this one as he had the first. Then he turned to glance back toward the opening to the boat’s deck and the approaching port.

“Tools are in the cupboard,” Sam told him, gesturing to a cabinet against the wall of the cabin. Jack moved to it, opened it, and stood looking over the guns, ammunition and other implements of their trade. There were at least a dozen to choose from. He considered them a moment and then took what he needed.

“I want one.”

Both Sam and Jack turned at the sound of the female voice.

Annabelle stood in the doorway, watching Jack place a second gun in a hidden holster just above the inside of his motorcycle boot.

He watched her for a moment and then straightened and turned his full attention on her. As they stood there, appraising one another, she was joined by Dylan, Cassie, Beatrice and Clara, who came to stand behind her.

“So do we, Jack.” Beatrice said, her tone deadly serious for once. All Five of them stared at the two men in the captain’s cabin. Again, the occupant of the chest snickered loudly. “Shut it, ya manky shite-hole!” Beatrice directed at the chest’s closed lid. The snickering stopped.

Sam cut his gaze to Jack, and Jack took a deep breath.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek for several long, silent moments, and then sighed. “Very well.” He addressed Annabelle and his daughter first. “Bella, Clara, you know what to use.” He nodded to each of them in turn, and Annabelle and Clara moved into the room, toward the open cabinet of weapons. Jack turned back to the other three still standing in the doorway.

“Dylan, you and my ex-wife will have to decide which of you two wishes to carry the stun gun and which of you prefers the mace. Both are in the cabinet as well.”

Dylan and Beatrice eyed each other for a moment and then, respectfully, Dylan gestured into the room, allowing Beatrice to enter before him. She nodded her gratitude and, saying nothing, joined the others.

Jack turned back to Cassie. She still couldn’t quite meet his gaze. He wasn’t sure what to make of her as far as weapons were concerned. She’d thus far proven herself to be more than capable of quite a lot of intelligent deeds, but could she fire a gun? He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose.

“Cassie,” he started. “I-”

She saved him from any further deliberation on the subject by raising her hands in a defensive gesture. “I don’t want anything, Mr. Thane. I’d probably shoot myself in the foot or spray myself in the eye. I’m basically the little kid from A Christmas Story when it comes to weapons of any type.” She was rambling a little nervously, but she managed a smile. “I’m fine.”

He watched her for a moment and then nodded. “Good.”

Jack turned then and strode to Annabelle as she chose the gun he knew she would select. A Smith and Wesson .357 magnum revolver, the spitting image of the one she kept in a chest in her apartment. It was a tried weapon for her, so despite the fact that it only held six rounds, it was a wise choice. She was fortunate that it happened to be Samuel Price’s favorite brand.

“Let me,” he told her softly, as he bent to help her strap on a shoulder holster and tighten it down. His fingers lightly brushed against her collar bone as he adjusted the straps and, ever observant, he didn’t miss the shiver that went through her at the brief contact. Something decidedly old-brain and male within him reared its head to smile a terribly satisfied smile.

But he said nothing, instead pretending to ignore her reaction and concentrating on buckling the gun down securely in its holster. “Good?” he asked her once he’d finished.

She licked her lips and didn’t seem to want to meet his gaze. This brought back the smile to his lips as the self-satisfied monster within him grew considerably larger.

She nodded. “Yes. It’s fine.”

He straightened and, with some difficulty, tore his gaze off of her in order to face his daughter. Clara was stuffing a Colt .45 into the back of her pants, as Jack had done with Sam’s gun earlier. Jack shook his head at her, pulling the gun back out.

“Get a holster and wear it right.”

Clara rolled her eyes and turned back to the cabinet. Then she smiled, pulling a thigh holster from its hook and placing it against her upper leg.

Again, Jack shook his head. “Guess again, Clara,” he ground out, beginning to lose patience.

Annabelle chewed on her lower lip to keep from smiling. With the thigh holster on, Clara might have been the spitting image of the Tomb Raider, which was undoubtedly the effect the teenager was going for. Clara Croft.

But Annabelle supposed that walking around a university campus wearing such a thing might draw just a tad bit of unwanted attention.

Of course, Jack was right. Clara needed a holster that would fit beneath her jacket, and a gun small enough not to leave a giant bulge.

Another two attempts and Clara finally had it right.

Jack helped her strap on the weapon while Dylan and Beatrice outfitted themselves with their own equipment and Sam pulled the boat into an available dockage space.

Sam excused himself from the captain’s cabin and went above to tie the boat down. Clara turned to face her father. As did everyone else.

“So,” she said, as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Wha’s the plan, da’?”

Chapter Seventeen

“A’right, everybody,” Clara began as she approached. “Here’s the run-down.” She handed Annabelle a few pamphlets and sheets of paper. Annabelle turned them over and studied them as Clara continued. “If we’re gonna bird-dog this fella, Brandt, we’ll have to do it at night,” the teenager told them, her thick British accent reminding Annabelle of Sean Bean even more than her father’s did.

“Registrar was particularly hush-hush about ‘im an’ I could tell she remembered the name.”

“Which means there is a negative connotation there,” Annabelle supplied, thinking it over. Clara had gone onto the campus posing as a prospective student. As a side, she’d decided to check up on a distant relative, one Craig Brandt, who apparently went to school there “somethin’ like six or seven years ago, eh?”

However, if the registrar remembered his name, out of the thousands upon thousands of students they’d had in the years since his enrollment, then it could only mean one thing. Brandt’s name was associated with something significant. Most likely something significantly bad.

“I’m assuming she told you such information on prior students was confidential,” Jack said.

“Ri’. But ‘er eyes were buggin’.” Clara answered.

“This is a map of the subway, bus, and shuttle routes,” Annabelle stated plainly, changing the subject.

“Ri’,” Clara nodded again. “An’ that’s the schedule.” She pointed to one of the papers in Annabelle’s hands.

“The last route is run at twelve-ten a.m. from Harlem Hospital to the Medical Center on campus. After that, there’s no further transportation until six-thirty.” Annabelle said.

“That gives us six hours.” Jack checked his watch. “Did you get the campus map?”

“It’s here,” Annabelle said, shuffling through the papers Clara had given her. She took the campus map, unfolded it, and laid it out on the navigation table.

“While I was at the University of Michigan,” Cassie began as she came forward to peer down at the map, “I remember a group of students once talking about underground coal tunnels that existed beneath various universities across the country. Some are at Columbia.”

“That’s right!” Dylan exclaimed, coming forward to join them. “I read something about it online once – even saw a video on You Tube. They used the tunnels and train tracks to run coal between each individual building. One of the buildings on Columbia’s campus used to be part of an insane asylum, and the tunnel beneath it still exists and connects to some other tunnels.”

“Buell Hall,” Annabelle said, calmly.

Dylan’s eyes widened. “Yeah, that’s the one! How’d you know that?”

Annabelle pointed to a bulleted paragraph on the map, which was paired with a number designating a small red building. She read aloud, “‘Historic Buell Hall is the last remaining remnant of the Bloomington Insane Asylum, established in 1808 as Bloomington Lunatic Asylum. In 1894, the asylum was moved to the Westchester Division of the New York Hospital in White Plains. All but the Administrative offices of the asylum were torn down to make way for new construction by McKim, Mead and White.’”

“The administrative offices were in Buell Hall?” Cassie asked.

Annabelle shrugged. “Apparently so. It goes on to say that the land’s sale to Seth Low, the founder of Columbia, was contingent upon leaving that one building standing.”

“Why?”

“Nobody knows.”

“This is all quite interesting, but what does it have to do with the tunnels?” Jack asked, bringing them back to the point at hand.

“Nothing,” Annabelle shook her head. “And, to be honest, I don’t think we could use any tunnel system to get into the registrar’s office, since I know that’s where this conversation was originally headed in the first place.”

“Okay…” Dylan shuffled on his feet and then shoved his hands into his front pockets. “Why not?”

Cassie crossed her arms over her chest and leaned on one foot. “Yeah, why not?”

“Because they probably don’t lead to every single building,” Annabelle told him, gesturing to the many buildings of the campus spread out across the map. “And this map doesn’t show us where they begin or end anyway.”

“And, wherever they do start, they’re probably blocked off, ri’?” Beatrice added, her thick accent only slightly less strong than her daughter’s.

“Probably. Besides,” Annabelle sighed. “If something significant happened with Craig Brandt, shouldn’t we be able to find it in public records somewhere? Like, on micro-fiche or something?”

“Public information will only take you so far,” Jack said. “It won’t give you anything useful.” He crossed his arms over his substantial chest and leaned casually against the door frame. “You’ll get dates and whatever story the powers that be wanted believed at the time. However,” he smiled, “specific details – especially controversial details – will be withheld. In essence, you’ll know squat.”

They were quiet for a moment. Then Annabelle shrugged. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to know what the public story was. Would it?”

“It might,” Sam said, from the doorway. They turned to face him. “Not a good idea to get your intel mixed up. Go for the truth and call it good.”

Annabelle looked from Sam to Jack. They both stared back at her. It was somewhat unnerving.

She looked away and continued to think. “If the real story of Craig Brandt is somewhere on campus, how do we know for sure that it’ll be found in the Registrar’s office? If it’s hush-hush, wouldn’t it be kept somewhere more… hush-hush-ier?”

The chest in the corner gave a derisive laugh.

Annabelle shot it an evil glance.

“It’ll either be there or in the big-wig’s room,” Cassie supplied after a few moments of thought.

“Who’s the big-wig?” Dylan asked.

Annabelle looked down at the pamphlets in her hands. After a few seconds of reading quietly, she said, “I’m guessing it’s Dr. James Beckman.”

Jack pushed away from the wall and gently took the pamphlets from Annabelle’s hands. He flipped through them for a moment, and then pulled a cell phone from his front pocket. “This Dr. Beckman is the one in charge of who is accepted into the medical school?” he asked, softly.

She looked at the pamphlet in his hands, reading the doctor’s descriptor again, then nodded. “Yep, basically. ‘Executive Vice President for Health and Biomedical Sciences and the Dean of the Faculties of Health Sciences and Medicines.’ I’d guess he has the final say on who gets to enroll and who doesn’t.”

Jack nodded and looked down at the phone in his hand. Annabelle watched as he dialed a number, reading it off of the pamphlet. She frowned. “I thought Reese made you leave your stuff on the front doorstep of the manor in Forest Hills.”

“He did. This is a new phone.” Jack put the device to his ear and waited. “Feel like going to med school, Anderson?” Jack directed the question at Dylan.

Dylan’s eyes widened again and his mouth opened.

Then Jack smiled. “Yes. Hello, Ms. Mason. I need to speak with Dr. Beckman as soon as possible.”

The group waited as Jack listened to someone speak on the other end.

His smile became predatory. “It is pertaining to a sizeable donation, Ms. Mason, and I’m afraid there is a deadline in question. The sooner I can speak with him, the better.”

Jack fell silent again. The group held their collective breaths.

And then Jack’s smile broadened.

“Hello, Dr. Beckman.”

“Wow.” Annabelle gazed at Jack and smiled. “You look… really nice.” Her voice cracked with the last word and she looked away, blushing furiously. He’s a married man, she told herself. He’s a married man. Over and over again, like a mantra. He’s a fucking married fucking man…

“Thanks, luv.” Jack did his best to suppress the rising thrill of delight he felt at Annabelle’s approval. He watched her blush for several moments more and then forced himself to look away. He turned back toward the mirror in front of him and studied the reflection. He had to admit that Beatrice had once more done a very good job hiding his bruises. She’d always been good at that when they were married.

The mirror reflecting his image was hung on the back of the master bathroom door in their temporary hidey-hole, a sixth-floor two-bedroom apartment in upper city Brooklyn. The apartment belonged to Sam and reflected his tastes. There was little décor on the walls but for a giant brass star of Texas and a painting of a native American woman on a hillside in the sunset. Annabelle guessed that professional killers probably had places to hunker down in most of the big cities.

Reese had been left behind on Sam’s boat, along with two of Sam’s “employees,” whom Annabelle preferred to lump under what she considered the far more appropriate title of “thugs.” In a way, she sort of felt sorry for Reese, despite the whole house blowing-up ordeal. She knew the man probably wasn’t going to be treated with the most Geneva Convention type civility.

“Damn,” Cassie muttered from the doorway as she entered the room. Both Jack and Annabelle turned to face her. Her eyes were on Jack. Which, to Annabelle, was perfectly understandable.

“Cor, Jackie, you’re lookin’ mighty fitty.” Beatrice came in right behind Cassie.

Clara was next. “Wow, da’. Nice clobber.”

Jack looked to Annabelle, who was biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Clobber is clothing,” he supplied, and Annabelle nodded, still smiling.

Jack did look good. The suit was Armani. Dark, dark blue pin stripes that brought out the stark sapphire in Jack’s eyes. The tie was a deep blood red and stood out in stark contrast to the snow white shirt beneath it. His hair was combed back with flawless precision. His nails were manicured. His shoes were a shining black wing-tip, also Armani.

He looked like a million bucks. Which was fitting, since he was worth that much. Actually, a lot more.

“You clean up nice,” she told him softly, regardless of the others in the room.

He turned away from the mirror to regard her once more. Something flashed in the deep blue depths of his eyes. She wondered what he was thinking.

And then someone cleared their throat. “What, exactly, are you going to do with this guy again?” Dylan asked, a note of irritation in his tone.

Jack turned back to the mirror and met the young man’s gaze in the reflection. He casually worked on adjusting his tie as he spoke. “I’m going to either convince him to tell me all that he knows about Craig Brandt, or I am going to retrieve the keys to his office and we can ascertain the information we need on our own.”

“How are you gonna do that?” Dylan asked.

Jack didn’t answer right away. He finished adjusting his tie and then bent to double-knot the laces of his shoes. The group watched him in silence and growing unease. When he was through with both shining shoes, he stood and opened his jacket to pull out a blue steel M1911 from its holster. The gun had been used by the US Army since 1911, hence it’s name. Annabelle knew this because it was Jack’s chosen weapon. He’d been using it for years. US armed forces now used a newer model of the weapon, but Jack kept the older model.

She eyed the gun from where she stood. Something was different. Her brow furrowed. The gun wasn’t as shiny as it usually was. She moved forward and, without thinking, gently took hold of his hand to get a better look. Jack stopped moving, allowing her to turn the gun over in his hands.

There was a worn, shapely “K” carved into the side of the slide, with a crown carved over it. She had never seen that before.

“What’s this?”

“It designates the gun as a Kongsberg Colt,” he said softly.

“Oh?” She had no idea what that meant.

He smiled. “Made in World War Two at an armory in Norway.”

She nodded, pretending that that explained everything. What she didn’t understand was why he was using a seventy-year-old weapon all of a sudden.

“They used rubber grips in World War Two?” she asked, incredulously.

“No,” Jack chuckled. “Sam changed out the grips.”

Sam. That would explain it. She realized, at once, that it must have been one of the weapons available in Sam’s cupboard on the boat.

“What was a World War Two gun doing in Sam’s cabinet?”

Jack was silent for a moment and she looked up at him. He was grinning from ear to ear. “Out of… jest,” he replied finally. “He was proving me wrong.”

Well that explained absolutely nothing, she thought.

She looked down at it for a few seconds more, noting the fact that the bluing on the weapon was nicked in several places and there was a very worn “No. 2” carved beneath the K and crown.

She didn’t ask any more about it. She’d never been a gun aficionado. She didn’t know anything about them except how to load them, aim them, and shoot them. But something about this gun gave her the willies.

She let his hand go and stepped back. He watched her for several seconds more and then re-holstered the weapon.

“So, you’re telling us you’re going to invite the man out to dinner on the pretext of giving him a bunch of money and then you’re going to pull a gun on him?” Dylan was still staring at him through the mirror. His arms were crossed over his chest.

Jack smoothed his jacket back into place and gave Dylan a close-mouthed grin. Something dangerous flashed in his blue eyes. It had the effect of completely unnerving the boy, who fidgeted and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Of course not,” Jack said. “The gun is simply a precautionary measure.”

“The Colonel and his men are still out there,” Annabelle supplied, giving Dylan a slightly reproachful look. “None of us should go out without protection.”

Dylan chewed sulkily on the inside of his cheek and looked down at the ground, shifting from one foot to the other. He said nothing further.

“None of you will be going out at all. Stay here and wait with Sam. I’ll be back before midnight.”

Annabelle was irritated at the bossy tone Jack had just taken, and her narrowed gaze told him that much when he turned around to face her and the others. His lips cocked into a half-smile and one of his brows rose.

She knew it was pointless to reprimand him for his tone at the moment. Besides, he was right. There was no need for any of them to go out just now. Food and drinks could always be ordered and delivered – and with any luck, they wouldn’t have to shoot the delivery boy. It only took one person to do this particular job, and that person happened to be Jack. Mr. Moneybags.

“Be careful, Daddy Warbucks” Annabelle found herself saying.

Jack smiled down at her. “Always, luv.”

Chapter Eighteen

At forty-five minutes till the stroke of twelve that night, the entire group, minus Jack and Sam, sat around the kitchen table, satiated and sedated by the food they’d ordered and the long hours they’d been awake.

Clara yawned. And then everyone else did.

No one said anything.

Dylan yawned. And then everyone else did.

“Stop that, you guys. It’s contagious.” Annabelle muttered after she finished yawning. She rubbed her eyes. They felt dry and scratchy and she guessed they were quite red.

“You all head off to sleep. We’ll wake you when we have news.” Sam walked into the kitchen, his cell phone in his hands. He appeared to have just gotten off of it because he closed it, pocketed it, and then reached up into the cabinet for a clean glass.

They all watched him pour water from the faucet and turn around to lean back against the sink as he took a casual sip. His long legs were crossed at the ankles, his stature completely relaxed, awake, and anything but tired. His gray eyes twinkled.

Beatrice shook her head. “No’ bloody likely. We’re waitin’ for Jackie.”

“Yeah,” Clara agreed, stifling yet another yawn. “We’ll wait for da’ to get back.”

Annabelle rubbed the back of her neck, then folded her arms on the table and laid her head down on top of them. She still had a headache from earlier and had only just been able to stop herself from digging into her backpack’s stash of Vicodin for the pain.

“Crap, I shouldn’t have eaten. Now I’ll never be able to stay awake.” Cassie muttered under her breath and joined Annabelle in laying her head down. Annabelle moved her head to glance over at her and then glanced up at Dylan, who sagged further down in his chair.

The boy didn’t say anything, but when he ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his red eyes, Annabelle knew he was on the same wave-length as her friend.

“Bloody traitors,” Clara accused softly, without rancor.

“Oh, what’s the use, dear? Let’s grab some zeds for a few yonks, eh?” Beatrice stood, patting her daughter gently on the arm. Clara blew out a sigh and pushed back her chair, standing as well. They both dragged their feet as they left the kitchen and headed down the hallway toward one of the two rooms in the apartment.

Annabelle raised her head to watch them go. One room down. One room left. Four tired people. She glanced over at Sam to find him watching her. His steady gaze inexplicably caused a shiver to run up her spine.

“Cold?” He asked.

She blinked. Hadn’t Jack asked something like that just recently? Her thoughts were all jumbled. She couldn’t really remember.

She shook her head.

He smiled, took another drink of his water, and then, as if he had been reading her mind, he said, “Other room’s mine, darlin’, but you’re welcome to bed down in it. There’s a daybed in there too. I’ll take the couch.” He put the glass of water down on the sink beside him and crossed his arms over his chest.

She looked over at Cassie, who seemed to be nodding off right there at the table. She nudged her friend.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hmm,” was the half-asleep reply.

“Down the hall, Rip Van Winkle,” she urged gently. “Second door on the left. You and Dylan go take a nap.” She patted her friend’s arm, as Beatrice had done with her daughter.

Cassie nodded against her arms and slowly stood, half-opening her eyes in time to step around her chair and head like a zombie down the dimly lit hallway. Dylan pushed up and followed her without a word. The boy was dead on his feet.

Annabelle watched Cassie disappear into the darkness at the first door on the left – and then come back out, mumbling something derogatory under her breath about men and toilet lids. She almost stumbled into Dylan on the way back out, as he had stopped when she’d gone in and now stood swaying on his feet, waiting. Cassie turned and trudged further on to the second door on the left. Dylan followed, his shoes dragging on the carpet.

They headed in, one after the other. After a few seconds, Annabelle heard the door close.

And she was alone with Samuel Price.

Jack smiled behind the rim of his glass of Scotch on the rocks. The drink was his third. Or, at least Dr. Beckman would have sworn it was. In truth, Jack hadn’t had a single sip. He didn’t drink, and tonight was no exception.

But it was important that James Beckman believed otherwise.

“You’re bloody pulling my wanker,” he laughed into the drink, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

“No! I tell you, it really happened!” Beckman insisted, laughing heartily. “And then the asshole had the nerve to come back in to work the next day as if nothing happened!” He slammed his hand down on the table, leaning forward as he roared with more laughter. Jack met the man’s laughter with chuckles of his own, calling the waitress over as he appeared to finish off another drink.

The dark-haired woman was at their table in a flash, obviously drawn to the potential tip that Jack’s dress and manner practically screamed. Dr. Beckman wasn’t dressed shabbily either. The waitress’s expression was eager.

“Another round, please,” Dr. Beckman requested, giving the girl a friendly smile.

Jack watched the waitress smile back and saunter off toward the bar. One thing he could say about James Beckman was that the man was not a mean drunk. He was on his fifth Bourbon and had yet to slur his speech. But Jack was good at reading people. There was a tell-tale brightness to Beckman’s eyes, as well as a slight lean to his posture.

The man was sloshed. Jack wondered just how much practice the good doctor had had at hiding his intoxication.

Without allowing Beckman to notice the movement, Jack stole a glance at his watch. Just a few more minutes and the drug would kick in.

It had been created by Central Intelligence twenty-two years ago. A liquid that could be both injected and ingested. In either instance, the victim would become extremely susceptible to suggestion. However, it did not ensure docility. A hostile prisoner could fight the drug, and sometimes did so effectively.

So, its users learned to mix it with either tranquilizers or alcohol for the desired effect of submissiveness and obedience. It wasn’t perfect, but it had its uses.

Jack watched Beckman carefully, which the doctor no longer noticed, as his senses were blunted and his perception of reality was steadily becoming blurred. Two minutes passed, and Jack knew the exact moment that the drug had entered Beckman’s blood stream and was fed to his brain cells.

He took a nonchalant but entirely fake swig of his fourth drink and casually scanned the room as he addressed the man across the table. “It’s too bad about that incident with Craig Brandt. It cost the school sorely. I’m hoping to make up for some of the loss you experienced.” He swirled the ice in the glass, allowing an easy, apparently drunk smile to caress his lips.

He could feel Beckman’s eyes on him, but his façade remained unruffled. “If only I’d known more about it at the time – I’ve got friends in low places, James.” He shook his head in self-admonishment. “They’re bloody pains in the neck, but they have their uses, if you know what I mean.” He grinned over at Beckman.

The doctor leaned forward across the table and leveled his gaze on Jack. He wobbled only slightly as he hissed, “I bloody well do know what you mean, Jack. I had to use a number of those sons of bitches to cover up the whole goddamned disaster at the time.”

“No doubt,” Jack urged, nodding.

“That Brandt fellow royally fucked us over. Going to work for some criminal drug lab while he was a student at the school.” He shook his head, taking another drink of his Bourbon. His teeth smacked against the glass as his aim wavered a little, but he must not have felt it because, after swallowing, he continued. “Can’t friggin’ remember what it was… Something like meth maybe…”

Jack watched him search his memory.

“Real big at the time, like meth is now. But had a happy name-”

“Ecstasy.” Jack supplied.

“Yes! That was it. Mother fucker got himself into a real shit hole of a mess.” His voice was very low now, as if to make up for the foul language. “Must’ve taken the drug lab home with him one day because the whole goddamned apartment in his complex was blown to smithereens!”

Jack’s gaze narrowed.

Beckman was on a role now. He went on. “Couldn’t have the whole world knowing that our best and brightest were using their medical training to make and sell drugs under our noses.” He finished off his drink and barely managed not to slam the glass down on the table. “So, I had it covered up. Cost me a fucking fortune.” His expression became grim and his color paled a little. “Paid for it out of pocket.”

Jack digested the information. The cover up involving Craig Brandt went a hell of a lot deeper than even Dr. Beckman knew. If he was telling the truth – and Jack knew that he was – then, as far as the doctor was concerned, Brandt had been involved in illegal activity that had gotten dangerously out of hand.

The truth, however, was far more sinister.

Jack pulled out his wallet and threw a couple of hundreds down onto the table. Beckman stared absently down at them.

“You did the right thing, James. The reputation of the school is too important to allow something like that to shame it.”

Beckman nodded. His gaze was growing distant.

Jack smiled to himself and stood. “Have your secretary contact my office and we’ll set up an account for a deposit,” Jack continued. When Beckman nodded once more, figuring that sounded about right, Jack knew the doctor was gone.

He leaned down and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, drawing his attention. Beckman looked into Jack’s eyes and was captured in that intense gaze. “Have someone else drive you home, James.” He spoke the words as a gentle command. “Understand?”

The doctor nodded, but blinked, indicating that he comprehended and would do as told.

Jack straightened. With one last glance around the emptying bar, he pocketed the set of keys he’d taken out of Beckman’s jacket and left the building.

“So, what’s the deal with the old gun Jack has?” Annabelle asked, by way of somewhat nervous conversation.

Sam’s smile never wavered. “The ‘old gun’ is a Kongsberg Colt. Happens to be worth a lot of money.”

“What did he mean when he said you were ‘proving him wrong’?” Annabelle asked, ignoring the jab.

Sam hesitated before answering. He chewed on his cheek a moment and then lowered his head. “Jack and I had a running bet. He didn’t think I could get my hands on the gun, and I was pretty sure that I could.”

Annabelle’s brow furrowed. She didn’t understand, but she wasn’t going to admit this to Sam. It just didn’t make any sense, though. Jack and Sam were both very wealthy men with tons of connections. If either of them wanted an antique gun, all they would have to do is come up with the money and go to eBay or something. What could be so difficult about getting this weapon that Jack honestly didn’t think Sam could do it?

And then she remembered something. An image flashed before her mind’s eye. A No. 2 – engraved on the blued slide of the Colt.

“What does the number two stand for?” she asked then.

Sam’s smile disappeared. His gray eyes fixed on hers. She was desperately tired, but she was proud of herself when she found that she didn’t look away.

After a while, his smile slowly returned. He regarded her, then, as if she’d earned herself a smidgeon of respect in his eyes.

“It stands for exactly what it says, darlin’,” he told her. “It was number two. The second of its kind to come off of the line. Decades ago, the weapon went missing from a display case in a museum.”

Annabelle blinked. “And now Jack has it.”

Sam grinned. “Yep.”

Annabelle had all of three seconds to consider this bit of information before the front door knob jiggled.

Sam pushed away from the sink, pulling a gun from his jeans waist band at the small of his back. Annabelle stood and Sam was instantly in front of her, moving toward the living room. They made their way into the room as Jack opened the door to find Sam’s gun pointed at his head. He glanced at it only momentarily, hardly phased, and then was pulling a set of keys out of his jacket pocket and heading for the living room lounge set.

Sam put his gun back in the waist band of his pants. Jack threw the keys onto the coffee table and had a seat in the love seat facing them.

Annabelle stared at him in wonder. He was no longer wearing his Armani suit. Instead, he was dressed in leather riding gear, from the black skull cap holding back his blonde waves to his black jacket and gauntlet gloves, to the black chaps over his jeans and, finally, a pair of sturdy black riding boots with tough, gripping tread.

He sat back in the love seat and lifted his boots on the table, crossing his legs at the ankles.

Tired as she was, a flood of disquieting heat rushed through Annabelle. He looked as he had the first time she’d laid eyes on him – in that bar on her twenty-first birthday. Ten years ago this Sunday. If he looked good in Armani, he looked like an angel in black leather. An angel straight from Hell, sent to take her spinning end over end into an Abyss of untold proportions.

At that very moment, Annabelle desperately wanted to touch Jack Thane. To run her hands along the back of his neck and feel his soft curls against her skin. To kiss lips that she’d always imagined as cool and soft. To trace her fingers across the perfect muscles of his chest that were so plainly visible beneath the tight black t-shirt he wore under his jacket.

“So?” Sam asked casually, ripping Annabelle out of her lust-filled stupor.

What the hell is wrong with me? She asked herself. Sleep. I need sleep! It’s like those hypnotic thingies where people are extra susceptible to crap because they’ve gone too long without sleep. That’s all! You’re susceptible to Jack because you’re tired. And he’s fucking hot. That too.

“So, after we rest for a few hours, we’ll check out the dean’s office,” Jack told him, apparently not having noticed Annabelle’s rather indiscreet ogling.

“Did he talk?” Sam asked, coming to lean against the wall that lead to the kitchen.

“Yes, but he may as well have remained silent,” Jack said. Though the sound of it almost made her shiver, Annabelle realized that Jack must have been very tired indeed, because his accent always got deeper when he was tired and, right now, it was the strongest that she had ever heard it.

“Beckman covered up a lie, thinking it was the truth.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “He gave me bugger-all I can use.” He stared at the keys on the table. “Except those.”

Annabelle looked at the keys, desperate to get her mind out of the uncomfortably sexy gutter it had been swimming in. Surprising herself with her ability to focus, she asked, “He just gave them to you, huh?” She already knew that Jack had taken the keys. The question was rhetorical. She was being a smart ass.

“He was too drunk to drive. I did him a favor.” Jack said, flatly. He shot her a pointed look.

She ignored his tone, and the look, and asked another question, this one not as rhetorical. “If the dean doesn’t actually know anything useful, then what can we hope to find in his office?”

“His address, at the very least,” Jack replied, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a sigh. “His class list and schedule… It’s a start.”

Annabelle watched him for a moment, noticing the shadows under his eyes. He’d removed the make-up, probably in the simple act of splashing water on his face to wake himself up. But, somehow, the darkness beneath his eyes bothered her more than any of his bruises. “You need sleep.” Again, she surprised herself, this time by the vast amount of tenderness in her tone.

“Aye,” he agreed, pulling his eyes from the keys to gaze up at her.

By the gods, his eyes are blue.

He stood then and swiped the keys off of the coffee table, re-pocketing them. Then, without warning, he took one long stride toward Annabelle, closing the distance between them. She didn’t have the time or the will power to move back away from him. He grabbed her wrist in his black gloved hand and tugged her toward the door.

“I take it you’re exploring the dean’s office alone, then?” Sam called as Jack opened the door and stepped through.

“Indeed,” was all Jack said as he pulled Annabelle out into the hall and closed the door behind them.

“Jack, where are we going?” she asked as he continued to lead her down several flights of stairs. Her heart was racing.

“Sam’s flat is too bloody small for the seven of us,” Jack answered, not slowing and not easing his grip on her arm.

She could agree to that much. She’d been wondering where she was going to sleep. She could have shared Sam’s bed with Cassie, she supposed, but there was only one couch and she knew that Jack and Sam weren’t going to share that.

“Okay…” she stammered.

“So, we’re going elsewhere.” Jack told her, matter-of-factly. His tone had deepened, his voice lower, nearly a growl.

Wow, someone gets crabby when he’s sleepy, she thought as they made it to the ground floor and he punched through the double doors that led out into the adjoining alley. Annabelle stumbled after him, a little off balance because of his hold on her wrist.

But when they were past the doors, Jack stopped and Annabelle came to an unsteady halt beside him.

The hum of a street lamp reverberated off of the walls of the alley around them. Its distant light sent long shadows stretching across the ground and climbing up the bricks. The heights of the buildings around them stopped most of what wind there was from entering the alley, but an occasional breeze rustled the garbage on the ground. A Lay’s chip bag went skirting past their feet.

Annabelle barely noticed it. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness and they’d found something much more interesting to focus on.

“We going for a ride, Jack?” The question, again, was rhetorical. She guessed she was just in that kind of mood.

Jack had stopped in the alley so that she could gain her bearings, but once he knew she’d figured things out, he continued to pull her toward the shining black bike that awaited them.

Its chrome looked like starlight in the beams from the distant lamp. Its spotless black paint looked like night. Like shadow.

Jack mounted the Harley Fat Boy as if his body were made to mount a bike. Long, lean, hard legs straddled the bike with a kind of practiced, confident ease that lit Annabelle’s blood on fire.

She waited for him to straighten it and start it up. When he did, the resounding roar was like a salve on her tired, raw nerves, almost instantly beginning to chase away her weariness. It was her favorite sound in the world. Closely followed by the sound of Jack’s voice, and then by the sound of thunder. In fact, it was a lot like thunder. And she loved a good storm.

She just stood there for a moment, letting the sound seep into her body and massage her soul, even going so far as to close her eyes. When she opened them again at last, it was to find Jack gazing steadily at her. There was a secret smile on his lips, but something dark was dancing in his eyes.

Without a word, he offered her his gloved hand. She looked at it for a moment, wondering if it was the hand of the devil. Then, not really caring, she took it and mounted up behind him.

Chapter Nineteen

Annabelle held tightly to Jack’s waist, out and out relishing the opportunity to hold herself close to him while having a very legitimate excuse for doing so. After all, a woman needed real justification for being this close to a married man. She had it right now and she was going to use it unabashedly.

Jack sped around a corner, carving the road as he did so, and she hugged closer to him, closing her eyes. The wind whipped through her hair, tangling it into helpless knots and she didn’t even care. She loved the way the air hit her so hard that it bit her skin; she loved the blur of the pavement beneath them. She loved the speed, the roar of the V-twin, the barely concealed sexual energy of riding a Harley Davidson motorcycle. It was only slightly less powerful when you were on the back of the bike rather than in the saddle. And when you were seated behind someone like Jack, well…

She grinned to herself, delighting in the fact that he couldn’t see her face and so had no way of determining the brazenly sexual thoughts racing through her head. As Jack took her through the New York streets and alleys as if he’d lived there his whole life instead of Yorkshire, Annabelle’s fatigue began to wear off. It dropped away with every curve they hugged and was blown away with the wind they made.

They rode for more than an hour before Annabelle was once more wide awake and aware enough to realize that an hour was a little long for them to be going full blast in a city the size of New York and not reach their destination. Her brow furrowed and she leaned forward, placing her lips beside Jack’s ear.

“What’s going on?” she said, loud enough for him to hear her over the roar of the engine.

Jack’s grip tightened at the feel of Annabelle’s breath against his skin and it took a good amount of control to keep from speeding the bike up in reaction. He turned slightly to look over his shoulder. “Just want to be sure you’re awake, luv.” His voice matched hers in volume. The two had plenty of experience communicating over the bellow of motorcycle engines.

“What for?” She should have known better than to honestly expect that they’d go somewhere quiet and get some sleep. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Jack asleep in the entire ten years she’d known him. Come to think of it, there was a lot having to do with Jack Thane that she’d never seen. Like his naked body. Not once. What was up with that? He’d seen hers!

“We’ve got a building to break into,” he said, bringing her mind once more out of the gutter. She blinked and shook her head once.

“So this whole ride was just to wake me up so we could do this evil deed tonight?” Riding a Hog was one thing. Breaking and entering was a whole different kind of criminal.

“The less time we waste, the better.”

She was silent for a few moments, allowing him to turn his full attention back to the road as they entered an area with other traffic and a few late-night pedestrians. She chewed on her lower lip and then laid her head against his upper back. When she did, she felt a soreness in her gums on that side, just beneath her cheek bone. She ran her tongue over the teeth there to find that one of them jiggled a little.

Oh no, she thought. That bastard knocked a tooth loose.

Dread swept through her at the thought of visiting a dentist. All white coats and needles and the smell of lidocaine and the sound of drills. Not her favorite places in the world. She avoided them at all costs.

The Harley carved around another corner and she found herself thinking, maybe it will get better. A straight away and another corner and she thought, Maybe, if it doesn’t, the dentist won’t be so bad.

She closed her eyes. She didn’t like the idea of pulling a cat burglar routine at Columbia University, but she also knew good and well that it was necessary. Necessarily done by her, on the other hand, not so much. She’d sort of pictured Jack and Sam going through the place on their own, leaving her and the others out of the thick of it. Why was Jack bringing her along instead?

She opened her eyes and, in a few moments, recognized the fact that they were on a campus. No matter what famous architect worked on a school, a University’s buildings all took on that learned-in look. The manicured lawns and bountiful trees and shining street lamps were a dead give-away, as well as the paved walk-ways, bike paths and designated parking signs.

“This isn’t exactly covert, Jack!” Annabelle hollered at him. The sound of a Harley never failed to get plenty of attention.

“Noted!” He hollered back.

Annabelle mentally shrugged and figured he had a plan.

When he pulled into the Fort Washington Garage, two blocks away from the Black building, where the dean’s office ought to be, she knew that at least part of whatever plan he did have involved a lot of walking. She was grateful for the fact that she was still dressed in her “bullet-proof” riding gear and comfortable boots.

Jack cut the engine and held the bike while she dismounted.

“What are we doing, Jack? We can’t just walk right in,” she told him after he kicked down the stand and got off.

He turned a white grin on her and cocked his head to one side, pulling the keys out of his pocket with one gloved hand. “Why not, luv?” He held the keys up in front of her and his grin widened.

So his plan was of the, we-have-every-right-to-be-here sort. She hated those plans. She’d never been able to get a drink with a fake ID when she was under-age. Her nerves had always given her away.

“Jack, why did you bring me with you?” she asked, trying not to sound as if she was whining. She so did not want to be doing this.

He chuckled. “A man accompanied by an attractive young woman looks a lot less suspicious than two men or a man alone,” he told her softly. He once more took her wrist, this time allowing his grip to slide to her hand and hold fast there. She spun around and walked with him as he made his way through the pedestrian exit of the garage and down several flights of stairs.

Annabelle wondered, exactly, what Jack hoped to find when they reached the dean’s office. Did he think it would be some secluded door at the end of a darkened hallway where no one would be watching? Because, she could pretty much guarantee that wouldn’t be the case. The office was attached to a very large hospital, after all. And hospitals never slept.

But she was also finding it hard to be really scared about the whole prospect with Jack’s hand firmly wrapped around her own. It felt too strong, too secure – too safe. He was a man who had been killing people and getting away with it for a really long time. If he wasn’t worried about this tiny illegal tangent, then she had every plausible right not to be as well.

They made their way across 165th street and up Fort Washington Avenue, crossing beneath several sky-ways as they did so. The architecture of the surrounding buildings was vast and impressive. At several points, Annabelle found herself slowing down to get a better look. Jack let her do so, allowing her a little time to admire something she’d never seen before.

But then he would gently tug her forward, reminding her that they were there for a reason. They had been shot at, beaten up, and Max and Teresa Anderson were both dead. This wasn’t exactly the time to stop and smell the roses.

They came to the end of the block and rounded the corner onto 168th street.

“Which suite was it?” Jack asked her as he led her into one of the tall buildings and to an elevator. They passed various people along the way, all moving quickly and with purpose. Most wore white lab coats, but some wore blue operating room scrubs and others wore plain clothes. A few people even scuttled past in their pajamas. The Presbyterian hospital and its neighboring affiliates were nothing if not busy.

“Fourteen-oh-eight,” she answered, recalling the address on the map that Clara had brought back from her earlier excursion.

Jack waited until they could take the elevator alone and hopped in, pulling Annabelle in behind him. He punched a number on the pad, inserted a key from the ring he’d taken off of Dr. Beckman, turned the key, and waited as the elevator began to take them upward.

When the elevator doors opened again, Jack, pulled the key back out of the wall and led the way out. Annabelle nervously followed him down a carpeted corridor to a double wood and glass door with the suite number 1408 off to the left. The lights beyond the glass were dark. No one was home.

Jack unlocked the doors and let them both in. Then he shut and locked the doors behind them. They waited for a moment as their eyes adjusted to the light.

“What are we looking for?” Annabelle asked.

“Filing cabinets.”

Annabelle spied the tall towers of cabinets along one wall just as Jack did, because he moved toward them before she could say anything. She followed him, being careful not to bump her hip against the desks or tumble over a stray metal trash can.

Jack shined a small pen light on the letters marking the front of the cabinets, moving down until he came across an unmarked drawer toward the bottom.

“Don’t you wanna go through the ‘B’s?” Annabelle asked, gesturing toward the A through F drawer.

“If Brandt did have a file in there,” Jack said, “it wouldn’t be worth reading.” Then he smiled when the drawer he’d chosen wouldn’t open. He nodded. “This is it.”

She moved closer, watching as he found a small cabinet key on Beckman’s key ring and used it to unlock the drawer. He slid it open to reveal a small selection of manila folders; a dozen at most.

Brandt’s was in front. Even when he filed things covertly, Dr. Beckman did it in alphabetical order. Annabelle shook her head, smiling. She supposed that once you got used to something, it was hard to stop doing it.

Jack pulled the folder out and popped it open, placing it on the desk. Inside were Craig Brandt’s application, letters of recommendation, MCAT results, notes on his interview, a copy of his acceptance letter, scholarship information, and copies of his schedule for this first two years, along with grades received.

Out of curiosity, Annabelle reached for the grades. Mostly A’s. She read the scholarship letter. It required that he maintain a 3.75 GPA.

“What was it, exactly, that Beckman believed Brandt was mixed up in?” she asked as she flipped through his schedules next. The sheets listed what students were in each class, who the professors were, and what lab hours were assigned to each study group. Apparently, lab time had to be split up due to space constraints.

“Ecstasy,” Jack answered.

When she looked up at him with a quizzical expression, he supplied, “The drug, not the emotion.”

“Ah.” She said, nodding once.

“Supposedly, Brandt was making it in his apartment and got himself blown up.”

Annabelle’s brow raised skeptically. “With these grades?” She shook her head, disbelieving. “There’s no way. He was here on the good graces of…” She read the name on the scholarship grant. “Mrs. Nadine Armitage and her late-alumni-husband, Doctor Armitage.” She put the paper back down. “He wouldn’t have done anything to lose that scholarship. Especially not as close as he was to graduating.”

Jack’s smile said that he already knew as much, but liked to hear it from her.

She sighed. “So what can we hope to glean from all of this?” She gestured to the strewn papers.

This time, Jack’s expression was a little less confident. “I’m not sure,” he admitted.

Annabelle was about to give him a hard time, just for the sheer fun of it, when her eye caught something on two of the schedule sheets. She leaned in for a closer look, moving the schedules so that they were side by side.

“Look at this,” she said, pointing out Brandt’s name on one of the study group lists.

Jack leaned in, his gaze narrowed. “At what, luv?”

“This woman here – Virginia Meredith – she’s the only female constant in all of his study groups.”

“What are you getting at?”

Annabelle chewed on her lip for a moment. “Cassie said that study group partners in med school usually grow really close.” Annabelle and Cassie had little to do while they worked on graphic design projects at DesignMax but gossip to one another. By now, they each had quite thorough run-downs on each others’ pasts. “They’re together constantly, so they have no choice. She said that it’s not unusual for partners to date – even get married.” Annabelle turned away from the papers on the desk and moved back to the second filing cabinet along the wall.

She scanned the letters on the front, her eyes now having fully adjusted to the darkness. When she came to the cabinet marked “M through R”, she opened it up and searched for Virginia Meredith’s file. It wasn’t there.

Of course it isn’t here, she thought, mentally kicking herself. Virginia Meredith went to school at Columbia six years ago. It would be with past files.

She looked up, immediately feeling stupid and blushing hard, but Jack wasn’t watching her. She experienced a mixture of relief and trepidation to find that, in fact, he wasn’t in the room at all.

“Jack?” she called softly, scanning the dark shadows of the room for his tall form.

“In here,” he called back from beyond a thick wood door that she had assumed led to a copy or break room.

She didn’t have to ask when she walked into the room to find him bent over a separate filing drawer, pulling out a manila folder. She knew he’d found the files for past students.

“Got it?” she asked.

“Got it.”

She spared a furtive glanced over her shoulder, toward the double doors at the far end of the room. She was growing uneasy. “Should we just take the folder with us and get out of here?”

“No, luv,” he told her as he popped open the folder, searched for something on the first page, and then closed it again, re-filing it where he’d pulled it out. “Never different. That’s the rule.” He closed the drawer and turned toward her, his blue gaze finding hers and holding it, even in this darkness.

He didn’t have to specify any further. She was smart enough to glean the general idea. “Never different” meant “leave it the same.” Never leave a room different from how it looked when you walked in. Nothing out of place.

Like Kaiser Soze. Leave without a trace.

“Poof,” she teased, blowing air through her fingers.

Jack’s smile was a lop-sided grin that caught her off guard. “I saw that film,” he said softly.

“Yeah?” she asked. It was one of her favorite films. “What’d you think?”

He didn’t answer, but his smile broadened. She shivered. He chuckled and moved past her toward the folder on Craig Brandt that was still laying out on the table. She watched him put it away and close and lock the drawer.

“Let’s go.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice. She was at his side and moving with him toward the door with almost the same kind of silent speed that he, himself, was infamous for. They peeked out the glass windows before opening the door and stepping through, making sure to lock it behind them. Then they made their way past the elevators to the stairs on the other side.

Just as Jack pushed open the door to enter the stairwell one of the elevators behind them dinged loudly to signal that its doors were about to open.

There was no good reason for her and Jack to be on that level. The only offices up here were locked and most of the lights were off. Being caught lingering on the restricted level would most likely garner ill consequences.

Jack hurriedly pulled Annabelle into the stairwell and attempted to swing the door shut behind them. But it was one of those god-forsaken spring-hinge doors that wouldn’t close quickly and resisted direct pressure.

Jack let go of Annabelle’s arm and put his weight into it, just managing to secure the door a split second before a janitor stepped off of the elevator and into the hallway.

Annabelle took the moment to sigh in relief, but her breath once more caught in her throat and her eyes widened into golf-balls when the door emitted a loud clicking-into-place sound that could surely be heard by the man in the hallway beyond.

Jack swore under his breath and once more grabbed Annabelle, rushing her down the stairs as fast as she could travel.

They managed two full flights down before the door they’d just escaped through opened up and a young man poked his head into the stairwell. Though Annabelle and Jack were out of sight of the man, they were definitely not out of sound. They could hear him and he could hear them.

And they didn’t sound as if they were supposed to be there.

Annabelle felt panic rising up inside of her when she heard the man above them speak into some sort of hand-held radio. At least, that’s what she assumed it was.

“Martina, someone’s going down the stairs. Just got off of level fourteen.”

Jack and Annabelle kept moving, even as they could hear “Martina’s” amplified voice echo through the stairwell. “Yeah? So?” she asked, clearly not understanding why it was such a big deal that someone was taking the stairs.

“I don’t know, chica, it’s just that whoever it is, they’re running down them like El Diablo is at their back!”

“Eduardo, just check if everything’s all right.” Martina told him, her tone one of annoyance.

There was a pause in communication that Annabelle figured was Eduardo looking around on level fourteen. “Yeah, I guess so-”

And then Jack was punching through the stairwell door on the first floor and leading Annabelle out through the building’s lobby. When they were safely beyond both the elevators and stairs, they slowed and Jack put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her near.

“Cozy?” she asked. Her voice shook. That had been too close.

“More than you know,” Jack replied, his Sheffield accent teasing. There was a casual grace to the man that blew Annabelle away. She wanted to break into a sprint and run like a mad woman until she was long gone from Columbia University, but Jack meandered them at a maddeningly slow pace toward the front doors of the building and then, just as slowly, out into the night.

“You’re killing me, Jack,” she muttered, feeling her blood pressure rise.

He laughed, deep in his throat, and let his arm slide down until he was again holding her hand in his gloved fingers.

“Always wanted to hear that from you, luv. Different place and circumstances, perhaps, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Chapter Twenty

As much as Annabelle would like to get excited over the prospect of getting a hotel room with Jack, the truth was, she was exhausted. And it wasn’t the first time Jack had ever spirited her away to a hotel. Never had it been for overtly romantic reasons, either.

Every time they’d checked in some place together, Jack was either married at the time or had just finished killing someone and she had mistakenly witnessed it. Okay, so that had only happened the one time. Still, she counted it as a weekend away with Jack, even if she had spent the entire time reasoning with herself that a man could still be a good man, even if he murdered others for a living.

Over time, Annabelle had simply grown used to the fact that human beings needed to sleep somewhere, eventually. And people who moved around a lot, the way Jack did, needed hotel rooms. She and Jack had ended up in a lot of hotels over the last ten years. Every time, out of respect for her privacy, Jack had either asked for two separate rooms or one large suite with two beds. And, out of a staunch need to establish her independence around him – and a gnawing nervousness about accepting any kind of monetary favors from Jack Thane - she’d always insisted on sharing the cost.

But when Jack had rather covertly slipped a bundle of large bills past her tonight to pay for the adjoining suites they would use, Annabelle had found herself unable to care a whole lot. Maybe it was the fact that she realized that a room in a hotel like this would cost a fortune that she couldn’t afford. Maybe she realized, along with a jolt of painful anguish in her gut, that she no longer had a job. Or maybe it was that she was tired. Or maybe it was all of those things and she was more than a little depressed and she simply couldn’t care.

She’d caught the surprised but frankly pleased expression on Jack’s handsome face when she hadn’t spoken up and insisted on paying her half. And he’d been gentleman enough not to say anything about it.

Now, Annabelle pulled off her jacket and un-did the belt loops holding the shoulder holster in place. She gently took the gun and placed it atop the bed stand, and then unclasped the snaps that encased it in the holster. She wanted to be able to pull it quickly if the need arose.

Then she sighed and her shoulders dropped. As she peeled off her clothes in the warm, dark room and let them drop to the plush carpet beside the bed, she turned to stare out the tall windows across the room. The glass was floor to ceiling, affording an amazing view. The twinkling sky line of New York City beckoned with its majesty. She wondered what all of those lights meant. All those windows and the people behind them, living their own separate lives.

She moved to the tall windows and stood gazing out. How many of those people were in trouble? Hiding? How many of them were lonely? Wasn’t it in some song that New York was the loneliest city in the world?

At that moment, Annabelle felt more lonely than she could have imagined.

And, it was at that moment that the door adjoining her room to Jack’s opened.

She turned at the sound. She’d left the door unlocked so that Jack could get in if there was an emergency.

Now he stood, framed by the light behind him, still fully dressed but for the head wrap, which he’d taken off at some point, and the gauntlet gloves, which he’d also shed. His blonde hair fell in loose curls to his shoulders. His tall black-clad frame nearly filled the doorway.

Annabelle gazed up at him. He’d gone stock-still, his blue eyes burning like sapphires in a desert. He was staring at her in a way he never had before. There was an expression on his face akin to hunger, to anger, to desperation.

She blinked and looked down, only then realizing that she was completely undressed.

Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t move. She did not make a break for the bed or for her clothes. She stood there, outlined by the skyline of New York, and let him look.

With quiet deliberation, Jack closed the door behind him and then locked it, never once taking his eyes off of her. Annabelle forced herself to breathe. It wasn’t easy. She watched him move slowly toward her. He was a towering figure of speed and strength and secrets, but he approached her like one would a caged lion.

She didn’t run. She was incapable of movement.

As he closed the distance between them, she recognized a fleeting reservation… He’s married… But the thought flitted before her mind’s eye, flickered into specks of dust, and then was blown away, along with the rest of her ability to reason.

Just before he cupped the back of her neck with his hand and bent to claim her lips in a kiss, she had just enough time to be thankful that she was on birth control.

And that was the last logical notion she had all night.

Jack stared down at the woman sleeping beside him. His hand rested on the curve of her waist. Her back was nestled against his chest. He listened to her breathe and his eyes traced the long, silken locks of her hair that fell in honeyed red and gold waves across the pillow.

He cursed himself inside. This was wrong in so many ways, he couldn’t count them. But, most importantly, it would change things between them. There was no going back now.

He’d protected her for so long. From him, from his life, from everything it stood for. And now he may as well stand her in front of a firing squad and hold his ears.

He brushed a lock from her cheek and admired the curve of her chin. He followed that curve down her throat to her rising and falling chest.

Christ.

He pulled his gaze away and laid back, staring up at the ceiling. He ran a hand over his face in frustration.

Last night, just after seeing Annabelle to her room, he’d received a phone call. He’d stepped away from the hall door, further into his room, to take the call.

His handler had a job for him. He wanted to meet the next night to give him the details. Jack agreed, contingent on his particular terms, as he always did. The handler was accustomed to this and the deal was made. Jack hung up and five hundred thousand dollars was deposited into a special account.

Jack had re-pocketed the phone and taken off his gloves and head wrap to run a hand through his thick blonde hair. Then he’d stood there at the windows, staring out over the vast mini-world that was The Big Apple.

And he’d felt lonely. Lonelier than he had in a long, long time.

He wanted to talk to Annabelle. She always pushed his loneliness away. She never failed to fill in the spaces inside of him that otherwise threatened to fill up with darkness.

With a set of his jaw, he determined to go to her and talk about what was going to happen the following morning.

Without heeding the distinct possibility that Annabelle could already be asleep or even be in the shower, and without even knocking, Jack had gone through their adjoining door and into her room.

All intent to discuss their current case flew from his mind the instant his eyes fell upon her naked form, silhouetted by the city’s sky line in the background.

She turned to look up at him and he’d seen the solitude in her own eyes. At that moment, every last shred of willpower and discipline dropped away from him, leaving him bare and vulnerable to the furious need burning through his blood.

There was no hope for him. And none for Annabelle.

It was a mistake, and he knew it, and he just didn’t care.

Now, as he gazed up at the tiles above him, he pondered that mistake. He would do it again in a heart beat. Without a second thought. And it would still be wrong. Not for him. Not wrong for him, at all. But for Annabelle.

He knew her well enough to know that she would feel guilty. She would beat herself up over this night as if a scarlet “A” had been burned into her chest. She wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye and that, right there, would be his undoing.

There was only one way to rectify this situation and that was by telling her the truth. Which truth did he tell her first, though? There were so many things he was keeping from her. There was the truth about his “marriages.” There was the truth about the men he’d hired to watch over her. The truth about how much danger she was in for even knowing him, much less liking him.

No. He mentally shook his head. Each of those would only make her hate him. She was a passionate woman. He’d seen her anger and knew how long she could hold on to a grudge. He couldn’t bring himself to be on the receiving end of that ire.

Oh, no? A little voice inside of him taunted. You would rather have her hate herself than hate you, eh? Coward.

Jack narrowed his gaze at the annoying conscious inside of him and mentally cursed.

Christ. What a bloody mess.

And to make matters much, much worse, now that he knew what she bloody-well felt like under all of her bullet-proof armor, there was no way in hell he was going to be able to concentrate enough to keep them safe over the next several days. Not only were the Colonel and some unknown second hired gun out to ensure their unfortunate demise, but Jack had a bloody, god damned job to do that night!

Life had become a circus and he felt like a ring leader dressed in big red shoes, carrying a flashing neon sign that read, “Royally F.U.B.A.R.”

He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose.

Annabelle stirred beside him. He rolled over onto his side, gently laying his hand on her small hip once more.

“Jack?”

“Yes, luv,” He found himself lowering his lips to her ear. He felt her shiver.

“Cold?”

“Why are you guys always asking me that?” she said, a hint of teasing in her tone.

Jack blinked. Us guys? What did she mean by that? But any concern he had for her words was quickly overshadowed by the realization that there was not a hint of self loathing in her lovely voice.

Before he could say anything, she yawned. When she was done, she stretched lazily beside him, like a long, lithe cat. “I’m hungry.”

Again, he blinked.

She wasn’t going to hate herself? She wasn’t going to hate him?

She rolled over to face him and, covering her mouth, she arched her brows inquisitively and asked, “You gonna stare down at me like that all day?”

He didn’t know whether to laugh that she was so courteous as to hide any hint of morning breath from him or to simply stare down at her all day, as she had suggested.

“Course not, luv,” he finally replied, his lips curling into a wicked smile. A hint of something nefarious flashed in his deep blue eyes.

She narrowed her own. “Don’t even think about it. Get out of bed and order some room service.”

The smile became a grin, flashing perfect white teeth. His grip tightened where it rested on her upper thigh. Hell, if she wasn’t going to hate him, he was bloody well going to take advantage of it.

“Now, Jack.” She lowered her tone to a dangerous level and defiance flashed in her own beautiful eyes.

He laughed out loud and rolled away from her, leaving the sheet behind.

When he did, Annabelle caught sight of the tattoo on his left shoulder. She had never seen it before. She’d never even seen his un-clothed back before, in all honesty. Before last night, she’d had no idea that the few scars she’d seen on his arms were much more plentiful across his abdomen and chest. As strong and sculpted as it was, his body frankly looked as if it had been to hell and back.

Her mother had once told her that each scar on a person’s body had a story to tell. If that were true, Jack’s body could fill a few volumes.

But the scars didn’t bother Annabelle. Not in the least. It was the tattoo that gave her pause.

It was an “81”, with a strange ring that looked like a thorny Celtic knot wrapped tightly around it. The tattoo, itself, even bore a scar. Just another of Jack’s near misses.

Which meant that he’d had it for a while.

Annabelle watched the assassin get out of bed, pull on his pair of jeans, and move to the phone that hung in a mounted cradle on the wall.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Jack.”

Jack turned to her, the phone in his hand. His brows were drawn. “What, luv?”

“How long have you been a Hell’s Angel?”

Jack’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, and his lips parted. Then recognition dawned on him and he looked to his left shoulder. As if realizing that he couldn’t see the damned tattoo from this vantage point, he lowered his gaze and took on a thoughtful expression. Then he put the phone back in its cradle and very slowly looked back up at her.

“A while.” He said, softly.

Annabelle watched him for a moment, their gazes locked inexorably together. And then, with tremendous will, she pulled her own gaze away, rolled over, and got out of the bed. She left the sheet on the mattress, figuring that there was no longer any part of her body she needed to hide from Jack Thane.

Without a word, she bent and picked up her clothes, piling them into one arm so that she could pick up her boots in the other. In harsh contrast to what normally happened when she was troubled, her mind was not filled with a multitude of racing thoughts and fears. Only one thought now presented itself to her.

If Jack hadn’t told her about this, then what else was he keeping from her?

It wasn’t like he’d simply forgotten to tell her, “Oh, hey, honey, I forgot to mention that I enrolled Billy in the 4-H club.” Or, “I signed us up for swim lessons every other Tuesday.” Or, “Didn’t I tell you that I used to belong to the KKK?”

No. A Hell’s Angels member was a member for life. Its riders lived – and died – by its code. “H” was the eighth letter of the alphabet. “A” was the first. If you were 81, you were 81 Forever. Plain and simple.

She’d been right about Jack. He was an angel, after all. And she’d been right about the Hell thing, too.

Jack watched Annabelle move through the room, lifting her clothes and shoes, and making her way silently to the bathroom. She never looked at him, and he could glean no one emotion from the enigmatic expression on her lovely face.

It was hard enough to watch the woman he loved naked, at last, and bending over and walking around in front of him with reckless abandon. To know he couldn’t go to her, pick her up, and throw her down on the bed and have his jolly old way with her was truly much more difficult. But, to realize that he loved her so bloody much that he absolutely respected her feelings and fears a whole hell of a lot more than his own shallow needs would have utterly floored him – if he hadn’t known it already.

When he heard the bathroom door softly close, he ran a hand through his hair and fell back against the wall, absently lifting the phone from its cradle once more.

Christ. He was really in the shitter now.

The least he could do was order breakfast.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Hello?”

Annabelle spared a glance up at Jack, who nodded once in encouragement. Annabelle licked her lips and spoke into the cell phone.

“Hi. Is this Virginia Meredith?”

There was a pause on the other end. Then, “Yes. May I ask who’s calling?”

Caller ID was probably supplying Meredith with a phone number, but it wouldn’t be one she recognized.

“My name is Annabelle Drake. I’m calling about Craig Brandt.” She paused a moment, allowing the name to sink in. “I… was wondering if you would be willing to meet with me. Craig was a friend of a friend’s. Teresa Anderson.”

The silence on the other end stretched. Annabelle swallowed. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed Virginia Meredith to say “yes.”

And then, as if she were speaking with a voice that might choke, Meredith asked, “Can you meet me at the Lavender Garden in an hour?”

Annabelle’s eyes flew open. She blinked. “Yes,” she said. “Definitely.”

The line went dead and Annabelle closed the cell phone and handed it back to Jack. “The Lavender Garden,” she said softly. “In an hour.”

“What’s the Lavender Garden?” Cassie asked.

Annabelle shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Jack popped open the phone again and pressed a speed-dial number. He put the phone to his ear. In a moment, he said, “Hey. Find the location and venue of the Lavender Garden in New York, would you?”

He waited and they all waited with him.

In another few minutes, he nodded. “Right. Thanks, mate.” He closed the phone and turned back to Annabelle. “It’s a multi-level used book store and coffee shop on the corner of Milwaukee and Sherman. Forty minute drive from here.”

Was there anything Jack Thane could not learn if he wanted to? Annabelle shook her head in wonder.

“Ri’, so we’d best be getting’ a move on,” Clara said as she stood from where she’d been seated on the arm of the sofa.

Jack turned to face his daughter. “Not you, Clara. You and your mother will stay here with Sam. This’ll just be Dylan, Annabelle and I.”

Clara’s gaze narrowed dangerously and she put her hands on her hips. “I don’t bloody-well think so, da’!”

“It makes sense, Clara,” Cassie interrupted, when she saw Jack’s gaze narrow as well. “Virginia Meredith isn’t expecting a parade of people. We all show up and we’ll scare the crap out of her. Dylan should go because this directly concerns him and Teresa was his mother. Annabelle has to go because she’s the one who made the call.” She hesitated then, glancing in Jack’s direction. He was leaning against the kitchen table, looking a bit like the Terminator, without the steroids.

She swallowed. “To be frank, Thane, you probably shouldn’t go either. You’ll scare her worse than we would.”

Jack smiled at that, the fire in his eyes dying down a little. “I’ll be across the street keeping an eye on you two,” he said to Annabelle and Dylan. They nodded their understanding.

Clara sighed and sat back down on the arm of the sofa, her arms crossed over her chest. It was clear she wasn’t having any fun. She had a gun in her holster and desperately wanted to use it. Her mother patted her arm sympathetically and through the thin fabric of her jacket pocket, Annabelle could see that the woman absently fingered the tazer she kept there.

Annabelle smiled to herself. Like mother, like daughter.

“Speaking of Sam, where is he?” Cassie asked then.

Dylan ran a hand through his curly hair and stifled a yawn. “He took off early this morning. Said he had something to take care of and would be back in a few hours.”

Jack nodded. Annabelle knew what he was thinking. Obviously, Sam had been called away for a job. It was the only thing he would leave this situation for. Assignments tended to take precedence in their line of work.

“There’s a taxi waiting,” Jack told them as he pushed off of the table and made his way to the front door. Annabelle and Dylan followed after him. “Don’t open the door for anyone. If they belong on this side of it, they’ll have a key to get them here. If they don’t have a key, go out the fire escape and take a taxi to Milwaukee and Sherman,” Jack instructed.

Cassie nodded and locked the door behind them.

Jack had the taxi driver drop him off a block away from the book store so that Meredith wouldn’t see him. Annabelle and Dylan continued on to the Lavender Garden, leaving the driver a ten dollar tip.

The two-story brick building had freshly painted wood trim in light purple and white, and below the windows on each side, painted lavender climbed the bricks and bloomed around the window panes. It was a lovely building, welcoming in a Thomas Kinkade kind of way. It was obvious that someone cared a great deal about the store and put in a good amount of time and effort into its appearance.

Annabelle glanced at Dylan, who nodded at her, and then she led him inside.

There was a small sleigh bell on the door that announced their arrival. Annabelle stood on the door step, taking in the surroundings. It looked like a large library, with a spiral staircase at the back and center of the giant room, and a second level that circled all the way around like a balcony.

“Are you Miss Drake?”

Annabelle turned to face the woman who had addressed her. She was a very small woman, several inches shorter than Annabelle, and probably thirty pounds lighter. Her hair was yellow-blonde and cut into a stylish, highlighted bob. She had green-gray eyes and long, long lashes. A tiny diamond nose ring accentuated her waifish, elf-like features.

“Yes. Are you Virginia?”

The petite, pretty woman nodded, smiling warmly. However, she gave a furtive glance in Dylan’s direction.

Annabelle pulled Dylan forward and introduced him. “This is Dylan Anderson – Teresa’s son.”

“Hi,” Dylan said, offering her his hand.

Virginia tilted her head to one side, her expression becoming at once sympathetic. “I’m so, so sorry about your mother, Dylan.”

Dylan’s eyes widened and he blushed a little. And then he remembered. And the color drained from his face. This hadn’t been what he was expecting. The condolence caught him off guard.

Annabelle hurried to come to the rescue.

“Miss Meredith, is there a place we can go to talk?”

“Of course,” she said, gesturing toward the spiral staircase across the vast library-like room. “We can talk upstairs.”

Annabelle followed her through the stacks of books and couldn’t help scanning the titles of them as she went. A lot of them were classics. Homer’s Iliad, To Kill A Mockingbird, Oliver Twist. A few of them were newer classic-type books, like Robert R. McCammon’s “Boy’s Life.” And then there were the books she’d never heard of but with titles interesting enough that she almost desperately wanted to stop and read their back-cover summaries.

When Meredith led them up the staircase and back to an office at the back of the store, it dawned on Annabelle that the small woman worked at the Lavender Garden.

As if she had read Annabelle’s mind, Virginia turned and offered her an explanatory smile. “I own the store,” she said, somewhat shyly. “Well, actually, I will own it. Some day. In, say, sixty years.” She opened the door and led them inside, gesturing to a few chairs that were around a round table at the center of the room. “Right now, Wells Fargo owns it. I pay them to let me work my butt off here.”

Annabelle and Dylan took seats at the small table and took off their jackets.

When Virginia sat down across from them at the round table, Annabelle got right to the point. “Miss Meredith-”

“Please, call me Ginnie. Or Merry. Either one.” She smiled warmly.

Annabelle blinked. “Okay, Ginnie.”

Ginnie nodded.

“Ginnie, the reason we’re here is…” She glanced at Dylan to make sure he was okay with this. He nodded at her, swallowing audibly.

“Dylan’s father, Max, was also killed recently. And we have reason to believe that his death and Teresa’s death are linked… To Craig’s death.”

This time, it was Ginnie’s turn to blink. Her eyes got very wide. She paled. “Oh my.”

“Obviously, you and Craig knew each other quite well,” Annabelle continued, making certain that her tone was gentle, her voice low.

“We were lovers,” she blurted, her color returning to paint her cheeks pink. She fidgeted in her seat, obviously a little stunned that she’d suddenly out-and-out admitted so much. With wide eyes, she went on to explain. “We were lab partners in school and we spent a lot of time together and…” Her voice trailed off, her cheeks reddening further. “Well… Anyway, we were close.” She looked down at the table, lowering her lids. Her countenance drained away, then, from friendly and jovial to poignant.

“I know how you feel,” Annabelle and Dylan both said at the same time.

They looked at each other. Surprised registered on Dylan’s features.

Ginnie looked up, her gaze sliding from one to the other. Then Annabelle looked away from Dylan and stared down at her hands for a moment before going on. “I’m so sorry, Ginnie, about what happened.”

She shook her head, biting her lip. “I don’t care what they tell me, I can’t believe that he would have been so careless as to leave his gas on and blow himself up. I have never believed it. I never will.”

“That’s what they told you happened?” Dylan asked. He was still stealing glances at Annabelle, obviously wondering what had happened to her that she would know how Virginia Meredith felt. But Annabelle knew that he wouldn’t bother her about it now. She and Dylan had been friends for a long time. He was probably not so much surprised as a little hurt that whatever had happened to her, she hadn’t already shared it with him.

“Yes. They said it was a gas explosion. But, the problem is, he didn’t have a gas stove. He had a gas-assisted fire place. Which he never used. Trust me, I know because I often asked him to light a fire so we could…” She trailed off again and then shrugged. “He didn’t like fire. Was afraid of it. He had a huge scar across his fore-arm from where a Bunsen burner had seared off all of his hair when he was in high school. He didn’t smoke, he never lit candles. Nothing.”

Annabelle nodded, digesting the information. “I believe you, Ginnie.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. Then she leaned forward and looked Meredith straight in the eyes. “The truth is, Craig was murdered. He was murdered because of something that he discovered while he was working for a pharmaceutical company called MediSign. And the Andersons were killed for the same reason.”

Again, Ginnie blinked. If the color had drained from her face the first time, she looked positively ghostly now. “M-…” She stammered, her mouth went slack, she blinked again, and then she tried to speak once more. “Murdered?” Her voice was so soft now, if they hadn’t been alone in a very quiet room, the other two would not have heard her.

Annabelle nodded, once. “Yes.”

“They killed my mother for something on her laptop,” Dylan said. “We think that it was something Craig Brandt gave to her or told her. They killed my dad six years later – the day before yesterday – because he found the laptop.” He stopped and licked his own lips, looking down at the table for a long while before he went on. “Do you have any idea what-”

“Yes.”

Annabelle and Dylan both stared at the small blonde. “What?” they asked, simultaneously.

“Yes,” she repeated, her voice dry but urgent. “I think I know what it was.”

“Are - are you serious?” Annabelle asked, her heart suddenly racing.

“Yes,” she nodded, becoming excited now. “Because he gave me something and told me to hide it and, well, not show it to anyone or tell anyone about it. But, now…” She paused, fidgeting. “Well, he’s dead, and I just know in my heart that I’m supposed to give it to you.” She attempted a smile. It lit up her face.

“You know, in your heart?” Annabelle asked, feeling stupid immediately upon asking the question.

“Yep,” Ginnie said, nodding. “Actually, when you called, I knew it. I get feelings sometimes. And I’m never wrong.” She smiled brightly now; telling them about her superpower made her happy. “Actually, I sense I’m not the only one at this table who gets them sometimes.” She turned her gaze on Annabelle and narrowed it.

Dylan looked from her to Annabelle and back again. He blinked at her and then looked down at the table again and cleared his throat.

The sound seemed to pull Ginnie back to the bleak subject at hand. She straightened and forced her face into a more serious expression. “Tell you what,” she said, leaning forward. “Come see me after the lunch hour and I’ll tell you where it is. I hid it, like he asked. But I can give you a map.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. Annabelle and Dylan followed suit.

“I close down for an hour from twelve to one.” She looked down at her little silver watch. “So, two hours? Come back then?”

Annabelle nodded as they made their way to the door to the office and Ginnie opened it for them, leading the way back out into the store and toward the winding staircase.

“My apartment’s not too far from here. Just a ten minute walk or so. I go home for lunch every day. I love to cook,” she explained, talking to them over her shoulder as they descended the stairs. “In fact, I almost couldn’t decide between opening my own restaurant and opening a bookstore.”

“What happened to the medical stuff?” Annabelle asked, wondering why she’d gone to Columbia if she was going to become a small business owner.

“I had to read so many sucky books in school and eat so many buckets of take-out, it just proved to me that it must not be my thing,” she explained, coming to the first floor and turning to face them as they stepped down. “Craig was always telling me as much. All of those Kung-Pao Chickens and medical journals...” She shook her head and grimaced. They came to the base of the stairs and made their way down one of the stacks of books to the main entrance of the store. “I yearned for real food and real books. So, it was one or the other. Books won out.” She gestured to the store around her.

Annabelle smiled back at her. “Ginnie, thank you for helping us with this.”

“It’s my pleasure.” She turned to Dylan. “I only hope that you can use what I give you to get to the bottom of this.”

Dylan and Annabelle nodded one last time and then left the store.

Across the street, a blue-eyed man in black leather watched a strawberry-blonde woman and a tall, lanky teenager with curly brown hair step out onto the sidewalk. Jack finished his coffee, stood, and tossed the paper cup into the trash can several feet away, never taking his eyes off of the couple across the street. When he walked through the door of the Starbucks, several college-aged women watched him leave.

Jack hailed a taxi and motioned to Annabelle and Dylan, who caught sight of him and crossed the street.

“How’d it go?” he asked as they ducked into the back of the cab.

“You won’t believe me when I tell you,” Annabelle answered. “But, we can’t go far because we have to be back in two hours.”

“Why’s that?”

“Craig Brandt gave his girlfriend something important to hide before he died. And she’s going to give it to us.”

Chapter Twenty-two

As they rode south toward a small bakery where they hoped to get more coffee and an early lunch, Annabelle pulled her hair tie out and ran her hand through her long locks, freeing them from the braid. Her hair hadn’t had a chance to completely dry that morning and Annabelle always liked how soft it was when it dried in the sun.

Plus, it gave her something to play with while she mulled things over.

There was a lot to mull over. She stole a glance up at Jack, who sat in the front seat with the taxi driver. As if sensing her eyes on him, he cocked his head to one side, turning slightly in her direction. She hurriedly looked away.

All morning, they’d managed to put their own personal issues on a back burner so that they could deal with the more pressing matters of Craig Brandt and the Andersons’ murderers. However, she knew good and well that she had not been the only one suffering for it. Her blood pressure must be through the roof. She had so many things she wanted to say to Jack – so many things she wanted to ask him – that she could scarcely keep her mind on what she was doing or saying at any given point in time.

Luckily, Virginia Meredith had been an interesting enough character that it had helped to focus Annabelle on the matters at hand. Meredith hadn’t been anything like what Annabelle expected. The voice on the other end of the phone conversation had been the same, but she’d expected a past medical student to be more… stodgy. Uptight. Taller. Meredith had to be less than five feet. Genuinely sweet. Almost bubbly. Knowing nothing about her or her past, a perfect stranger would most likely come away from a chance meeting with the blonde and describe her as an “air head” or the like.

But Annabelle could already see what Brandt would find attractive in Ginnie. Meredith was like a ray of sunshine on a rainy day. Like that Indian Summer in a land where winter was a dreaded, white death.

And she was psychic! That had to be a plus!

Annabelle smiled to herself at that thought. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in such things, per se, it was just that they’d never played a central role in her own philosophy. Still, if Meredith said she was psychic, than who was Annabelle to tell her she was wrong?

Now she frowned as she found herself wondering what it might have been that Brandt left behind with the petite blonde. What would a twenty-something year-old med student think was so important, and so dangerous, that he would need to leave it with someone he trusted – to hide?

And once she asked herself that question, Annabelle realized, with some trepidation, that whatever it was, it was about to become un-hidden and given to her.

Virginia Meredith turned her key in the gold knob and pushed open the door of her apartment. She crossed the threshold, adjusting her purse on her shoulder, and then paused. She lifted her chin, as if scenting the air for something. And then she frowned, blinked, and came the rest of the way in, closing the door behind her.

With the practiced aim of one who had done so a thousand times, she threw her purse onto the couch across the room, where it landed, face-up, against the throw pillows. Then she moved into the adjoining kitchen, and, once there, she stopped and looked around her, as if suddenly not understanding where she was.

Lemon gnocchi with spinach and peas. That’s what she had wanted for lunch today. She’d been craving it from the moment she’d woken up until she’d gotten the phone call from Annabelle Drake. Since that time, however, all she’d been able to think about was Craig. And the thing he’d given to her to hide.

Six years.

Six years…

Virginia turned around and left the kitchen, making her way to the couch as if she were a zombie. She sat down and gazed toward the window, not really looking out through it so much as looking inward. Remembering.

So much had happened in the six years since Craig’s death. Before he died, they’d actually talked about getting married. Having kids. They both wanted tons of them. Virginia always talked about how she would cook gourmet meals for them to put in their lunches. How they would read to them. She and Craig both loved books. Different kinds, but books, nonetheless.

Since then, Virginia had dated other men. A few, here and there. One or two of them might have even worked out; they might have given her that family she’d always wanted. But she’d dumped them and moved on, not really knowing why.

Until now.

Six years isn’t long enough to kill love. Love, in all of its god-forsaken perfection, is immortal. How horrible is that? How unfair? When people are so fragile, when life is so fleeting. Where does God get off making something so strong that lasts so much longer than we do?

Virginia found herself sitting back against the couch. Absently, she brushed the back of her hand against her cheek. It came away wet. She looked down at the smeared tears and her brow furrowed. She suddenly felt more lost, in that moment, than she ever had before.

And, it was at that moment that a sound escaped from the bathroom down the hall.

Virginia sat up like a bolt. Her mind was at once painfully alert.

It had sounded like the shower curtain rings sliding over the curtain rod. Her ears strained to hear more. And there it was. A rustle and a footfall.

Someone was in her apartment.

Annabelle sat straight suddenly, her hand pausing in its downward swipe through her long hair. She stared out the window, her brow furrowed. Something had pulled her out of her reverie.

Their surroundings looked familiar. In fact…

“Weren’t we just here?” she asked. She’d zoned out over the last few minutes, her mind on the matter of Craig Brandt and the somewhat more distracting matter of Jack Thane in bed.

“Yes. We’ve turned around,” Dylan told her from beside her in the back seat of the cab.

“Why?”

“Because I’m a bloody fool,” Jack told her from the front seat. He turned to face them both, an agitated expression on his handsome face. His blue eyes were sparking with barely-kept tension. “We never should have left Meredith alone.” He shook his head. “What was I thinking?” He seemed to be talking to himself. Then, to them, he said, “We haven’t managed to go without a tail for more than a few hours thus far. Virginia Meredith is as good as dead.”

Annabelle’s eyes widened. “I’ll call her.” She held her hand out for Jack’s phone, but he shook his head, his eyes boring into hers. “It’s no use, Bella. I already tried to contact her. No answer.”

He had? When had he done that? While she was staring blankly out the window day-dreaming about his sexual prowess, most likely. She blanched.

“No answer?”

Again, he shook his head. Once. “None whatsoever. It went to voicemail.”

Virginia’s scream died in her throat when she hit the back of the couch and it dug itself into her diaphragm, choking the breath from her lungs. She dropped to the floor and then scrambled, still breathless, across the hardwood floor.

Her attacker followed her easily, stalking her around the living room. So far, he hadn’t spoken a word to her. He had merely appeared in her hallway in time to stop her from making it fully to the door and out into the apartment’s main corridor.

Then he had slapped her, not hard enough to knock her out, but hard enough to send her stumbling backward into the coffee table in the living room. She’d gone for her purse next, attempting to make it to her cell phone. But, again, he stopped her, making it to the purse first and dumping the contents of the entire bag out onto the faux fur rug. They watched her phone bounce once and land near the leg of the coffee table.

Before she could contemplate making another dive for the cell, he was crushing it beneath his boot. It wasn’t hard. The man must have weighed in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds. Not much of it was fat, either.

When this had happened, Virginia’s dread kicked up a notch. She tried to consider her options. There wouldn’t be any running out the door, because he stood in-between the exit and herself. She had no landline into the apartment. Her cell was her only means of communication with the outside world. She had a computer and did possess cable internet service, but she highly doubted that her attacker would sit back and wait patiently while she typed out an email SOS.

That left the fire escape. There was nothing in between it and herself except the dining room table and a sliding glass door.

She had stood still, breathing heavily out of terror, and trying, with every fiber of her being, not to give herself away by stealing a furtive glance toward the glass doors. She’d slowly inched her way around the coffee table, her back to the fire escape exit.

And then she had heard that same glass door open slide open behind her.

“Took you long enough,” the man in front of her had said, speaking to someone over her shoulder. Virginia had been nearly overwhelmed, then, with terror-induced nausea. Her heart was in her stomach as she slowly turned around.

Another man was standing there, this one just as tall, but skinny as a rail. The expression on his ugly face was nothing if not mean. “Hello, sweet heart.” He’d grinned at her, exposing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.

So, Virginia chose to exercise the only option that had been left to her at that point. She opened her mouth and screamed.

Which was when the big guy had spun her around and slammed her against the couch. It had been deftly done, as if he’d know just how to get her in the solar plexus and knock the wind from her body.

Now, she crawled across the living room floor, attempting in vain to gain back a little air. Her head pounded and her vision was blurring. Having a bit of a medical education, she knew enough to recognize that the swimming dots and tunneling vision in front of her were due just as much to fear as they were to a lack of oxygen in her system.

She was having a panic attack. A part of her wanted to give in to the attack and let it take her under, where the men couldn’t hurt her any longer or do anything worse to her. But another part of her fought the impending darkness and yanked her out of unconsciousness with a ferocity that can only come from the human old-brain’s intense aversion to death.

Her lungs expanded and she swallowed in gulps of air.

Someone grabbed her by her hair and began to pull her into a standing position. She cried out, coughing with the effort, and grabbed the man’s hand, instinctively pulling on it to relieve the pressure in her scalp.

“We’re gonna ask you some questions, pretty, and if you answer nicely, we’ll forego the worst of the torture. How’s that sound?” It was the skinny one. His breath smelled like onions and digesting sausage.

She gagged and tried to turn away from him, but his hand in her hair prevented any real movement.

Her mind was spinning. Think, Virginia, think! “Just let me go and we’ll talk,” she croaked out.

Jack threw open the door to the taxi and began running down the block before the driver even came to a full stop.

“Wait here!” Annabelle told the man, and then followed after Jack. Dylan was hot on her heels. At full speed, Annabelle had a very hard time keeping up with Jack, who she knew was not running nearly as fast as he could. He didn’t exactly want to leave the two of them behind and vulnerable, even if he did want to make it to Meredith’s apartment as soon as possible.

So, Annabelle forced any discomfort she felt in her body, especially her damned hips, to a backburner in her consciousness and tried, very hard, to ignore it. She pushed herself as hard as she could, focusing on the sweet blonde woman who owned The Lavender Garden, and her impending doom should they not make it to her rescue on time.

And several yards ahead, sprinting at a racer’s pace, Jack continued to silently beat himself up. He’d been so preoccupied with Annabelle, in so many damned different ways, he’d self-fulfilled his own bloody prophecy about his inability to concentrate eventually getting someone killed.

He no longer bothered to ask himself how he could have been so blind, because the answer was plainly clear to him. And it didn’t exactly matter, anyway. In the end, what was done was done. What mattered now was amending the mistake and getting to Virginia Meredith before the Colonel’s men or Godrick Osborne tortured the truth out of her or killed her out-right.

The latter was sure to come after the former, in the end, anyhow. So Jack hoped that, at the very least, it took a little while for the young woman to break.

The skinny man let go of Virginia’s blonde hair and gestured toward the couch. He was still grinning lecherously. She put her hand over her mouth, willing the bile to stay in her stomach.

Just get them out of here…

She slowly made her way to the couch and sat down. She was shaking badly. She wondered if she was going to die, and what she could possibly do to prevent it.

She swallowed, but almost choked on it because her mouth was so dry. She knew why they were there, in her apartment. She knew it was no coincidence that they’d shown up just hours after her phone call from and meeting with Annabelle Drake. They were there because of Craig and the thing he’d given her to hide. The secret he’d left in her care.

“Now then,” the skinny man began, “let’s talk about your old boyfriend and what it is he left for you, why don’t we?”

“What do you want to know?” she stalled. Her jaw began to ache with the effort she put forth to keep her teeth from chattering together.

The skinny man’s grin faltered. His eyes narrowed. “If you wanna play games with me, sweetie-pie, I can think of some better ones.”

She held up her hand, which was shaking so much that it looked as if she had Parkinson’s disease. “No – what I mean is, do you want to know what it was,” she asked, blinking as she again tried to swallow a dry lump of fear down into her gullet, “or where it was?”

The skinny man blinked. Then he glanced at the big man, who still stood across the room. The expressions they exchanged were nervous.

“What do you mean ‘was’?” The skinny man asked.

Virginia steeled her nerves. Keep it together, she told herself. You can do this. She took a shaky breath. “I already gave it away,” she said, managing to inject some resolve into her tone. “You aren’t the first people to ask me for it today.” This, she knew, they would already be aware of. So, it only reinforced her own act.

It was several long seconds before either of the men spoke. They looked at one another and then back at her. The skinny man narrowed his gaze at her and she surprised herself by meeting it head-on. And then he pulled a cell phone out of his front pocket and pushed a button on its pad.

Jack stepped back from the locked door of the apartment complex and scanned his surroundings. There was a keypad on the main entrance door. Through the tiny chicken-wire-reinforced window in the thick metal-lined door, Jack could see a small lobby with mail boxes along one wall. A stairwell and elevator occupied most of the wall on the other side.

Annabelle and Dylan came around the corner at the end of the block. He spared a glance in their direction and then turned his attention back to the door. He thought about it for a few seconds. And then he stepped back into the shadow of the awning.

When Annabelle reached Jack, it was to find him pulling out his gun and screwing a silencer onto the end of its barrel. Her eyes widened. She looked around nervously, but no one was watching. Instinctively, she crowded close to him, wanting to shield his actions from the view of passers-by.

“Can’t get in any other way?”

“We don’t have time.”

Dylan joined them then and she shot him a meaningful glance. He looked down at Jack’s gun and then back up at her and Annabelle knew that his expression mirrored her own.

A motorcycle passed by on the street and Jack pulled his trigger. The strange sound it made was masked by the bike’s engine. The keypad smoked and lay lopsided against the door. Jack wasted no time ripping the door handle off with his gloved hands and swinging the broken door outward.

The skinny man watched Virginia closely as someone on the other end of the connection spoke into his ear. Then he closed the phone and re-pocketed it. The lecherous sneer on his face was gone now. It was replaced with a more serious expression. One almost regretful.

He pulled a gun out of a holster beneath his jacket and pointed it at her. “Last chance, pretty. You sure you gave it away? You sure you don’t want to make it magically appear out of thin air?”

Her next breath hitched, refusing to enter her already sore lungs. Her eyes were the size of saucers. Dread encased her in a cloak so dark and cold that her vision once more began tunneling inward.

She couldn’t make what Craig gave to her appear out of thin air. And even if she did – even if she told them where it was – they were going to kill her. Either way. No matter what. She knew it with every fiber of her being. The skinny man’s gun was going to go off.

I never called to thank dad for the check, she thought to herself. It was a fleeting regret, floating before a mind that was quickly spinning into oblivion.

The skinny man shrugged. His form was outlined by the sun shining through the still-opened sliding glass doors that led to the fire escape. It made him look like a demented angel. “Sorry, sweetie-pie. You’re a cute little morsel, but we gotta go now.”

Virginia opened her mouth to scream, somehow subconsciously deciding that if she was going to go, it would be while making some noise. But the big man standing behind her slipped a giant callused hand over her mouth, silencing her final outcry.

And then there was a blur behind the skinny man. It was red and blue and brown and was carrying something long and thin. That long, thin thing swung through the air like the blade of a helicopter, blurring just like the rest of the figure.

There was a strange thunking-popping sound, and the skinny man went down, dropping like a meager sack of potatoes. The bullet he fired burned a hole in the couch beside Virginia and slipped out the back to embed itself in the big man’s upper thigh.

The big guy released Virginia’s mouth and doubled over in pain. As he did so, there was further fast movement beside Virginia and the long hard instrument, a Louisville Slugger, slammed into the side of the big man’s head as well, taking him down along with his under-fed compatriot.

The room was suddenly, shockingly, still. Still, but for the sound of two sets of lungs breathing heavily – one out of fear, one out of exertion. Virginia looked from the fallen figures on the floor to the man who stood beside the couch, a baseball bat in one hand, green-gray eyes gazing intently down at her.

She stared for a long, long time.

And then, with a trembling voice nearly too quiet to hear, Virginia whispered, “Craig?”

Jack closed his phone, taking the stairs two at a time. The man on the other end had just told him which apartment number was Virginia Meredith’s. Annabelle and Dylan raced up the stairs behind him. A part of him wanted to tell them to stay behind and keep out of the way, but he knew they wouldn’t listen, even if he did.

At least, Annabelle wouldn’t.

And if Annabelle wouldn’t, Dylan wouldn’t either.

So, Jack just moved fast and kept his requests to himself. He made it to the third floor and ran down the hallway to the fourth door on the right and didn’t hesitate before turning the knob and bursting inside, his gun drawn and held at the ready.

Annabelle rushed in behind Jack, her eyes scanning the setting and its inhabitants with somewhat surprising speed. Instinctively, she’d drawn her own gun, and now gripped it tightly with both hands. But, instead of a scene of torture and terror, what she found herself studying was Virginia Meredith sitting on the couch, a man seated beside her, and two men, dressed in sports coats and jeans, unconscious on the hard wood floor. Small, dark pools of blood were spreading beneath their heads.

Jack was aiming his weapon at the man on the couch. But within short seconds, he was lowering the gun and re-holstering it.

Annabelle wasn’t sure what it was he’d decided about the couple, but whatever it was, it must have meant that the man was not a threat. And the two bodies on the floor probably confirmed as much.

Jack slid his gun back into its holster and adjusted his leather jacket over it. His gaze never left that of the man on the couch, who was holding Virginia Meredith’s hands in his own. Annabelle noticed that Virginia was crying. Actually, now that she looked more closely, she saw that both of them were crying. Virginia’s expression was stricken. The man’s was helpless.

And then Jack took a deep breath, glanced once more at the two fallen men on the floor, and came the rest of the way into the apartment, closing the door behind them as Annabelle and Dylan followed him in.

When he’d shut it and re-locked it, he turned back to the man on the couch. With a tone much less mystified than Annabelle would have expected, considering what he was about to ask, Jack said, “Mr. Brandt, I presume?”

Annabelle’s eyes widened.

Dylan’s must have too, because under his breath, he muttered, “No fucking way…”

Craig Brandt, for his part, only took a deep breath, slowly stood, and nodded.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jack had called in re-enforcements. It took roughly an hour for all of them, working together, to clean the mess in Virginia Meredith’s apartment. The bodies, Jack and Sam disposed of. The blood, Annabelle wiped up from the hard wood floor. The towels used for the job were also taken by Sam and disposed of. And the one blood stain on Virginia’s faux fur rug was brilliantly exercised by Beatrice. Who, apparently, was just made to be the perfect spouse to an assassin or… say… a mobster.

The apartment was incredibly intact and undamaged for the sight of a double-homicide. Which was fortunate, because, once they’d finished up, Jack was able to simply right the couch back into its original position and then sit down on it to face Craig and Virginia, who had once more taken their places on the love seat opposite him.

Jack opened his mouth to speak, and Craig held up his hand in placation.

“Look, Mr. Thane, I already know what you’re going to say; what you’re going to ask. So, why don’t I just save you the trouble and tell you what’s going on?” He offered.

Jack’s brow raised and he sat back into the couch. He shrugged, gesturing for Craig to continue. Craig nodded.

Annabelle studied him. Brandt wasn’t a bad looking man; probably standing at just under six feet, with an athlete’s build. He wore blue jeans and a red t-shirt over a long-sleeved white thermal. His hair was brown and wavy, resembling Dylan’s.

Annabelle sat down in the plush tufted chair in between the two couches. Sam stood by the front door, as if guarding it. Dylan took up guard duty at the double glass sliding doors, which were now covered by drawn curtains.

Clara and Beatrice joined Annabelle, standing on either side of the tufted seat as if she were their queen. She smiled at the thought, and then forced herself to concentrate on the issue at hand.

“I knew I was in trouble when Teresa was killed,” Craig began. “I discovered the cure in the middle of the night and sent her an email right away. I couldn’t have been more idiotic, I know that now. But we were best friends. We went to the same grade school and high school together. I was best man at her and Max’s wedding.” He shook his head, as if disgusted with himself. “I was going to present my findings to Mr. Osborne the next day. Teresa immediately sent me an email back, ecstatic for me. She wished me luck.”

“That night, she was killed. I got the news the next morning. Max called me.”

He stopped, swallowing repeatedly. They let him re-gain control of his faculties and, in a few minutes, he went on. “That day, I realized what had happened. Somehow, I just put two and two together. I saw the grant, the cure, Teresa’s death – all of it. And I knew my life was in danger too. So, I decided to leave town.”

“I called in sick to work and thought about where the hell I would go. I needed a duffel bag big enough to put more than one set of clothes in. All I had were the small ones, since I used to play a lot of sports.” He sighed. “I figured it would be best if I bought one new. And then, when I was thinking about this, I realized that if I went off the radar, my cure would have to disappear as well.” He became more animated now, his voice raising slightly as he continued. “I couldn’t let my discovery die along with the memory of Craig Brandt.” He looked at each of them in turn. “I went out the fire escape of my apartment because it was a lot faster than going down the main stairs or using the elevator. And because I didn’t want to be seen.”

He looked at Jack, who nodded once in understanding.

“I ran down the alleys behind my apartment complex and then took a taxi a few blocks away.” He looked at Virginia. “I came here.” She was watching him silently, her eyes glistening with more, un-shed tears. She gave him a small smile. He squeezed her hand and went on.

“I gave a vial of the solution to her, along with a note that contained the calculations necessary to reproduce it.” He turned back to them. “I told her to hide it and she promised she would. But, she almost didn’t let me leave again.” He smiled at this and Virginia lowered her head as her cheeks flushed pink. “She told me I shouldn’t return home and that it was too dangerous.” He paused and gently cupped her face in his hand. “She was right.”

“I took a taxi back to the same place I’d picked it up and got out. I still needed to buy a bag and pack, so I headed down the sidewalk toward a convenience store at the corner.”

He paused, and Annabelle could tell that he was remembering. He’d gone very still. His color had paled and his gaze slipped to the floor.

“And then there was an explosion. It rocked the whole block. I hit the pavement, just like everyone else.” His voice became very soft, taking on a far-off quality. “This is New York; the pain was still very fresh in all our minds – not enough time had gone by.” He shook his head slowly, once. “We thought the world was coming to an end. All over again.”

Everyone in the room nodded in silent understanding.

And then he seemed to square his shoulders and re-focus. He went on. “When we stood back up and looked around, I realized that the smoke was coming from my apartment complex. They’d blown it away.”

He stopped again, swallowing against something that had formed in his throat. “They meant to kill me. Instead, they’d killed my cats. I hadn’t had time to get them out. To say nothing of packing. I had… Nothing.”

“You went into hiding, pretending to be dead.” Dylan said the words softly. His own expression was as lost as any Annabelle had ever seen. He was even more pale than Craig. He looked like a ghost. She knew he was wishing that his own parents had done such a thing. At the very least, his father, who obviously knew he was in trouble or he wouldn’t have left this puzzle trail for his son to follow.

“Yes,” Craig nodded. “And I’ve been hiding ever since.”

Annabelle wondered whether she should get up and go to Dylan; give him a hug. But even as she wondered this, Clara moved toward him instead.

“There, there,” she whispered softly, placing her hand gently on his shoulder. He looked at her and his eyes widened slightly. Then a bit of color returned to his cheeks and he cleared his throat.

Annabelle’s brows raised. She looked over at Jack. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were locked on the two teenagers as if drawn there by magnets.

“How did you know Miss Meredith was in trouble?” he asked, without taking his eyes from his daughter and Dylan.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on her,” Craig admitted. He turned back to look at her. Now it was his turn to blush. Virginia blinked, obviously not knowing exactly what to think of that.

Jack took a slow, deep breath and let it out through his nose as he pulled his gaze away from the couple standing by the sliding glass doors and ran a hand through his hair. He stared across at Craig and then at Virginia. “I’m afraid you’re both going to have to disappear for a while now,” he told them. “Not just from New York. Osborne’s reach extends beyond the boundaries of the city. You’ll have to leave the country.”

Virginia’s eyes widened. “But my store-”

“Will have to be closed due to an unexpected family emergency,” he told her, before she could even finish voicing her objection.

“It’s not as hard as you would think,” Craig told her, turning to face her once more. But, her brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to object again.

Jack caught this one too. “Or, you can stay here and get tortured and killed,” he told her flatly, stealing another agitated glance toward his daughter.

Annabelle bit her lip.

It really wasn’t funny.

“I’ll ‘elp you pack,” Beatrice said, coming around the chair to take a seat on the couch, sandwiching Virginia Meredith in between her and Craig. “It won’t take us long at all, luv. I’ve done it lots of times.”

That got Jack’s attention once more. He turned to look at Beatrice, who had her hand on Meredith’s shoulder, just as Clara had with Dylan. His expression became troubled.

He blinked and looked down at the floor.

And then he stood. “An hour. No more,” he instructed. Then he turned to Sam, who was watching him carefully. Annabelle saw the look they exchanged. Then Sam stepped aside and Jack left the apartment. Sam closed and locked the door behind him.

Annabelle sat there in the chair as Virginia, Craig, and Beatrice stood and made their way down the hall to one of the rooms beyond.

Behind her, Clara excused herself to go to the restroom and Dylan stepped out onto the balcony “to get some air”.

Annabelle shook her head. Well, well, she thought. ‘Love is a many splendored thing.’

A storm of massive proportions was raging in Jack Thane’s mind. He could not believe how stupid he’d been over the last twelve hours. Ever since he’d slept with Annabelle…

Craig Brandt had been keeping an eye on Virginia Meredith. That meant that he’d seen Annabelle and Dylan talking to her at Meredith’s store. The simple fact that Jack had failed to notice another man monitoring the goings-on at The Lavender Garden lent credence to the fact that he was way, way off his game. Never had he screwed up this badly before. It was just embarrassing. Worse, it was deadly.

He’d made some incredibly impressive mistakes. He’d dragged every single person he cared about into a toxic, lethal situation. And then, just to make sure that everything was as bad as it could possibly get, he’d done something that had managed to royally fuck up any hope he had of keeping them safe.

He’d fulfilled a desire he’d had for ten years. But it hadn’t had the effect it should have had. It was pure hell to find that when you scratched an itch, that itch only got worse.

She was all he could think about now and it was going to get them all killed.

“Bugger and hell,” he muttered under his breath. He moved through the alleys, making good time, his boots pounding out the pavement as fast as his thoughts spun in his head. “Fuck,” he added. “Shit and piss and bugger fuck,” he finished, running his hand through his hair for good measure.

Okay, he was starting to feel better.

He continued through the back streets and alleys of Manhattan. Jack had made sure that the meeting place he and his handler had decided upon was not far from Meredith’s apartment. He needed to pick up the profile on his mark and he didn’t want to waste too much time doing it. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t have access to the transportation he really wanted. He just hadn’t had the time or opportunity to pick up a bike and didn’t feel like being locked in a cage right now.

He needed air. He needed wind.

But it would have to wait. He turned the corner, exiting onto a busy city sidewalk, and then crossed the street with a throng of pedestrians. He made it to another corner and ducked back into the alley.

Since his childhood, he’d been moving through the shadowy labyrinth of the alleyways of the world. In Sheffield, there were a plethora of them. He’d had more than his fair share of time to traverse them. Over the years, he’d learned which alleys would let him through, and which turns would dead end, blocking him off and sending him back the way he’d come.

Now, as he moved through them, avoiding beggars and drug dealers and getting closer to his destination, his conscious mind was on anything but the human refuse of the city. That, he circumvented on auto-pilot.

His mind was now on Beatrice and the fact that, as she’d mentioned in Meredith’s apartment, she’d had to pack quite often during their marriage. It was true. He’d dragged her all across Great Britain, and even Europe. It had been par for the course of wedding an assassin who hadn’t yet made a large enough footprint to allow him to bed down in relative safety, protected by the multitude of employees he now hosted to keep himself and the ones he loved secure.

He regretted that.

But, then, he wondered why he should regret it. After all, she’d known what she was getting into. And, come to think of it, he wasn’t sure she regretted it all that much.

Still… There were the children to consider. Ian was still too young to notice it much. But what had it done to Clara?

The teenager knew how to break and enter undetected, pack for a week in five minutes, get out of a pair of handcuffs unaided, and aim and fire a handgun, for Christ’s sake. Was that especially healthy for a girl her age?

Dylan has been through worse.

That thought brought him up short in the alley. He stopped in his tracks as the image of Clara and Dylan floated before his mind’s eye.

It’s innocent, he told himself.

Is it?

Of course, it is. She’s a good girl. She hates to see people in pain.

But, would it even be so bad if it wasn’t all that innocent? He wondered about that.

She’s not a toddler, he reasoned. She could do worse. He’s a bright boy. And he’s involved now…

It’s innocent!

Fine. Whatever you say.

Christ…

He was bloody talking to himself. Without even speaking. This was all enough to make him want to put his head in a cannon and light the bloody fuse. It would save him the pain of fighting with Annabelle over flying to England, at the very least.

Because he was really looking forward to that. It was bound to be a boat load of bloody fun.

He swore under his breath once more and began moving again. He arrived at his destination with another turn around a corner. An Indian restaurant waited half-way down the street. He ducked in, sparing a glance around to make sure no one really noticed.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Annabelle glanced in to the room as she passed by in the hallway. Craig and Virginia were still sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, talking. They’d been conversing for the last hour and a half, and she wasn’t surprised at it. They had a lot to discuss. He’d been gone for a long time. Virginia had lived a separate life for just as long.

And they loved each other. That, alone, was a conversation piece.

The group of them – Annabelle, Beatrice, Clara, Cassie, Dylan, Craig, Virginia, and Sam – had been in Sam’s apartment for a few hours now. Jack had been gone for three. Annabelle guessed that Jack had basically left them to Sam’s charge, trusting him to keep them safe while he went off and…

And what?

Well, as much as she sort of wanted to ignore the verity, she was pretty sure that he was out whacking someone. It was his job, after all.

Annabelle moved down the hall to the last room, where Dylan had gone some time ago, to be alone. Everyone else was in the kitchen, drinking black vanilla-caramel tea and talking about the shock that of Craig Brandt being alive. Except for Beatrice, who claimed that she’d known it all along. Cassie had rolled her eyes at that.

Annabelle knocked on the door.

“Yeah?” Dylan’s tone was tired.

“Dylan, it’s me, Annabelle. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Annabelle opened the door to find him sitting on the guest bed, in almost exactly the same position that Craig and Virginia had been sitting in on Sam’s bed. She joined him there and put her hands in her lap. She stared down at them.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” he began quietly.

“Really?” Annabelle asked, her brows lifting.

“You’re going to tell me that my dad didn’t have time to go into hiding. He was killed mere hours after he found the information on the laptop. He never could have gotten both of us to some far off safe place in time.”

Annabelle’s brow furrowed.

“Right?” he asked, turning to face her.

She hadn’t been going to tell him that at all. In fact, the truth was, she’d had no idea what to say to him, so she’d just been planning on sitting there beside him in companionable silence. There to lend a shoulder, should he need one.

But there was no point in telling him that.

“Yes,” she said softly. “It’s true, Dylan. Your dad did everything he possibly could in the time he had. He did manage to keep you safe, after all. That’s a father’s number one priority.”

Dylan nodded once and turned away again to look back at the floor. They stared at it together. Never before had a plain beige rug been so interesting to so very many people.

At last, he spoke again. “I know what Thane is.”

Annabelle’s spine stiffened. It was an automatic reaction. She kept her tone even and asked, “What do you mean, Dylan?”

“He’s not a real-estate mogul, is he?”

“Yes, he is.” It was true. He’d made millions off of his properties. That just wasn’t all that he was.

“It’s a cover. I’m not stupid.” He shook his head once. His voice was still soft, his tone still tired. “He’s an assassin, isn’t he?”

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 it.

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.

He led the way out of the apartment and down the several flights of stairs to the lower level.

Annabelle was well aware of the multitude of things they had to discuss. The under-the-sheets play of the night before only complicated matters, which had already been pretty damned complicated, as it was. For one, he was married. Two, he wasn’t telling her everything. That much was obvious by the fact that he’d been a Hell’s Angel “for a while” and had never come clean about it. What else was he hiding from her?

What jobs had he taken six years ago?

Then there was the issue, which she still hadn’t forgotten about, of the clothes he’d had made for her. He’d gotten the size and fit right by having someone in Cuba model them off of clothes she’d given to Goodwill. How had he come about possession of those donated articles of clothing? It was just too strange, and too personal to explain away with a shrug.

They needed to talk.

Something was eating at Jack. She could see it in his every action, hear it in his voice, and read it in his eyes. There was yet another thing that he was keeping from her. And this one was important. What was it? Whatever it was, the fact that it made Jack nervous down-right made her afraid.

Annabelle fully planned on putting an end to the uncomfortable guessing game she was playing with herself, once they were alone.

But as soon as they exited the side doors of the complex and entered the lamp-lit alley, all thought of deep heart-to-heart discussion flew from her head.

Her bike was parked there. Right beside his.

Her bike – meaning, the Night Rod. It looked exactly like the one that he’d given to her for her upcoming birthday. Could it possibly be the same one?

She took a step forward and looked at it more closely. No. No lightning strike across the tank, but black as night, just the same. Beautiful. Gorgeous. And since Jack was standing next to the Fat Boy, that meant that the V-Rod was all hers.

It didn’t matter one whit to her at that moment what she needed to discuss with the British bad boy she’d bedded the night before. As long as he let her ride the Harley – rental or not – she could take everything else up with him later.

She glanced back up at him and he tossed her the key. She caught it easily and looked back down at the bike.

Come to mama…

Jack led the way through the streets of Manhattan, trying to ignore the fact that Annabelle didn’t have a helmet in one of the most dangerous cities in the country. He trusted her. He really did. He didn’t trust anyone else on the road worth a “god damn”, as Sam would put it, but he knew he needed to bury that fear like a hatchet and show her that he felt she could keep herself safe. As hard as it was, it would be a feather in his cap when it came to dealing with all of the shit that would no doubt soon hit the fan spinning wildly between them.

He had to admit that he was already cheating on that front. Annabelle had a few weaknesses that, as an all around general rogue, he was fairly shameless in exploiting. Most likely her strongest was motorcycles. To her, a motorcycle was like a giant Wonka chocolate bar being slowly unwrapped in front of Charlie Bucket after ten straight meals of cabbage soup. It was distracting, to say the least, and tonight, that was the point.

He could tell she was about ready go head to head with him on a few very important issues. He wasn’t at all certain he wanted to open all of those cans of worms right before having to also get her on a plane to England.

So, stalling was fine with him.

She had other weaknesses – pleasant ones – too, and knowing what some of them were, he’d searched most of the afternoon for the perfect peace offering for her. He was pretty sure he’d found it, and it was waiting in a rented condo a few miles away from here. He hoped it brought her enough comfort and happiness that she would be able to forgive him.

For everything.

Because, after she met the other thing waiting in that condo, he was going to need all the help, on the forgiveness front, that he could get.

These were the things he sorted through his mind as he simultaneously followed the route that Virginia had mapped out for them. He had been memorizing the drawing as she was making it, and he’d grown more uneasy with every scratch of the pen.

They were headed right back to Columbia University, and this time, in a rather cruel and ironic twist, straight into it’s rather infamous underground.

It would be the second time in the past few hours that he’d been plunged into the damp, dark depths of New York’s subterranean world. It was not at all a landscape he was comfortable with, even if it was becoming rather familiar.

But, that was where the vial had been hidden, because that was where Craig Brandt and a close-knit band of friends had been tunneling late one night and discovered a secret passageway, thus far undetected by the University’s officials. Brandt was a member of what he called the Reticent Academia Tunneling Society, or RATS. In his spare time, he and about two dozen other members, nation wide, would venture into the lost, forgotten or forbidden undergrounds of America’s various universities. Brandt was its founder and leader. He’d introduced Virginia to the faction during their second year at Columbia and she represented RATS’s eleventh official member.

By that time, a very tiny network had been established across a few of the more notorious underground-possessing universities, but word spread. Via underground, more or less.

On the night of February fourteenth, seven years ago, Craig Brandt asked his girlfriend, Virginia Meredith, to meet him and a friend at what had become the RATS secret entrance to Columbia’s tunnels.

She met up with him and, for Valentine’s Day, he showed her his tunneling trophy – an accolade more esteemed to him and his compatriots than a Golden Globe was to an actor. A secret passageway, right under Buell Hall, untouched by another human hand in nearly one hundred years.

Jack glanced in his rear-view mirror. Annabelle rode dead center of the mirror, clear to his sight at all times. She stayed a good ten seconds behind him, and her control of the bike was superb. For a rider who’d only been on a V-Rod once before in her entire life, she was doing remarkably well.

He smiled grimly to himself as he thought of how lucky he was and how very much he stood to lose – not just over the next few days, but over the remainder of his life. Hopefully, the latter was exclusive of the former.

Jack caught Annabelle flashing her lights at him in his mirrors and he shot her a glance. She signaled to him. He looked up. They’d arrived on campus and he hadn’t even noticed it. He’d taken them there on auto-pilot. They’d already passed the garage once.

She was probably laughing at him back there.

He shook his head, mentally kicking himself in an already tender spot. Then he signed an apology and signaled that they would circle back around.

She followed him around the block and then into the garage. He paid for the space they would share and they shut the bikes down and dismounted.

“You okay with this?” Annabelle asked him as they joined up and exited the garage together. It wasn’t like Jack to make the kind of mistake he’d just made, and she was a little worried. She knew he didn’t like dark, enclosed spaces. And she knew him well enough that he hadn’t been able to hide his growing unease from her as Virginia Meredith had told them all where the vial and note were hidden. No one else would notice his fear. But she would. And she had.

Jack smiled at her reassuringly and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her beside him. “No worries, luv.”

“Right.” She said softly.

He led them down the sidewalk, staying close to the building walls and taking the opportunity to scan their surroundings for danger. As melodramatic as it sounded, he had the distinct feeling that they were being watched. But, logically, he knew that was highly improbable. Anyone posing a threat would have had to either obtain their destination in between the time that Virginia Meredith had made the map and now – or they would have had to follow Jack and Annabelle from the apartment to the University.

He couldn’t imagine how the former would be accomplished, given the flat they’d been in at the time belonged to Sam, and he doubted that the latter was even possible, with the route and methods he and Annabelle had used on their bikes.

So, with that thought, Jack forced himself to relax. Concentrate.

Breathe.

Virginia and Craig had given them first-rate directions to the secret opening formerly recognized as the RATS entrance. Throughout Columbia University’s campus were small wooded areas with paths winding through them. However, the largest wooded area anywhere near Columbia’s campus was most certainly Morningside Park – and it was not part of the campus, itself.

Morningside abutted Harlem, and Harlem’s residents had always maintained a strong hold on the park. In 1968, Columbia leased a plot of the park’s land from the city to begin building a gymnasium on the property. It was a mistake. A protest and rioting erupted, closing down the University and strengthening the sounds of discord between Columbia’s faculty, staff and students, and Harlem’s inhabitants.

Morningside became “the bad park”, “the dangerous park”, and “no-man’s land” to all attending Columbia University. At night, its vine-covered cliff faces would light up as if by fireflies due to the flames of individual lighters warming spoons of heroine. Muggers, rapists, murderers, addicts, and prostitutes ran a virtual park-wide city of corruption that stretched across thirty notorious acres.

Then, in the late nineties, something changed. People began banding together – “us and them” more or less became “just us,” and plans for cleaning up the park were formed. In the past decade, families and students had very slowly pushed out the addicts, bums and criminals. Gardeners and landscape architects had been called in. People began volunteering their time to weed and pick up trash.

So, it wasn’t with as much apprehension as Jack would otherwise feel that the RATS access shaft into the tunnels beneath Columbia was to be found in Morningside Park. However, he did find himself drawing Annabelle even nearer to him than usual. She didn’t seem to mind.

As they walked, his eyes continued to scan. He noticed that Annabelle’s eyes seemed to be doing the same thing. Though she wouldn’t know as much about what kinds of things to look for as he would, the thought occurred to him that he could teach her… Something to consider for the future.

“This is it,” he said as they entered a particularly wooded area of the park. They separated as Jack took out the map and handed it to Annabelle. Once they were well hidden by the brush and trees, he drew his gun and held it at the ready, pointing it at the ground.

Annabelle unfolded the map and attempted to read it. It was difficult this far away from any overhead light source. Beside her, Jack clicked a pen light to life and shined it down on the paper for her.

“Thanks,” she whispered, and then studied the map carefully. “It’s a good thing they put some of the more permanent markers on this thing,” she said, stealing a glance around them. “Because all of the plant life is completely different at this point.”

“Landscapers. A lot has happened in seven years,” Jack agreed.

“Okay,” Annabelle took a deep breath. “Looks like we go this way.” She pointed in a direction and they began making their way through the underbrush, careful to make as little noise as possible.

Jack had darkened the pen light before they set off, so they moved in relative darkness. From somewhere unseen, the smell of cigarette smoke filtered through the bushes and tree branches. Along with that smell came the scent of fresh cut grass and fertilizer. The very faint undercurrent of fish and river could be detected, as well as something like… Chinese food? Some students nearby, perhaps. Having a late dinner picnic, despite the early May, nighttime chill. Some people were more stubborn than others.

They came to a place below the rugged cliff faces that the park was known for and looked up. Annabelle compared the structures to the drawings on the map. “It’s somewhere in that second cliff face,” she pointed.

“We’ll have to dig our way past some vegetation, it seems,” Jack muttered. While much of the park had been successfully manicured, the cliff faces, yet untended, were still very jungle-esque.

“You up for a climb, luv?”

Annabelle smiled over at him. She was wearing good shoes and kept her nails short. She wasn’t the kind of woman to shy away from physical activity. But, the fact of the matter was, it wouldn’t really be much of a climb. The cliffs weren’t that tall, and if she was reading the map right, the opening was only two-thirds of the way up. The difficult aspect wasn’t the cliff – it was what lay in between the cliff and Jack and Annabelle.

“More like a swim,” she muttered, gesturing toward the large, deep-looking pond that separated the cliff’s base from where they stood.

“We’ll skirt the edge as far as we can go and take it from there,” Jack said.

They carefully and slowly moved around the pond’s outer border, ducking beneath overhead branches and stepping wide over low bushes and roots. Eventually, they came to a place where they had to crawl through a rock formation that jutted out from the first cliff face. They moved through this, finding cigarette butts and used condoms on the other side. They stood quickly, brushing off their hands and feet.

Annabelle was very grateful that she hadn’t accidentally touched down on any of the human-created refuse hidden behind the formation. “Give me a sec,” she said, pulling out the map once more. Again, his pen light provided illumination.

“Okay,” she said, looking up at the cliff. “It’s either start climbing now and crab-walk it to the crevasse Craig talked about, or we go for a swim. Choice is yours.”

“Really?” he asked, one brow shooting up as he smiled.

“No,” she admitted, shaking her head. “Not really. I vote we start climbing, and my vote’s the only one I care about at this very moment.” She shot him an apologetic look and re-folded the map. He chuckled as she slipped the map back into her jeans pocket and started searching the cliff for hand and foot holds.

It wasn’t a hard climb. The cliff was steep and narrow, but not overly tall, and there were excellent natural grips. She pulled herself up and shimmied in a diagonal line, toward the place Craig and Virginia had marked on the map.

Jack was right behind her.

She realized, as she ascended, that she and her companion were sitting ducks, splayed out as they were on the rock’s face. The stone was light in color, and they both wore black. As she realized this, she wondered whether Jack had put back his gun. She imagined that he had, though she couldn’t really look just then. It would be impossible to climb the rocks without both hands.

She began holding her breath and attempting to move a little faster. Jack hadn’t appeared worried about their temporary vulnerability, and she reminded herself of this. But there was an agoraphobic uneasiness about being so virtually visible at such a dangerous juncture. She was defenseless. She didn’t like being defenseless.

“Here it is,” she said then, as she came to a strange dip in the rock’s face. It curved inward and split, forming a gap in the stone as if they were two tectonic plates. They appeared almost glacier-like in their smoothness.

To the average passer-by on any of the walkways below the cliffs, the opening would only appear a foot wide, at its widest. But up here, on the cliff, Annabelle could see, first-hand, that the cliffs had been fooling people for more than a century.

She smiled as she looked over the rim of the opening, to the much larger space beyond. It was like that scene in The Labyrinth, where the single rock suddenly splits apart and becomes two very far apart rocks, with a simple switch of the camera’s angle. What people would see from below was an optical illusion. A smooth rock face.

Here, right up against it, the face split, allowing more than enough room for a human body to fit through.

Annabelle leaned into the stone, putting her weight into her legs, and turned her head to glance back at Jack.

He was closer than she’d expected, but he wasn’t looking back at her. He was staring at the opening in the cliff. It wasn’t the smallest hole a spelunker had ever crawled through, but it was, nonetheless, a tight, dark space, by Jack Thane’s measure.

“I can go it alone,” she said to him, softly.

Jack’s eyes met hers. He shook his head, once, and gestured, with a nod of his head, that she should move on.

Chapter Twenty-six

“You a’ri’?” Clara stepped into the kitchen, where Dylan had been leaning against the counter, a mostly-full bottle of soft drink in one hand, his other hand tucked into his front pocket.

He looked up when she walked in, her softly-spoken query jarring him from his troubled thoughts. He’d been thinking about his mother. There were times that he couldn’t remember her quite right. He couldn’t recall her scent or the exact features of her face. But he always remembered her voice. It played in his mind at times, telling him to slow down when he was driving too crazy, or to cool it with the beer. It had become his conscience.

He wondered what would happen with his father’s voice now.

How would he remember his dad?

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice scratchy from recent neglect. He shuffled his feet a little and stood up straighter, glancing down at his drink. Nervously, he took another sip. Some of the fizzle had gone out of it. How long had he been standing alone in there?

Clara glanced around the kitchen. He watched her as she shoved her own hands into the front pockets of her jeans. It was a minute before she spoke again, and Dylan could appreciate that. She was taking the time to carefully choose the words she wanted.

But, for some reason, he wanted to spare her the uncomfortable silence. So, he said, “Where do you think your dad will cart us off to next?” He tried hard not to make it sound as resentful as it felt.

She looked back at him and smiled. “I reckon ‘e’ll most likely want us all to ‘ead back to England.”

He nodded. He’d expected as much. He’d thought a lot about it, and as much as he hated Jack Thane, he wasn’t sure that staying in the country was wise for any of them at this point. England was as good a country to defect to as any.

“Miss Drake’s not gonna be too happy about that,” he muttered, making conversation. He was a little surprised at the slight thrill of satisfaction he got in thinking about the fit Annabelle would throw when Thane gave her the news.

Clara cocked her head to one side and narrowed her gaze thoughtfully. “Yeah, I noticed tha’.” She chewed on her cheek for a moment and moved further into the kitchen, pulling a glass down from one cabinet and filling it with water at the sink. “Wha’s ‘er damage wi’ tha’, anyway?” She asked, as she turned back around to face him.

“Her damage,” Cassie said, as she stepped into the kitchen to join them, “is that everyone is afraid of something.” She stopped at the first counter and leaned her hip against it, crossing her arms over her chest. Her gaze zeroed in on Clara, who nervously looked away.

“That’s true,” Dylan said, as if trying to defend Annabelle. “I have an irrational fear of sharks.” He had since he was a child. He’d read enough about them to earn a degree in sharkology, and he wasn’t naïve. He knew they were over-hunted and misunderstood and endangered. Still, you would never catch him swimming in water that didn’t have chlorine in it.

Cassie smiled at him and then her gaze cut back to Clara. “And what about you, Miss Thane? What are you afraid of?”

Clara met her eyes and didn’t look away. Then she squared her shoulders and defiantly stuck out her chin, narrowing her own gaze in return. “Wha’s it to you?”

“I was just wondering what your real reason for showing up at the airport with your mom was. Care to enlighten us?”

“The truth is,” came another voice from behind Cassie, “she was runnin’ away an’ I caught up with ‘er at Heathrow.”

Cassie turned around to face Beatrice. But the woman wasn’t looking at her – she was staring at her daughter. Her expression was stern.

Dylan glanced from Beatrice to Clara and shifted on his feet. The kitchen was getting crowded. And hot.

“Thanks, mum.” Clara hissed softly.

“Was bound to come out eventually, Clara. An’ your father knew it the minute ‘e got the call to come get you. You think ‘e was born yesterday?”

That gave Clara pause. Dylan stared at her. They all did. She blinked. “Well, ‘e didn’t say anything, did ‘e?” she attempted.

Beatrice smiled a tight smile and then she, too, crossed her arms over her chest. “If I’m no’ mistaken – an’ I’m no’ – ‘e’s go’ other things on ‘is mind right now, doesn’t ‘e?” She said, her tone as tight as her smile. “Like keepin’ us all alive?”

Clara blinked, inhaling sharply.

“Bu’ don’t you worry, missy,” her mother continued. “I’m sure ‘e’ll be wantin’ to ‘ave a ri’ nice talk with you when this is all over.”

Clara swallowed what appeared to be a lump in her throat and blinked. Then she seemed to steel herself. She set her glass down on the counter with a smart bang and then pulled her gaze away from her mother’s and pushed past them all to leave the kitchen.

Dylan watched her go. He was conflicted. On the one hand, he was disappointed that their time alone together had been so ridiculously brief. On the other hand, as strange and utterly unexpected as it was, he suddenly found himself feeling just the tiniest bit sorry for Jack Thane.

“How far down do you think we are?” Annabelle asked. And then immediately regretted asking. How far underground they were was probably the last thing Jack wanted to contemplate at that moment. “Never mind.”

“Three levels,” Jack told her, his voice remarkably calm. The tunnel they were in had been undiscovered thus far because the only way to get to it was to go down from the tunnels already discovered by Columbia’s adventurous students. Brandt had said that a well-hidden trap door beneath Buell Hall provided access, along with the opening they’d just traversed. And that was about it, as far as he and the other members of RATS had been able to tell.

The third, lowest tunnel, was badly flooded, muddy and spotted with different forms of fungi and algae. Thirty feet below ground, it wasn’t as hot as the other tunnels were recognized to be. Annabelle figured that would be a boon in the summer months, however, right now, on a chilly May evening, the tunnel was dank, dark, and cold.

Even Annabelle was uncomfortable. Her boots were sturdy and resisted water fairly well, but they’d been purchased and water-proofed years ago, and these were unfair conditions. Her toes were wet and cold. The air had that cavern-like smell to it and she was afraid to touch any of the slimy, glossy walls.

She watched as Jack carefully lead the way down the dim, forgotten corridors, his flash light guiding them along a path not taken in seven years. She shook her head in admiration, wondering how the hell he kept it together so well. She sincerely wished she was able to do the same thing when it came to flying.

Never happen, she thought.

Up ahead, Jack stopped in his muddy tracks and shined the light left and right. The trail split, forming a “Y.” As if on autopilot, he checked for threats, and then glanced at her before continuing to the right.

“Just a bit further,” Annabelle said. “The chamber will be on your left. I think it’s in-between both arms of this ‘Y’.” Annabelle remembered the map’s drawing clearly. She’d paid special attention to this part, for some reason feeling it might be important.

Jack took them down another thirty feet or so, and then an opening appeared on the left. Though Annabelle knew it had to be well over a hundred years old, the stone masonry of the tunnel’s structural foundations was in impressively good shape. It didn’t look at all how she’d imagined it. She’d thought it would look like an abandoned mine, with a rail-road kind of track running through it.

Instead, it was like navigating an honest-to-god dungeon in a role playing game, carved, stone walls on both sides and above, and mud below. The rounded bricks that composed the walls had to have been carted down over hundreds, if not thousands, of trips – and each time, either through the trap door that Craig had talked of, or dropped through the crevasse in the cliff face above them.

Since no record of this tunnel existed in public knowledge, Annabelle couldn’t help but wonder who had built it, and for what purpose. She knew that Buell Hall had been part of an insane asylum before the other buildings had been dismantled to make way for Columbia University’s more celebrated architecture. Was the asylum the key to the tunnel’s existence?

She wondered whether anyone who worked at it, all those years ago, might have descendants who would know about the tunnel…

She shivered and hugged herself, wondering at the sudden chill that encompassed her. Steeling her nerves, she followed Jack around the corner into the chamber that Craig and Virginia had told them about.

It was a stone room, about twenty feet by thirty, with two doors. One door was the entryway they’d just come through. The other had been bricked up long ago, but its outline was still clear against the surrounding stone work.

“Freaky,” she muttered, drawing closer to Jack. Another chill rushed through her and Jack glanced down.

“You all right, luv?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

Jack’s gaze narrowed on her, but then he looked away and aimed the flash light on the East wall. “This way,” he told her softly, taking her hand and leading her to a spot on the wall where a small heart had been carved into one of the bricks. Inside the heart was the inscription, “C and V, some RATS do mate for life.”

“I guess as medical students, they would know that.” Annabelle’s tone reflected the strange sense of awe she felt at standing amidst so many different monuments of history. She was touched. And a little spooked.

Beside her, Jack pulled his gun out of his shoulder holster.

She looked up at him. He was watching the entrance to the chamber. He switched off the flash light and Annabelle went very, very still.

Dimly, a light flickered in the hall beyond the arched doorway. As muted as it was, it had to be quite a way down the tunnel’s path, but it was there, nonetheless.

They weren’t alone.

Sam pulled the cell phone out of his sports coat and flipped it open. “Price,” he spoke into the receiver.

As he listened to the voice on the other end, he watched Beatrice Hughes once again kick the tar out of Craig Brandt at chess. Virginia Meredith sat beside Brandt on the love seat. She patted his back consolingly, but barely checked a smile of amusement.

Clara Thane and Dylan Anderson sat across from each other at the kitchen table, talking softly. Cassie Reid was in one of the bedrooms, watching a re-run of Monk on USA.

At the moment, the world on his end of the spectrum was relatively calm. Which, of course meant that a storm would strike at any minute. Samuel Price had been around the block a few times.

His gaze narrowed on the Anderson kid when the voice on the other end stopped talking. “Fine, send it through.” He closed the phone and re-pocketed it. Then he left the living room to head down the hall, to the second bedroom on the left. There was a fax machine against one wall, along with a computer and a printer.

The fax machine was already whirring when he entered the room. He pulled the printed sheet out of its tray and read it over. Then he left the room and headed to the kitchen.

Clara laughed softly at something that Dylan had said and leaned in to reply. Sam stepped up to the table before she could do so.

Both kids looked up at him.

“You probably wanna see this, son,” Sam said, holding the sheet out for Dylan to take. “Jack pulled some strings. Got a copy of it for you. It’s your father’s suicide note.”

“Grab the vial, quick,” Jack turned and whispered to Annabelle. She nodded and turned back to the wall just as he clicked on the small pen light. It shined on the carved heart and Annabelle began pulling on the marked brick. The mortar crumbled a little around the brick, but the stone stayed.

“It’s stuck,” she whispered. Outside, the light drew closer, and now they could hear the splashing of boots in the mud. She shoved back out of the way and pulled her gun. Behind her, Jack re-holstered his and used both hands to pull on the brick.

Annabelle readied her weapon at the opening of the chamber. Her heart was beating against the inside of her ribcage so hard that she thought it might bruise itself. Her feet were numb, and she wasn’t sure it was due to the damp and cold. Jesus, she thought, he was right. I’m watching his back, after all…

Outside, the light became suddenly brighter and the splashing sounds were no longer muffled by distance and wall. They were in the hall.

Jack pulled on the brick with all of his strength. Years of freezing winters had caused the damp mortar to swell and shift. Jack knew that if he didn’t get it out now, when their visitors came around the corner, Annabelle would be left to fend them off by herself. The brick shifted beneath his strength and mortar crumbled to the ground.

Outside, the splashing stopped, and the light switched off.

Annabelle held her breath.

“We know you’re in there, Thane! There’s no other way for you to get outta here, so just listen up!”

Jack ignored the voice. “Bella, keep your gun up and ready,” he whispered. He almost had the brick out.

“We can shoot it out and someone might get hurt!” The voice continued. Annabelle didn’t recognize it, but she was certain that whoever he was, he worked for the Colonel.

“Or you can hand over the vial and we’ve got orders to let Miss Drake live!”

Annabelle’s eyes widened. They were going to shoot at Jack, either way? Didn’t sound like much of a deal to her.

The brick finally came away in Jack’s hands. He shined the light in the hole and it reflected off of metal. He reached in and pulled out a steel canister.

Ah, bloody hell, he thought. “She hid it in a time capsule,” he muttered, more to himself than to Annabelle. He’d been planning on shattering the vial at once. The time capsule was sealed with a combination lock. Destroying the vial would have to wait.

“You’ve got five seconds, Thane!” The voice shouted again.

Suddenly, Jack was beside Annabelle, his gun drawn again. “Get behind me, Bella.”

“No way,” Annabelle told him, awed at herself, even as she spoke the words. “I’ve got the bullet-proof clothes on, remember?” And the bad guys were planning on trying their best to kill Jack, no matter what. She didn’t like that one bit.

But Jack apparently didn’t appreciate her opinion on the matter, because he was shoving her behind him with one gloved hand even as the Colonel’s men came around the corner, guns blasting.

Time really does seem to slow down when life enters a traumatic experience. Annabelle had always had her theories on why this happened. Perhaps it was so that, later, a victim would be able to recall every last vital detail of a rape, identifying the rapist to the authorities. Or a witness would be able to accurately draw a mugger’s face. Or directions could be mapped out to wherever it was that someone had been lost in the woods.

Whatever the reason, when the Colonel’s men stepped around the corner, shining their lights in Jack’s and Annabelle’s eyes, the seconds became minutes. She found herself moving around Jack to aim her weapon. She was sure she screamed as she pulled her own trigger, but she couldn’t hear it. Sound seemed to slip away, blurring with the rest of reality, until Annabelle felt that she was in, well, a tunnel.

Everything became more focused and more chaotic at once. She felt something slam into her right thigh, but because her legs had gone numb, she was able to completely ignore the pain she knew she should be feeling. She felt the same tremendous impact in her right shoulder, and her gun arm leapt up of its own accord. She wasted a bullet, but quickly re-focused and aimed again. Since she was blinded by the lights the bad guys were using, she decided to aim at the lights, themselves.

She squeezed the trigger again and again, and when the lights all seemed to either shatter or drop toward the ground, Jack was pulling her toward the chamber’s entrance. Her legs would barely move. He ended up dragging her part way, until she was able to gather her footing and follow him out of the room.

She made herself not look down. She didn’t want to see the men laying on the ground and didn’t care to know whether they were there because of her or Jack. Her hand still caught tight in his, Annabelle just followed Jack down the tunnel, focusing on his leather-clad back as her guide.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Somewhere in the sloshing run down the mud-filled tunnels, Jack had taken a wrong turn. At least, that’s what it seemed like to Annabelle. Nothing looked familiar and they hadn’t yet come to the rock face where the third-level tunnel began. It had been ages since the shoot out in the chamber where the vial had been hidden.

Centuries.

So, where was the opening for them to climb back up and out of?

She tripped and Jack lifted her back up, barely pausing long enough for her to get her feet underneath her once more. Now his grip was on her wrist, and he was no longer leading her so much as dragging her down the mucky corridors.

“Jack, what-”

“Quiet, Bella. Don’t speak!” He turned and hissed the order at her, but there was no vehemence in his tone. Only fear.

Which made her afraid as well. He had been running as if the devil, himself, was at his back. And now Annabelle wondered if that might actually be true. There they were, as far down as humans really went, and how far down did you have to go before the elevator doors opened up on Hell?

A chill assaulted her, but unlike the initial chills she’d felt upon entering the large underground chamber, this one stayed within her, freezing her from the inside out.

And then, suddenly, he stopped. She lost her balance, falling against him. He righted her and she went as still as he had gone, terror instinctively turning her form into a statue. They stood at another Y intersection, only this was not the same intersection they’d gone down before. Annabelle would have recognized it. She was good at that kind of thing. She was a detail person. She could pick out which wine glass was hers by recognizing a miniscule deformation in the stem of the glass. Puzzles were a cinch for her because she somehow just simply saw the patterns connecting, in her mind’s eye.

And she may not have any clue where she was going, but she always, always knew where she had been. She had never been down this tunnel.

Where the hell were they going?

And then a sound reverberated down the corridor to their left. It was a sort of banging-scraping sound. It was followed by more silence.

She desperately wanted to ask what it was. But she knew better than to speak. If Jack needed her to be quiet, it was for a good reason. She knew him well enough to know that, at least.

Without another word, his grip tightened on her wrist again and he started down the left corridor, in the direction of the sound. At the same time, he re-holstered the gun he’d been holding in his right hand and, in one step, bent and pulled a dagger from a sheath that had been hidden beneath his jeans, just above his boots. She hadn’t even known it was there. And, though she was half-numb with real apprehension for what lay ahead, she was simultaneously impressed with his apparent weapon proficiency. Then again, just because he carried it didn’t mean he knew how to use it.

Yes it does. With Jack, it does.

She gripped her own weapon more tightly and thought about the rounds she’d already fired. If Jack was preparing for another fight and had put away his gun, that meant he was out of bullets. That was surprising. She knew how well prepared he normally was. He always carried bullets to spare.

Was she out of bullets? She was pretty sure she’d fired five times. How she knew that, she had no idea. But she somehow remembered squeezing the trigger five times. One bullet had been wasted. Four had been fired in, at least, the right direction. That left her one bullet in the gun. One more shot.

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.

The bile that had been threatening to come up for the last several minutes now finally made its way past the lump in her throat. She put her hand to her mouth and spun around just in time to retch out of the way of the rest of her body. She coughed and retched again and then forced herself to breathe.

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 and 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.

“Hang in there, buddy.”

“I’m… fine… Sam. But I’m gonna… kill… you.” Jack muttered the words under his breath, his eyes closed. He was barely conscious. Sam didn’t stop their progress up the side stairs of the building, and the unchanged expression on his face revealed that he wasn’t, in the least, taken aback by the statement.

Cassie noticed the odd exchange, as did Annabelle. The two glanced at one another. However, Annabelle was far too concerned with Jack’s well-being to give it much more thought. Whatever trouble it was that had suddenly developed between teacher and student, it was going to have to wait until Jack was a little more cognizant and a little less dying.

“Get him to the bed and help me get the clothes off.” Cassie gave the order and Sam and Annabelle rushed him into the apartment, through the fire escape door. Craig and Virginia met them in the mud room and Craig took Annabelle’s place under Jack’s left arm.

“What do we have?” Craig asked, almost as a physician working the emergency room would ask.

“Can’t tell yet,” Cassie answered.

“He’s been shot more than once,” Annabelle supplied.

“Oh, God, Jackie,” Beatrice took a step forward from where she stood in the hallway in front of them, and then, on second thought, she instead put her arm up to stop her daughter from running forward.

“Da!” Clara tried to pull free to join her father, but Beatrice pulled her back out of the way and the two cleared the hallway so that Sam and Craig could get Jack into the first bedroom and lay him on the bed.

Blood trailed down the hall after them. Clara caught sight of it and screamed, rushing once more toward the bedroom where her father lay.

Virginia and Beatrice held her back and Annabelle shut the door to the room, leaving Cassie, Craig and Sam to take care of Jack.

Then she moved forward, and, on overwhelming instinct, she pulled Clara into her arms for a hug. A few silent seconds passed. Tears streamed down both of their faces.

And then, in a moment of quiet, empathetic clarity, Clara Thane hugged her back. After all, there was no other woman in the world who loved her father more than Clara, herself, did. Except, maybe, for Annabelle Drake.

It was a full thirty minutes before anyone came out of the room where they tended to Jack. Annabelle hadn’t stopped pacing. Clara couldn’t stop hugging herself and trembling. Beatrice tried to comfort her daughter, but it was useless and they both knew it. The only thing that would bring solace to the child was knowing that her father was going to be all right.

So, when Sam finally came out of the room, it was with barely-checked frenzy that both Clara and Annabelle rushed him with questions.

At once, he held up his hands and motioned for them to head back into the living room.

“He’s fine,” he told them as he ran a hand through his thick white hair. He looked tired. And still pale. “He lost a lot of blood, but it isn’t the first time, and he’s tough. The bleeding’s stopped, more or less, and he’s stable. Just needs to rest, is all.” He took a deep breath and sighed, his shoulders slumping. “And drink a hell of a lot of juice.”

He headed into the kitchen and Annabelle and Clara were hot on his heels.

“How long will it be before he’s on his feet again?” Annabelle asked.

“Knowing Jack, not long.” Sam shook his head and opened the refrigerator door. He peered into its depths and then his shoulders slumped even more. “Wouldn’t ya know. No juice.”

“I can go buy some,” Annabelle offered right away.

“I’ll go with her,” Clara joined in, eager to help in any way she could.

“Not a chance. I’ll call it in.” Sam turned back to face them and pulled his cell phone out of his front jeans pocket. He’d taken off his sports coat in the room where Jack was and his long-sleeved shirt had been rolled up to his elbows. As he pressed a speed dial number and placed the receiver to his ear, his eyes fell on Annabelle and narrowed.

He studied her, then, as Jack sometimes did – from head to foot, and methodically.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Sam spoke into the phone, not taking his eyes from Annabelle. She shifted from one foot to the other beneath his gaze, growing steadily more self-conscious.

“I need red supplies delivered to house three ASAP.” He paused. Then he nodded. “Good. See you soon.” He closed the phone and straightened, re-pocketing it.

“Drake, go back and tell Miss Reid to look you over. You’ve been shot at least twice and you’re suffering from shock.”

Annabelle blinked. She’d been shot? She hadn’t noticed anything. She looked down, suddenly quite startled to see that her bullet-proof clothing was dented, for lack of a better description, in several places. And her boots were soaked through. She should be freezing. But she barely felt anything at all.

And then, as if with the realization came the symptoms, she shivered violently.

“You need to get those clothes off and get into a warm shower.” Sam moved forward, taking her by the shoulders and spinning her around. “Right now.” He walked her down the hall toward the first room on the right, where they’d taken Jack.

There, she paused, forcibly stopping Sam in his tracks. She didn’t want to go in. She wasn’t sure she could handle seeing Jack in whatever condition he might be in. What if he was white as a sheet? All bandaged up? What if he looked like he was dying?

She would throw up again. And she didn’t have anything left in her stomach.

“Fine. Wait here.” As if sensing the reason for her hesitation, Sam let her remain in the hall while he stepped around her and poked his head into the room.

“Miss Reid, out here, please.”

Sam stepped back and Cassie came out into the hall. Sam didn’t have to tell her why he’d wanted her to step out, because when she caught sight of Annabelle, her eyes widened and her brow furrowed.

“Jesus, Ann, you look like shit.” She rushed forward and took her friend’s hands. “And you’re cold as ice.” She began to feel Annabelle’s arms, moving the sleeves up as if searching for wounds. When she got to her right shoulder, Annabelle suddenly let out a piercing cry. Pain had stabbed through her joint, shooting down to her finger tips and even down her right side.

“Your shoulder’s jacked up, at the very least.”

“Is that the medical term?” Annabelle joked, trying to hide her fear and exhaustion behind humor. “’Jacked up’?”

Why did everything bad always have to be named “Jack?” Like when someone was messing with you, they were “jacking” with you. And when someone was hurt, they were “jacked” up. What was the deal with that? She didn’t like it.

“It is,” Cassie replied, not pausing in her examination. She continued to look Annabelle over, pulling the edge of her shirt up to expose a taut stomach that was already bruised from Annabelle’s unpleasant treatment by the Colonel’s men. And now there were new scrapes and bruises forming, but nothing life-threatening.

Sam remained with them in the hallway, watching in that careful way that Annabelle realized long ago just came with being an assassin.

When Cassie got to her right thigh, Annabelle barely stifled another cry of pain.

“You see these strange sorts of dents or tears in your clothing?” Cassie pointed at the two larger anomalies in Annabelle’s bullet-proof outfit, one over her right shoulder, the other over her right thigh. “That’s where the bullets hit you. And that’s why those areas hurt so much. Your leg is going to be really bruised, and will probably hurt to walk on, but nothing’s broken. Your shoulder, on the other hand, is sprained.” Cassie sighed and straightened. “The force of the bullet striking you must have jerked the ligaments back until they tore.”

Annabelle didn’t say anything. It made sense, after all. And, what was there to say?

“Now, you need to get warmed up. I know you can undress and bathe yourself, Ann, but the truth is, I want to make sure there’s nothing I’m missing. Plus, you might need some help when it comes to using your right arm.”

“Fine,” Annabelle nodded once and headed back toward the second bedroom on the left, which sported a large bathroom and a rather nice shower.

It wasn’t until she was standing under the water and Cassie had left the room that Annabelle remembered the vial of Craig’s Erythromelalgia cure. What had happened to it? Had Jack ever gotten the brick out and retrieved it? The men had come around the corner and begun shooting before Annabelle had had a chance to find out.

She thought of this as she washed her hair with one hand and then rinsed it out as best she could. Then she used the same hand – her left – to soap her body. This wasn’t nearly as difficult. When she was clean and rinsed, she stepped out and dried off.

It seemed to be the night for late revelations, however, because it was then that she realized she had no clothes to change into.

“Mr. Brandt, thank you for everything you’ve done.” Sam stepped into the room where Jack lay propped up against the head boards. He nodded at Craig, who stood by the bed, monitoring Jack’s blood pressure. “When you’re done there, give us a minute alone.”

Craig looked up at Sam and then back at Jack. He pulled the cuff off of Jack’s arm and laid it on the table beside the bed. Jack nodded at him and Craig nodded back.

“Sure.” He stepped around the bed and left the room, softly closing the door behind him.

When he was gone, Jack straightened a little more and pinned Sam with a blue-eyed gaze that would have made a lesser man wet himself.

Before Jack could say anything, Sam raised his hands in a gesture of placation. “I’m more sorry than you can possibly imagine, Jack. I had no idea-”

“You gave me an untried weapon, Sam. You nearly got us both killed.” Jack’s tone was low and deadly. His expression turned lethal. “I trusted you,” He ground the words out through clenched teeth.

Sam swallowed audibly, slowly lowering his hands to his sides. “It was tried, Jack. I swear it. I never would have given you that gun without testing it first.” He shook his head, once, from side to side. His eyes were wide and pleading. “I shot it and cleaned it and shot it and sighted it and goddamned cleaned it and shot it again.” He ran his hand over his face. It was shaking.

Jack watched him carefully. What blood he had in his veins was boiling with fury, but at the same time, he knew Samuel Price very well. And he recognized agonizing guilt when he saw it.

“Christ, Jack. I thought it was perfect,” Sam continued. “I never would have given it to you otherwise. You have to know that.”

Jack watched his old friend for several silent moments more and then finally pulled his gaze away. He let himself sink into the cushions behind him and closed his eyes. The truth was, he knew good and well that Sam would just as soon see himself killed than see Jack hurt. Jack was the son that Sam had never had. And the gun was a relic. Jack should have known better than to trust his life to something so uncertain.

What had happened was an accident. A horrible, nearly fatal accident.

He closed his eyes and swallowed. “I do know that, Sam.” His Sheffield accent was incredibly strong. He was incredibly tired. “But the gun jammed after one bloody shot,” he continued, his tone soft. “Four men came around the corner into that chamber.” He opened his eyes again and re-focused them on Sam.

Understanding dawned in Sam’s expression. His eyes widened even further.

“Annabelle’s earned her bones,” Jack said. “Whether she wants them or not.” He closed his eyes again and took a slow, deep breath. “We’re both lucky she’s such a bloody damned good shot.” A low pulsing dread was riding through his system. And for good reason. Annabelle wasn’t going to be happy when she learned she’d single-handedly killed at least three men. “And I think I’m gonna let you tell her.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair again and took a deep, somewhat shaky breath. “Fair ‘nough.”

“How is she?” Jack asked then, pinning Sam with another blue steel gaze.

“A little bruised up, with a sprained shoulder. She’s in the shower now.”

Jack’s brows raised. “Then she’ll want clothes.”

Sam’s face fell. He blew out a sigh. “Crap.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Once new clothing had been procured and everyone was clean and fed and had had a chance to rest, the group of them moved from Sam’s apartment to another safe house not too far away.

Sam wanted them to keep moving to throw any sniffers off of their trail. But Jack had to remain more or less in bed for several days, so only smaller moves were allowed.

By the third day and their second move, Jack was up and moving around.

“Sit down, Jackie, you stubborn old coot. I’ll get you some tea.”

“I’m fine, Bee.” Jack kept his tone cordial, but he was clearly irritated by the extra attention. Annabelle watched him move down the hall toward one of the cushioned seats in the study and she tried very hard not to smile.

Sam had moved them into a renovated mansion for their second shift, and it turned out that the mansion actually belonged to Jack. It reminded Annabelle a lot of the pictures she’d seen of the Winchester Mansion in San Francisco, which she’d always wanted to visit. Only, this particular house didn’t have more than a hundred rooms and she was pretty sure there were only the two bathrooms. Still, one of them did have a claw-foot tub. Pretty damned Winchester-ry, if you asked her.

On the day after Jack had been shot, he’d called her into the room where he was laying. She went in, relieved to see him looking more or less like his normal self. She loved that so much about him. He was tough as nails. He was her port in a storm, and it had sure as hell gotten windy of late.

He’d told her that the vial he’d retrieved from the chamber beneath Buell Hall was under the seat in the stolen Ford Mustang downstairs and that she needed to go and get it and hide it somewhere else. And not tell anyone where.

She wasn’t sure why he asked her to do this. But she followed his instructions anyway, retrieving the time capsule when no one was looking and then hiding it in the best place she could think of.

And then they moved to another location. At the time, she had wondered whether she should move the vial along with them. However, she decided against it, leaving it where it was with the reasoning that the less attention she brought to it or herself, the better.

So, while the rest of them had left the island and settled into a mansion in Middlesex, New York, the time capsule with its cure was still in downtown Manhattan, hidden in plain sight and yet almost entirely invisible to approximately two-million people.

Now they all sat in the dark study, a fire blazing in the hearth and Annabelle continued to watch Jack enter the room from the darkened hall beyond. Though it was May, the house was old and older houses were notoriously cold. It also possessed no internal heating system other than the fire places that graced most of its rooms.

Annabelle honestly didn’t mind this all that much. She enjoyed staring into the flames in fire places and getting lost in the crackling sound. It comforted her. Add to that the coziness of curling up under a blanket and she was pretty much pleased as punch.

Jack caught her gaze from across the study and moved to sit beside her. She scooted over to give him room. Though it had only been three days, he managed to take the seat without wincing at the pain that must have resided in his leg and side.

She arched a brow at him. “I’m impressed. No need to fake it though, sweetie. It’s your party. You can cry if you want to.”

He smiled at her, flashing straight white teeth. His sapphire eyes sparkled in the light from the hearth. “I did all my crying into my pillow this morning,” he told her softly. “Thought I’d get it out of the way early.”

Her smile broadened. The sound of his accented voice warmed her more than the fireplace a few feet away ever could. “Good idea. Cassie hates whiners.”

Across from them, Cassie shot them a look of mock hurt.

“Speaking of parties, luv,” Jack turned his attention back to the woman by his side. “You didn’t think I was going to forget, did you?”

Annabelle blinked at him. Her brow furrowed. “Forget what?” She asked, her expression blank.

Jack reached around to the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small white envelope. He was wearing a white thermal long-sleeved shirt and a double shoulder holster, guns on both sides. Apparently, he didn’t at all feel like taking chances.

He held the envelope out to Annabelle.

She glanced down at it and then back up at him. “What is it?”

“Your present.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Happy birthday, luv.”

Across the room, several gasps went up.

“Holy crap, girl, I totally forgot! Happy B-Day!” Cassie got off of the couch and moved across the room to give Annabelle a hug. Annabelle hugged her back, her face pale. Cassie wasn’t the only one who’d forgotten.

“I can’t believe I forgot my own birthday.”

“It happens,” Virginia told her. She was seated on an old trunk against one wall, Craig standing beside her. “Life tends to get strange.”

She was right. Annabelle knew that better than a lot of people. But she’d never forgotten her own birthday before. Even though, for many years, she’d desperately wanted to. And not for the reasons most women cite. She didn’t care all that much about numbers and as far as she was concerned, every year under a person’s belt was a little more wisdom that could help see them through the years still ahead.

It wasn’t the idea of growing older that had made Annabelle want to forget.

No.

It was that, as Virginia had submitted, life did, indeed, tend to get “strange.” And life for Annabelle had gotten particularly strange twenty years ago.

To the day.

Cassie moved back a little and eyed Annabelle, taking in her abrupt silence and the pale coloring of her cheeks. Jack noticed it as well. Out of everyone in the world, they were the only two who would know and understand the reason behind Annabelle’s sudden change in behavior.

Jack acted first. He put the envelope back in his pocket and stood, taking Annabelle’s hands and lifting her with him. She went without argument. With a glance at Cassie, Jack led Annabelle out through one of the three doors that exited from the study, and entered the adjoining dressing room beyond. It had since been converted into a guest bedroom, and Jack led Annabelle to the bed and sat her down.

Then he knelt before her, favoring his injured leg.

“You’re all right, luv. I’m sorry that I brought it up. I just didn’t… realize, at first…”

“It’s okay, Jack.” Annabelle looked him in the eyes. “It’s been two decades, you know? I should be over it by now.” She shrugged, a helpless gesture.

It broke Jack’s heart. He pulled her into his strong arms and held her gently. “Anniversaries are the most difficult,” he told her, his breath caressing the hair on her head. “They always are.”

She nodded against his chest, finding that his shirt was damp against her cheek. She was crying. “I know,” she mumbled. “You should have seen me ten years ago.”

“I did see you ten years ago, luv.” He reminded her. And then it hit him. After a decade, he finally realized the truth of that situation. “That’s why you were in the bar.” She hadn’t been there to get drunk on her twenty-first birthday, as so many people in this country decided to do. She’d been there to get drunk so that she could forget her twenty-first birthday. And he had happily obliged her, buying all of her drinks and seeing her safely home.

He’d fallen in love with her that very night. It had hit him like a ton of bricks, unexpected and disorienting. When he’d gone to the bar that night, it was to make a mark. He’d been traveling back and forth between the States and Britain for a decade, being trained by Samuel Price, and still doing jobs in the UK whenever called upon. At that point, the reality of their situation had hit he and his wife and they’d recently agreed upon a divorce. His family remained behind in Essex, well hidden and protected, for the time being, by a combination of Jack’s money – and Sam’s.

Life was up in the air and Sam had sent him to the pub to do away with a man whose death, apparently, would help solidify Jack’s position in the Business. In that respect, it was like any job. There was a ladder to climb. Only, with this ladder, you kicked the rungs out from under you as you ascended so that no one could follow you up.

So Jack had gone to the bar, riding his bike on the way to relieve some of the fear that he still felt when doing jobs. It was a fear that Sam assured him would lessen as time went by, but never go away entirely. It was a bit of that fear, after all, that helped keep an assassin alive.

He’d entered the bar, scanned it, as he always did, and taken a seat near the back where he had a good view of the entire room.

And while he had been waiting, Annabelle had walked in with a couple of her friends. The friends, he had dismissed upon a cursory glance.

But Annabelle had taken his breath away. She was tall and lithe and her strawberry and blonde hair spilled down her back and over her shoulders like tumbling waves of spun copper and gold. Her skin was perfect. Her smile was nervous and unsure and the teeth behind it were straight and white. Her brown, almond-shaped eyes were sad.

She looked like an angel who’d fallen into the wrong place. She didn’t belong, and he could tell that at first sight. Her companions, who were both wearing less than she was and seemed perfectly at ease with their surroundings, fairly pulled her into the dimly lit pub. At one point, she’d waved her hand in front of her face, clearly bothered by the smoke, before she remembered where she was and clenched her hands behind her back to keep from doing it again.

It was clear to him that she meant to go through with whatever it was she was there to do and was determined not to let any other signs of her innocence show through. It was a hopelessly lost battle, however, as every man in the room had already zeroed in on her like moths to a flame. As if she could somehow develop wings and fly them out of their own personal hells, they gazed at her with mixtures of hunger and hope.

Including the man Jack had been sent there to kill, who was currently sitting alone, a beer to his lips, his eyes on the girl. Jack knew the man by sight, having been given his file the day before. His name was Benjamin Tadler; a handler gone bad, ruined by personal agendas and a fouled-up sense of justice. He’d broken a commandment of the Business by having one of his guns pull a personal favor. He’d orchestrated the killing of a girlfriend he believed had been cheating on him.

In the end, not only had the deed been found out by the powers that be, but to further the grievance of his actions, it had turned out that his girlfriend was doing no such thing.

Jack may have known who Ben was, but Ben had no idea who Jack was. It was one of the benefits of not being as big in the Business as someone like Samuel Price. He retained a small amount of anonymity.

Jack would find Ben later that night. He would track him down, beat the shit out of him, and then end his worthless life.

Later.

Jack had never felt emotions such as the ones that rushed him that night. He not only wanted to kill his target, but every other man in the bar. A sense of protectiveness and jealousy unlike any he’d ever experienced flowed through his veins like liquid fire. In the course of several decisive seconds, he’d mapped out the remainder of the night in his mind.

He would do his job in good time.

The fallen angel girl, whoever she was, would come first.

He remembered standing from where he’d been hiding in the corner and approaching Annabelle at the bar. She’d turned to look at him, already obviously steeling her nerves to tell him off.

But then she hadn’t told him off. Her eyes had met his and held. He’d had trouble breathing when he asked her and her companions if they would mind whether he joined them. Her two friends had agreed readily. Annabelle hadn’t said anything. Not at first.

And he had been unable to take his eyes off of hers.

Finally, she had smiled at him. Jack’s entire world flipped on its axis at that moment and he knew, as he had never known anything in his life, that he was lost for good.

He’d been right.

That was ten years ago.

Ten years ago, today.

As he held her in his arms, now, neither of them spoke. In the recesses of their minds, each of them thought of the past. Each contemplated years gone by and happenstance.

In their own ways, in their own perceptions of pain and pleasure, they each thought of anniversaries.

Several minutes passed, in that shared silence. And then Annabelle cleared her throat. “So… what did you get me?” She asked softly, her words muffled by his shirt.

Jack blinked and slowly allowed her to pull away. She wiped her eyes and offered him the hint of a smile.

Christ, he thought, as his breath caught at her beauty. In ten years, she hasn’t changed. And then he smiled back at her, once more taking the white envelope out of his back pocket.

He handed it to her and, this time, she took it, sniffling as she looked down at it. Then, as he watched, she held it up to the light shining through the window and attempted to see through the paper. He bit his cheek and shook his head.

“Why not open it, luv?” It would be a hell of a lot easier to see what was inside.

“Not as fun,” she told him, as if she could read his thoughts. Annabelle studied the small package carefully. He’d already gotten her the best present she could think of, but unfortunately, as things stood right now, she wasn’t sure she would ever get to see her Harley Night Rod again.

On that note, she pulled the top of the envelope away and tipped it over onto her palm. Two booklets of tickets spilled out and into her hand. She blinked at them and then turned them over to read the writing on the front covers.

“Holy mother,” she whispered. “No way you got me season Wild tickets.” Her mouth dropped open and she read the covers again. “No way!” She stood then, beaming brightly, her smile ear to ear. She held the tickets out at arm’s length, turning them left and then right in her hands. And then she drew them close again, holding them over her heart.

She looked up at Jack, whose own heart was hot in his chest.

“Thank you so much, Jack. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to cheer on my team in person.” She’d always been there, in some way, when she could manage it. Either at the gym, in front of their big-screen TV. Or outside the X-cel Arena, cheering along with the other left-over schmucks who hadn’t been able to afford tickets. She was always there for her team in spirit, at least. But now she could be there for real. The Wild were going to win the Stanley cup this season. She felt it in her blood. And she would be there to watch them drink champagne from it.

She held the books out, separating the two. Two books of tickets. Two people. “I suppose the stipulation is that you accompany me?” she asked, her eyes twinkling wickedly.

He grinned. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” That’s why he’d purchased two books. The truth was, he didn’t care a lot for hockey, but for the fact that Annabelle loved it so much – and her enthusiasm was contagious.

She stared at the tickets a few seconds more and then sighed a contented sigh, her smile turning dreamy.

“Happy birthday, luv.” He said softly, suddenly all too aware of a growing need within him. It was her smile. He loved making her happy. It made him happy.

God, she made him happy.

And he wanted more. But a gift was a not a gift if something was expected in return.

Annabelle left the bed side and carefully placed the tickets in the top drawer of the dresser against the wall. Then she turned to face him as he stood and ran a hand through his hair. He smiled at her and motioned toward the door, indicating that everyone beyond it was probably worried about her, especially Cassie.

But just as he took a step in that direction, Annabelle lunged away from the dresser to knock him back onto the bed. It wasn’t an easy thing to maneuver. He was a big man, filled with ripped muscles from head to toe, and she’d had to put a lot of force behind her movement. The action had been made even more difficult to execute by the fact that she needed to be sure she didn’t shoulder him in the side, where he’d been shot – and she, herself, was injured.

She failed miserably. Both of them went down square in the middle of the mattress, but among groans and grunts of pain.

They laid there for a stunned moment, and then Jack laughed, wrapping one thick arm around her as he rolled them over, pinning her underneath him.

“Practicing up for the games, luv? Please tell me you don’t plan on jumping down onto the ice and putting any fans into the glass.”

Annabelle laughed and raised her head to capture his lips in hers. The kiss took Jack by surprise.

But only for a fraction of a second.

And then he took charge.

Chapter Thirty

Dylan eyed the door behind which Jack and Annabelle had disappeared several hours before.

Beatrice saw the worried expression on the kid’s face and stood up to make her way over to him. “She’s okay, dear. Trust me.”

She smiled a knowing smile and Dylan blinked. And then he blanched.

And Beatrice laughed. Cassie bit her lip to keep from doing the same.

Dylan looked away. And then he sat back in the couch and stared at the hard wood floor. He was too lost in the deep murkiness of his own thoughts to surrender to their teasing. Something was bothering him and it wasn’t the obvious.

He glanced up at the door again and swallowed. “What happened, anyway?” he asked, thinking of the sadness that had come over Annabelle when Thane had reminded her of her birthday. “Why was she so… Upset?”

Cassie looked down at her hands then, all traces of a smile leaving her expression. She leaned forward, setting her Diet Coke beside a paper plate containing a half-eaten slice of pizza. The antique coffee table was covered with the remains of the lunch they had ordered and eaten since Annabelle and Jack had gone off on their own.

Cassie leaned back and looked thoughtful then. She was unaware that everyone in the room was watching her now.

“I suppose there’s no harm in you knowing.” She spoke softly, but her voice carried clearly across the room. She stood up and nodded at Dylan. After a brief pause, he took the hint and stood as well. Then Cassie led him out of the study, down the hall toward the first-level bedrooms and the staircase that led to the second floor.

Sam crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head to one side, his gaze narrowing on the young woman as she led the Anderson kid away. Cassie Reid had no way of knowing it, but the truth was, Sam knew all about Annabelle’s secret. There were few secrets that Samuel Price didn’t know. And he found it very interesting any time people chose to give those secrets away.

Down the hall, Cassie led Dylan into one of the empty rooms and closed the door behind her. She turned to Dylan. “We’re sort of in this mess together and we all have our own secrets. She knows yours and she trusts you, doesn’t she?”

Dylan nodded, not understanding.

“Trust comes with knowing that the person you trust has empathy for you.” She explained, speaking in little more than a whisper. “Annabelle knows what you’ve been through. So, she knows you’ll be there for her. That you’ll understand what she’s going through should anything happen to her.”

Again, Dylan nodded.

“And you should know what she’s been through,” she continued. “For the same reason.”

Dylan swallowed now, shoving his hands into his pockets, his expression turning very serious. He was hearing what Cassie said with more than his ears now. His heart was listening too.

“Annabelle wasn’t born an only child,” Cassie began. “She had a twin brother. His name was Daniel.”

Dylan’s eyes widened. His pallor turned white, and then even gray. Cassie could understand why.

Annabelle didn’t have a twin brother now.

“Among other things, Annabelle’s father worked as a volunteer fire fighter in Lakeview, Louisiana. You know – one of the neighborhoods that really got ripped to shreds by Katrina.”

Dylan nodded, numbly.

“Long before Katrina came through, on their eleventh birthday, Annabelle’s father took her and Daniel to work with him. They wanted to see ‘Big Red,’ the new engine at the fire house, and since it was their birthday and all....” Cassie paused and made her way to a bed nearby, then took a seat, folding and clasping her hands in her lap. “While they were there, a call came in. A small plane had gone down in Lake Pontchartrain. It was on fire and, apparently,” she swallowed, clearing her throat. “Apparently, there were people trapped inside and the plane was very slowly sinking.”

Oh, Crap, Dylan thought. I’m not sure I want to hear this…

“To make a long story short, Ann’s dad took off and, Daniel, who was pretty sure he was Superman, snuck off to go with him. Mr. Drake didn’t know his son had tagged along. I guess he hid on the truck somewhere.” Cassie shook her head, as if watching the scene take place in her own mind.

“They got to the site and it was already crawling with every emergency medical technician or cop who could make it there in a reasonable space of time.” Cassie sighed and shrugged. “What happened next is sort of messed up, and the accounts differ a little. But, Annabelle said that her father’s friends came to the house all at once.”

“To tell them…” Dylan’s voice trailed off.

“To tell her mother that both her husband and her son had been lost in the accident.”

“How?” Dylan asked, not understanding. And, sort of not wanting to.

Cassie took another deep breath and let it out in another long sigh. “Daniel must have seen something that got to him. Maybe a face in a window. There were kids on the plane.”

“And he went in to save them.”

Cassie nodded. “And his dad went in after him. The plane pulled them both down along with it.”

Sam felt the phone buzz in his front pocket and pulled it out to glance at the number. He grinned and then looked up to see Reid and Anderson make their way back into the room. It was obvious that she’d told him Annabelle’s secret, because the kid was white as a sheet.

Sam looked back down at the phone, popped it open, and put it to his ear. The others around him were just finishing up with cleaning away the remains of their lunch; tossing the pizza boxes and paper plates and dumping what was left of their Cokes and melted ice. Now they turned to watch and listen as he spoke into the receiver.

“Hi darlin’,” he said, well aware that he had an audience. He ignored them and turned to look at the door through which Jack and Annabelle had disappeared earlier. “Yep, he sure is.” His grin broadened and his eyes shone merrily. “Uh-huh.” He chuckled. “Sure, come on over. We’re in number seven.” He paused again and tore his eyes away from the door to glance over the eager faces of the others. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, smiling ear to ear. “I think it’s about time, darlin’. Don’t you?” He laughed again and closed the phone, re-pocketing it.

“What the hell was that all about?” Cassie asked.

“Who’s coming over?” Craig asked next. His trepidation level had just escalated. And for good reason. There were some powerful and persistent people who wanted him dead.

“Nothin’ for you to worry about, son,” Sam said, his low, casual drawl a dead-ringer for the shit-eating nonchalance of actor Sam Elliot, whom everyone in the room agreed that he resembled to a nearly baffling degree.

“Sam, wha’ ‘ave you brought upon us?” Beatrice asked, her tone gentler than that of Craig or Cassie before her.

Sam turned to look at her and bowed his head slightly in her direction. “Now, don’t worry, Bee. You’ll get as much a kick out of this as I will.” He grinned again and winked.

When Annabelle and Jack finally emerged from the room they’d claimed for an entire afternoon, it was to find everyone in the room seated on the two couches and love seats and staring at them with wide eyes. Jack’s hands found her upper arms and gripped gently.

“What?” Annabelle asked, rubbing her eyes and blushing furiously. “We fell asleep, okay?” She insisted. From the puffiness around her eyes, it was clear she was telling the truth, but everyone in the room knew that sleeping wasn’t all the two had been doing.

“Give me a break,” Annabelle muttered. But their eyes didn’t un-widen, and so far, no one had said anything. “It’s my birthday! I’m entitled to a little… sleep.” Annabelle blushed some more and looked from one of them to the other, until she met Cassie’s eyes. Cassie’s expression was incredibly meaningful as she gave a very slight jerk of her head to the right.

“Happy birthday, Miss Drake.”

Annabelle’s gaze flew across the room to the red-haired woman standing beside the fire place. Jack’s grip on her arms tightened.

“Oh, holy fuck…” Annabelle’s voice trailed off, just as the blood drained from her face and the world dropped out from under her feet. Married…

Omigod… How could she have forgotten that Jack was married?

Married…

She stared at Sherry Thane as if the woman were wearing a black holocaust cloak and carrying a scythe. And maybe sprouting gazelle horns and muttering dark incantations in Homer Simpson’s voice.

“They always say ‘doh’…”

“Sh-Sherry…” Annabelle found herself stumbling over her speech. But, strangely enough, as she stood there watching the incredibly built woman, she noticed that Sherry was smiling. And it wasn’t a cruel, “I caught you red-handed” smile. It was friendly. Sympathetic, even.

Was Annabelle dreaming? Maybe she’d already fainted.

“Miss Drake, please. Sit down. It’s high time you learned what’s going on here.”

“Wh-what?” Annabelle muttered some more. Jack’s grip on her arms hadn’t let up. And now she felt his breath across her ear as he spoke to her softly.

“Bella, sit down. We do need to talk.”

In the corner, Sam smiled away, clearly enjoying the exchange he’d been so looking forward to observing.

“I’m ashamed of you, Jackie. This is uncalled for.” Beatrice was glaring at Jack, her arms crossed over her chest where she sat beside Clara, who was looking from her father to Annabelle to Sherry, an air of distinct discomfort about her. This situation was a little too personal – and a little too adult for her tastes.

“Really, Thane.” Sherry came forward from where she was standing, and shook her head reprimandingly. “You’ve behaved unforgivably,” she said softly.

Annabelle’s eyes widened further as she watched the Homer holocaust demon come closer. What had she just said? Had she just called her own husband by his last name?

But Jack didn’t say anything and, when Sherry gently took Annabelle’s arm out of his grip, he grudgingly let go.

No. Don’t let her get me…

“Come on, sweetie. Let’s go talk.”

But Annabelle couldn’t move. Her new riding boots were glued to the floor beneath her.

She just managed to shake her head when Beatrice stood up and walked over to them as well, taking Annabelle’s other arm. Annabelle glanced over her shoulder at Jack. His expression was helpless.

At last, she found her feet moving and the four of them left the room together to walk down the hall toward another of the mansion’s many renovated rooms. All she could think about was the way Sherry’s hand felt on her arm. It was strong. The woman was a brute. She was going to rip Annabelle’s head completely off of her shoulders.

And Jack was just following along, not doing anything to protect her!

Some birthday.

When they’d shut the door behind them, Sherry and Beatrice let go of Annabelle and Sherry moved away from her to take a seat on the bed. Beatrice leaned up against the dresser by the wall, once more crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at Jack, who, for his part, remained standing beside Annabelle.

As if he was afraid she would run at any second.

Which she just might.

“Annabelle, relax,” Sherry sighed from where she sat on the bed, crossing one leg over the other. “Jesus, Thane, you could have at least given her a drink or something. Soften the blow a little.”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here this afternoon, Sherry,” Jack replied, grinding the words out through clenched teeth. “Would have softened the bloody blow a little had you warned me of that fact.”

Sherry shrugged. “Sam said to come along. Besides, I wondered whether you were all right when you didn’t show up at the condo. The Colonel’s men get to you?” She asked, nodding toward his waist and leg.

Annabelle’s brow furrowed as she followed the exchange. How did Sherry know Jack had been shot? And in the side and leg? She must have been talking to Sam. Of course, he would tell her that her husband had been hurt.

“I don’t know,” Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair. Annabelle turned a surprised expression on him. Despite everything, he was being calm about this situation? But he ignored her look and continued. “Maybe Osborne’s direct hires. Whoever they were, though, they were able to find us when they shouldn’t have been.”

“You’re being tracked somehow,” Sherry nodded sagely.

“Yes, but I can’t bloody figure out how.”

“Oh my God.” Annabelle finally spoke. The words just came out. Because, in that moment, she realized that Sherry knew what was going on. She knew everything that was going on. How was that possible? And, wasn’t she supposed to be in Rome or something?

Everyone in the room stopped talking and looked at her.

Sherry’s gaze shot to Jack, as did Beatrice’s. Jack sighed and walked around Annabelle so that she was facing him.

“Bella, it’s time you knew the truth,” he began. “Sherry isn’t my wife because we love each other. She’s a hired gun.” He paused a moment, allowing the information to sink in. Annabelle’s gaze flitted to Sherry, who smiled, and then back to Jack.

He went on. “Maria was in the Business as well,” he told her, referring to the woman he’d been married to before Sherry. “They’re covers,” he said softly, cupping her face in his hands. “Nothing more.”

Annabelle stared up at him for a long time.

Too long.

Jack swallowed, his blue eyes pleading. “Bella, I didn’t tell you because-”

“Let me go, Jack.” Annabelle spoke the words very, very softly. Jack almost shivered. But he slowly removed his hands and let them fall to his sides. And then Annabelle turned around, opened the door, and quietly left the room.

Jack put his face in his hands.

“Sucks to be you, Thane,” Sherry said as she stood from the bed and moved up alongside him. “But I’ll tell you this much. The longer you let it go, the worse it’ll get.” Then she brushed past him and left the room after Annabelle.

When they were alone, Jack put his hands down and turned to his ex-wife. “What do I do, Bee?”

Beatrice’s expression softened, going from angry to sympathetic in the space of seconds. She stood and made her way to her ex-husband, taking his hands in hers. “You go to her, Jack. You make her understand, tha’ even if what you did was wrong, you did it all for the right reasons.” She stared up at him for several long moments.

He pulled her into a hug and placed a kiss on her head. “Thank you,” he whispered, and then let her go.

She smiled warmly and gave his hands one last squeeze. “’S all ri’, Jack.” She let him go and moved around him, turning the door knob and cracking it open. But before she stepped out, she turned to him one last time. “And, for God’s sake, Jack, don’t lie to her any longer.”

When Jack left the room a few minutes later, it was to find that the group had split up, each going their own way. It gave him only a moment’s pause to find that Clara and Dylan were together in the entertainment room, which had once been the servant’s quarters. It had since been outfitted with a large flat-screen TV and one of his men had obviously dropped off a Wii during their stay there. The two teenagers were battling it out with boat loads of zombies in dark forests in the Wii version of Resident Evil IV. Jack watched them for a moment and then sighed. As long as they were busy being unnecessarily grisly and violent instead of having sex on the couch, he was letting it slide.

He moved on, coming to the kitchen. Sam was popping open the fridge as Jack walked in.

“Wanna beer?” the Texan asked, without even looking up.

“No, thanks.” Jack leaned up against the counter. Sam knew he didn’t drink, but he still always offered. “Where’s Sherry?”

“Took off. Had a job to do. Says you owe her a drink, by the way. She hated scaring the bejeesus out of Annabelle.” Sam turned around, a grin on his handsome face. “She says you made her out to be the ogre.”

Jack blew out a long sigh and ran his hand through his thick hair. It was definitely becoming a nervous gesture.

“Where’s Annabelle?”

“She went into that room the two of you were occupying earlier.” Sam screwed the top off of a distinctly dark beer and took a swig. “How’d she take the news?”

“You have to ask?”

“Nah,” Sam shook his head once, his smile broadening. “Not really. Just wanna hear you say it.”

“You’re a right bastard, Sam,” Jack told him, shaking his head. “I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me for this one.”

Sam whistled. “Sure hope she does, ‘cuz it’s the lesser of your particular evils, my friend.”

Jack shot him a look and then gazed back at the floor. Sam was right. Jack was so screwed. But he didn’t have a whole lot of time to contemplate his level of screwdness, since it was at that time that gunfire erupted and glass imploded all around them.

On instinct, Jack and Sam immediately hit the deck. But then Jack was up and running, hunched over, toward the entertainment room in the next instant. It was with little surprise but a whole hell of a lot of relief that he saw Clara had already hit the floor as well, taking her would-be boy friend with her. She spared him a glance as he ran by, but wisely didn’t move.

Jack didn’t stop either. He ducked beneath more shards of splintering wood and flying glass as the gunfire continued.

Finally, he made it to the room where Annabelle had gone and he slammed through the door and hit the floor, rolling over to look around. Annabelle wasn’t in the room.

“Jack!”

Jack turned his head to the right to find Annabelle beneath the bed, clutching something protectively to her chest. All around them, the explosions continued. The air was filled with dust and particles and floating feathers from the mattresses and pillows.

“Bella, take my hand!”

Annabelle reached her left arm out and took hold of Jack’s hand, allowing him to slide her across the floor toward him. As he did so, something heavy and round shot through the window and landed on the ground beside them, bouncing once and then rolling to a stop.

They both turned to look at it. Annabelle’s eyes locked on the small green form. Recognition registered even as horror immobilized her.

But her hand was still in Jack’s, and he used the connection to yank her to him, pulling her to her feet and against him in the next swift action.

He took Annabelle out the door with him once more, diving for the leather couches that graced the adjoining study. He’d just managed to get himself and Annabelle behind the nearest one when the grenade went off and the room they’d been in a split second before burst outward like an over-inflated vacuum.

Annabelle screamed as her ears popped painfully and the world around her bellowed in agony. The noise of the blast was tremendous. It wasn’t like anything you hear in the movies. It was deeper, more like a thumping, in-your-bones feeling than a sound. It shook the very earth.

A few seconds after the blast, Jack shoved himself away from her and took a second to look her over. When he saw no major injuries on her, and no embedded shards of shrapnel, he pulled both of his weapons from the shoulder holster he wore and got his booted feet under him once more.

“How the fucking, bloody hell do they keep finding us?” He hissed under his breath, to no one in particular.

From his vantage point, he could just see into the walkway leading into the kitchen. Sam was on his haunches as well, and had also drawn his gun.

“That was a warning, Thane!” Came a voice from outside. Through the ringing numbness in their ears, it sounded as if the man were yelling through a cone of cotton, but his words were still clear. Omigod, is that actually Sean Bean out there? Annabelle thought, ludicrously. It sounded even more like the actor than Jack did. And that was a warning? She didn’t recognize the source of the voice, not knowing any men with that particular accent other than Jack.

But Jack swung around to face the direction the voice came from, and his eyes had gone wide.

Annabelle watched him. His expression had changed from pissed and frustrated to surprised and apprehensive. He recognized the voice?

“Give us Brandt and the vial and we’ll let everyone else live, Jack,” the voice continued, taking on a more personal tone, “including Clara and Annabelle!”

Whoever the guy was, he knew his stuff. He had enough information under his belt to be able to hit Jack where it really hurt. He’d called the girls by their first names and also somehow knew that Jack, Clara, and Annabelle were still alive, inside the house.

“Oh, fuck me,” Jack muttered, under his breath, and shot a glance at Sam. Sam shook his head, once. He wore the same pale, uneasy expression.

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing the grit out of them. Then he opened them again and re-focused on Sam. They exchanged a meaningful look and Sam nodded.

Jack turned back to Annabelle. He knelt and put his lips beside her ear to be sure she would hear him. “Bella, we’re heading underground again. Get on your hands and knees and slide them across the floor to keep from getting cut. Don’t lift them, understand?”

Annabelle nodded.

“Move in front of me and follow Sam.”

Again, she nodded and got on her hands and knees. She was still clutching something in her right hand, but Jack couldn’t tell what it was.

“We’re counting to ten, Jack!” There was a pause from outside and then the voice added, in cruel jest, “Maybe!”

Ahead of them, Sam had made it to the doorway of the entertainment room, where he signaled to Clara. Clara nodded and tugged on Dylan’s sleeve, who followed behind her, keeping his body pressed as close to the ground as possible. At one point, however, he lifted his left hand and placed it back down atop a shard of glass.

He inhaled sharply and bit back a curse.

“Slide along the ground, Dylan,” Clara instructed him. “Don’t lift your hands or legs.”

“Got that,” Dylan shot back.

Clara ignored his irritated tone and continued to lead him after Sam.

In a few seconds, the five of them joined up in the hall, protected on both sides from windows and the glass they’d shed. Here, a few shots had made it through the old plaster of the hallway, but it hadn’t sustained as much damage as the rest of the house.

“Where is Cassie?” Annabelle asked, keeping her voice low. Outside, she could hear men shouting to one another and she knew the house was being surrounded. Middlesex was a small town and the mansion was set back into more than thirty acres of un-cultivated land. No one in New York was going to help them right now.

“I’m here,” came the reply. Annabelle looked up toward a door at the end of the hall as Cassie came around the corner, followed by Virginia and Craig, all of them sliding on their hands and knees across the hard wood floor.

At the same time, the door to the hall bathroom popped open and Beatrice came crawling out quickly, moving like a spider across the floor. “Bloody ‘ell, when do you think the next time’ll be that I can use the loo withou’ being nearly blown to bits!”

Annabelle couldn’t believe their fortune that no one had been severely injured in either the gunfire or the grenade blast. What were the chances of that? Was it even possible?

And that’s when it hit her that the men who had shot up the mansion and thrown the grenade had known very well what they were doing. They’d kept from hurting anyone on purpose.

Only the best hit men knew such tactics. These guys were not the amateurs who had botched Max’s suicide. So, who were they?

Just then, there was another blasting sound and Annabelle knew that the door to the back porch had been blown off of its hinges.

“Everyone move back!” Jack waved everyone out of the way, fanning them out in a circle around a space in the floor.

Annabelle muttered under her breath. “Another trap door?” According to Clara and Beatrice, there’d been one in the mansion in Forest Hills as well, and that had been how they’d escaped when Reese blew the house up. Jack had a thing for trap doors. Which was brave, considering he hated dark, damp and enclosed spaces.

Jack didn’t waste time answering her, but he did shoot her an exasperated glance just before Sam handed him a Buck knife and Jack used it to pry the first board up from the floor. Beneath it was indeed the o-ring metal loop to a trap door.

They all helped pull the remaining slats of wood up, and in the space of a few short seconds, the door was uncovered.

At that moment, the back door to the kitchen, which was connected to the back porch, rocked in its frame. Someone was slamming into it from the other side.

Jack jerked the metal loop upward, revealing the dark space below. Annabelle wasted no time in leading the rest of the team down the connected metal ladder into the darkness. She took the rungs quickly, holding on to the sturdy sides even as she still held on to something in her right hand.

“There’s a light switch on the left,” Jack told her as her head disappeared below and Cassie was the next to descend.

Annabelle felt along the dark wall for the switch, found it, and flicked it on. It worked like a charm, lighting up the underground chamber. A connecting tunnel lit up as well, portions buzzing to life one after another.

Soon, the entire group was down the ladder and once Jack and Sam had both made it down as well, the two worked together, turning toward the ladder and grabbing hold of it to slide it along two connected metal rungs to steel couplings on the other side of the trap door hole.

Annabelle was highly impressed with the mechanism. The ladder drew a thick metal sheet behind it and then locked firmly into place, sealing off their passage so that no one could follow them down.

“It’s bullet proof, right?” She found herself asking, simply needing to be sure.

“It was taken and compiled from the sides of a German King Tiger Tank,” Jack answered, shrugging slightly. “So I can’t personally vouch for it. Germans, and all.”

Annabelle breathed a sigh of relief, but Sam and Jack didn’t give them time to get comfortable.

“Keep moving,” Sam urged, and Jack spun Annabelle around to face the corridor that led off to God-only-knew-where. The lot of them ran down the corridor, and before long, the reverberating sounds of metal upon metal followed them through the man-made tunnel. The bad guys were trying to get through.

There were no turn-offs or tributaries the way there had been with the corridors beneath Buell Hall and Columbia. Instead, the escape route led them about a quarter of a mile straight ahead, and then curved slightly to the left.

Here, the air grew cooler and the carved-out walls more damp and Annabelle wondered if they were bordering a river. At one point, they passed under a small steel door, set into the cement ceiling of the tunnel. They kept going, past this door, and Annabelle couldn’t help but question what it was. And, with the darkness and dampness and the low ceiling above them, she also couldn’t help but wonder how Jack was holding up.

She glanced back at him. At once, she caught sight of the blood that had seeped through the bandages around his midsection and left thigh. Her heart leapt into her throat. He wasn’t healed enough yet for all of this.

They traveled a distance further before the tunnel ended in a steel door. It looked like the kind you’d find in a submarine, with the giant wheel used to pry the door open.

There was a circuit breaker box on the wall beside the door, and next to the box was a strange key pad. Jack popped the door open on the box and ripped out every wire, leaving them dangling free. The lights went out. No one moved.

In the darkness, Annabelle could hear Jack and probably Sam working on the wheel of the submarine door. Far down the tunnel, in the darkness they’d left behind, there was an explosion. It rocked the corridor and particles of dirt and rock fell from the ceiling above them to skitter across the ground.

And then Jack had the metal door open and light streamed into the tunnel. No one wasted any time climbing up out of it. Jack stayed behind long enough to turn back to the key pad on the wall and punch in a series of numbers.

Then he, too, climbed up through the exit and he and Sam swung the door shut behind them. It automatically sealed itself tight, emitting a slight popping noise as it did so. From beyond it, Annabelle could hear the sound of sudden, rushing water.

“You flooded the tunnel,” she stated. It wasn’t a question. She was simply recalling the metal door in the ceiling that they had run underneath when things had gotten more damp and cold. It must have been an opening to a body of water above them.

“Yes,” Jack said simply, and they all stood up to look around.

They were in a ditch next to a taller mound of dirt, covered with vegetation of different kinds. Annabelle pressed against the mound of dirt and climbed up, peeking her head over the edge. Before she even looked, she knew what she would find.

Blue water stretched out before her, and in the distance, she could see the trees that surrounded Jack’s mansion. They’d just tunneled underneath a small lake.

“Cor, tha’s bloody brilliant, da’,” Clara said from where she’d climbed up beside Annabelle.

Behind her, Jack leaned against the opposite mound of dirt and watched Annabelle climb back down the other side. She was still holding something in her right hand. She’d been holding on to it ever since her escape from beneath the bed during the grenade attack.

Though he was practically dizzy with pain and waning adrenaline, his curiosity got the better of him. “Bella, what have you got in your hand?”

Annabelle turned and straightened and then looked down at the smudged bit of white in her right palm. She carefully dusted it off and unfolded it, revealing two small booklets of Wild season tickets. She gave a small shrug and, without looking back up at him, she said softly, “I really wanna go.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Sam’s boat settled into a rhythmic bouncing motion as it rode the waves of New York’s harbors. Annabelle could tell that they were headed back in the direction they’d originally come, but Jack was being particularly close-mouthed about their next destination.

She chalked it up to exhaustion and blood loss and tried to relax.

Poor Reese had been let out of his trunk days ago and had been under close guard by Sam’s men on the boat, in the open water. Jack wanted him alive for questioning, and Sam had to agree it was a good idea, as long as Reese was in the middle of a vast expanse of murky water, unable to either retrieve or give away information that might put Jack and their group in any further danger.

For the most part, they’d kept the assassin drugged up. It gave Annabelle chills to think of how many times they must have stuck needles into his arms. Still, she realized it was probably the best way. He wouldn’t fight if he was asleep, and the men guarding him could take breaks to use the restroom and eat. It made sense. It was just creepy.

Right now, the well-dressed balding man was seated on the very trunk he’d been trapped in several days before. He still wore his suit and wool trench coat, though his attire had taken some understandable damage. His glasses were also missing.

His wrists were secured behind his back in a pair of metal cuffs that Annabelle had never seen before. They were smooth, devoid of key holes or notches and she wondered how the hell they came off and on.

The rest of them were standing more or less on the opposite side of the cabin, except for Craig, who’d gone to use the boat’s tiny restroom, and Beatrice and her daughter, who were seated side by side on the ship’s prow, holding on to the railing as they enjoyed the roller-coaster-like rise and dive of the boat’s movement over the waves.

It looked like a lot of fun, actually, and Annabelle would have joined them if it hadn’t been for her shoulder. The sprain hurt a little more today than it had yesterday and she wasn’t sure she could hold on to the railing tight enough to keep from going overboard.

The others were busy talking about Max’s suicide letter. Annabelle wasn’t sure whether she was toning out because she really wanted to go and ride the waves or because she didn’t actually want to talk about Max.

Either way, when she mentally rejoined them, Dylan was sulking on one of the attached wooden and metal stools beside the captain’s table. His expression said that he had once more surrendered to his deeper thoughts.

“They certainly messed up the suicide, itself,” Cassie was saying. “It’s really hard to kill yourself with Klonapin. At least, quickly.” She paused. “But the medical records were fixed, and whoever took care of that did a really good job.”

“Godrick Osborne hired more than one man to clean up his mess,” Sam told them, his tone even, his voice soft.

“The Colonel said as much when we were at his warehouse,” Annabelle offered, deciding to join the conversation. She distinctly recalled the Colonel’s troubled expression when he’d mumbled that he hadn’t been the only one hired to solve Osborne’s problems.

Jack spoke up then. “Osborne has pulled out all the stops, I can assure you.”

Sam glanced at him and their gazes met.

Annabelle’s own gaze narrowed. “Okay, so who was the man outside the mansion, Jack? The one whose voice you so obviously recognized?”

Jack turned to look at her, his brows raised in slight surprise. She rolled her eyes. “Oh come on – there may as well have been a text box above your head with scene directions that said, ‘character recognizes a voice from the past’.”

Jack blinked and then smiled. Sam whistled low. Craig came out of the bathroom and Beatrice and Clara chose that moment to head back in through the glass opening that led to the stern of the boat.

Jack glanced at them and then looked back at Annabelle, who was waiting expectantly. “Very well, luv, you’re right. I know him.”

This had everyone’s attention. Even Dylan came out of his own personal hell long enough to listen in.

“Know ‘oo?” Beatrice asked.

“The guys who were shooting at us at the mansion,” Virginia filled her in. Beatrice nodded, her eyes widening.

Jack sighed. “His name is Adam Night.”

Annabelle gave him a disbelieving look. “You’ve got to be kidding me. No one is named ‘Adam Night’.”

Jack shrugged.

Sam cut in. “No one knows his real name,” he told them. “He’s probably forgotten it, himself.”

“He’s been Adam Night since we were kids,” Jack explained.

“Since you were kids?” Annabelle asked. “You mean, together?”

“More or less. We were at the same orphanage together.”

“I’d say ‘more’, not ‘less’,” Sam said.

Jack cut him a glance and sighed. “Fine. ‘More’.”

The people in the cabin who were not all that familiar with Jack looked at him with a mixture of sadness and surprise. Annabelle, Beatrice, Jack’s daughter, and Sam, however, had already known the truth of Jack’s past. He’d been an orphan in Yorkshire. And, apparently, he’d had a friend.

“Adam was brought in as an infant, just as I was, and roughly at the same time. He was a few years younger, or that’s what they estimated. But there was no accompanying information on him. So, they called him Adam because he seemed to be missing one of his ribs.”

“What?” Dylan blinked. His eyes narrowed. “He was missing a rib?”

“You couldn’t really tell, but as always, a physician was brought in to examine the new child. The doctor said it was a birth defect of some sort.” Jack took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “They gave him the surname of Night because of his hair.”

Annabelle thought about this for a moment and then asked, “What is the deal between you two?”

Jack went on. “Adam was younger, but a great deal more… fearless than I,” he began. “He was always the first of our group to wind up or mess someone about-”

“What?” They all asked, at the same time. Except for Beatrice and Clara, who were surprised by their question.

Jack blinked. “Sorry.” He’d slipped into the past to tell this story, and it had come through in his language. He cleared his throat. “He was always the one who caused trouble. He’d be the first to pull a prank, assuring us we could do it. Then he’d be the only one who wouldn’t get caught.”

There was a lot he wasn’t telling them. Adam had been Jack’s brother, in so much as two unrelated people could be brothers. Adam had always confided in Jack about what he was thinking and what he wanted to do. When he stole liquor, it was to share with Jack, no one else. And when he smoked, he and Jack smoked together as they sat on the roof of their orphanage and made fun of the people who mulled around below them.

But they didn’t need to know any of that. When it came down to it, the important thing that they understood was that Adam was crazy dangerous.

While Jack had fallen into the Business more or less by accident, Adam Night had out-and-out decided it was what he wanted to do. And so he had.

And he was very, very good at it.

“Night is an assassin with no barriers,” Jack told them. He was called in on only the most insane assignments. The ones that no one else would take. And he only sometimes finished the job. However, it never remained incomplete because Adam couldn’t do it. It was always because Adam had simply decided the target was too easy. Or too boring.

The higher-ups and their handlers had a very difficult time getting a hold of Adam Night. The enigmatic, frightening hired gun had been in more than a few manila folders, himself.

No one could kill him, though. Hell, no one could ever find him.

But when he did accept a job that he chose to complete, rumors of what he did to his marks infiltrated the circle of handlers and piece men until Adam Night had become a bad word in the households of assassins across the globe.

And he’d once been Jack’s best friend.

“So, basically, he’s a really bad guy,” Annabelle mumbled, turning away to gaze out the window.

“Aye, luv. A really bad guy.” Jack replied softly.

From where he was seated atop his trunk, the quiet and watchful Reese finally spoke up. Everyone had almost forgotten he was there. “You have no idea,” he said softly. He wasn’t trying to be a smart ass, and his tone wasn’t overtly cruel. It was a simple affirmation. His expression was almost sad. “I’ve come across the bodies he leaves behind. He doesn’t just kill them.”

Everyone was a little paler after that comment. Jack stared at Reese for a moment and then let the comment go, turning to Craig. If Craig looked a little sick, it was nothing compared to how he looked after Jack said, “He’s been hired to kill you.”

“You’re not… You’re not going to let him, right?” Craig asked, stumbling over his speech as his tongue had most likely gone numb with fear.

The truth was, if Adam Night wanted Craig Brandt dead, Craig Brandt was probably going to die. There would be little Jack could do to stop it. And the fact of the matter was that if Adam had really wanted Craig badly enough, the little game he’d played at the Middlesex mansion wouldn’t have occurred. Virginia Meredith simply would have woken up one morning to find her lover scalped or some other such grisly nonsense and cold as stone, lying next to her in bed.

Adam was having fun. He was letting his brother know he was in town; he was saying “hi.” Jack wondered how long the little reunion would go on before Adam got serious. Or bored.

Jack was hoping for bored.

When he didn’t answer, Craig swallowed audibly. “Then we need to get out of here, don’t we? Go somewhere else? Like, far away?” Virginia took his hand and squeezed it tight. She turned entreating eyes upon Jack, who ran a hand through his hair.

Here it was. What he’d been dreading.

“Yes, we need to get out.” He said. “We’re taking you to a researcher in Essex who should be able to get you set up to reproduce your cure.”

Beside him, he could almost feel Annabelle tense up. He reluctantly turned to face her.

Annabelle stared at him a few silent moments and then cocked her head to one side. “What?” she asked, very softly.

“We’re going to England, Annabelle. Today.” Jack told her, speaking slowly and softly. He was having trouble making eye contact with her. Instead, he looked at the wooden slats in the floor and, again with the nervous gesture, ran a hand through his blonde waves.

Annabelle swallowed almost as audibly as Craig had. “Jack, I don’t fly. You know that.” She swallowed again, though it was getting hard to with how dry her mouth had gone. “I made a once-in-a-life-time exception to come here because it was necessary. This is where Columbia is. This is where Craig Brandt is.” She glanced at Craig, nodding in reference. He hesitantly nodded back. “But there’s no way in hell that I’ll get on a plane to go to England.” She wanted to make herself very clear on this point.

She steadily stared up at him. Finally, he met her eyes once more. His expression was inscrutable.

She hadn’t missed the fact that he’d used her whole name when he’d addressed her about this. He only did that when his emotions were really strong. He was determined in this and that really scared her.

He pulled his gaze away from hers then and looked over her shoulder. Something flickered in their blue depths.

Annabelle spun around to see that he was looking at Sam. Who had silently made his way to the archway leading out of the cabin and was standing in front of it, blocking the exit.

What the hell?

“Anna, try to think about the fact that you finally get to visit England,” Cassie made her way across the cabin to put a gentle hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Hell, I’m actually really glad that I have to go with you because I sure as shit want to see England! We can try to get Sean Bean’s autograph!”

“I know you’ve always wanted to go,” Dylan offered next, shooting a slightly resentful look toward Jack as he continued, in as supportive a tone as he could muster. “You’re always telling me you want to see Yorkshire.”

“It’s not the destination, Dylan,” Annabelle told him. She tried to breathe evenly as she went on. “It’s the trip.” She was seething with anger at Jack at that moment. And, frankly, none of these people were helping. She wasn’t getting on another plane; that was a given. Especially a plane that planned to cross water. But, what pissed her off the most was the fact that Jack had just decided, without consulting her in the least, that she was going to yet again face her worst fear so that she could leave her country to go visit another one that very day! Where the hell did he get off?

“Not to worry, luv,” Beatrice chimed in. She was digging around in her large purse again. “I’ve got a fresh supply of bevvy that can get us aled up ri’ proper.” She grinned widely as she pulled out an un-opened bottle of Jose Cuervo. “’Ere we are! We’ll be just fine then, won’t we?”

“Cor, Miss Drake, you’re goin’ about this all wrong, eh?” Clara said then, drawing Annabelle’s attention from Beatrice. “It’s like when you know the big bloke in the play yard wants to clobber your brains out. You don’t let ‘im smell your fear, do you? Nah, you let ‘im know you think he’s go’ a tiny wanker, you do! Teach ‘im you’re no’ a coward!”

Annabelle’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping open. “Clara! You do not tell an airplane you’re about to get on that it has a small penis! It’ll just get pissed off at you and want to get even!”

Across the cabin, Sam’s tall form began to shake with silent laughter.

Annabelle ignored him. “It’ll go Kamikaze on us and drop out of the sky like a rock just for the chance to hear us all scream before we hit the ground!”

Cassie blinked beside her and then bit her lips to keep from smiling. She cocked her head to one side, as if considering Annabelle’s words. Then she nodded once and said, “Well, I guess you never know. Planes could have feelings-”

“Absolutely!” Virginia piped up, helpfully. “In fact, the Native Americans have long believed in animism.” She was animated, herself now, gesturing with her hands as she spoke. “It’s something children seem to know instinctively – that all things in the universe have sentience – but that we forget as we grow older-”

Annabelle didn’t have a chance to catch the rest of Virginia’s mini-lecture on the souls of inanimate objects, because it was at that moment that Jack wrapped his left arm around her upper body, pinning her tightly as he inserted a needle through her sleeve and into her right arm.

Not having expected it, she barely felt the sting. But whatever it was he gave her worked quickly. Her legs gave out and she fell into Jack’s supportive arms. Her world went black in the space of two very short seconds.

Annabelle was running, but no matter how hard she pushed, her legs would only go so fast. Or slow. They moved like bendy straws through frozen molasses, threatening to break under the pressure she was exerting upon them.

But she needed to move. She desperately needed to get away, because the plane was skating along the frozen water, rushing toward her, flames shooting out of its windows. It was screaming as it skidded along the ice, issuing forth an ear-splitting noise like a banshee or a jet engine.

Horrible. Loud.

Up ahead, a crack in the ice spread out before her. It formed a hole, leading to dark, frigid waters below. They were a sapphire blue, endless and familiar. She moved toward the hole, knowing that the plunge would hurt, but would probably save her life.

Behind her, the air grew hot. It grew very hot. The back of her neck tingled with the lick of flames. She hissed in a breath and her heart pounded hard in her chest. The heels of her feet grew hot in her boots and they began to slide on the melting ice.

The plane was only a few yards behind her.

Her right glove caught fire as it moved behind her in a running swing. She hugged the hand to her chest, but the fire didn’t go out. It spread to her left glove and the flames ate through the tips of the gloves to reach her fingers within.

A warmth became a heat, searing her fingernails off. She screamed.

Only a few more feet to the water.

Only a few more steps.

Fire edged into her vision on her left, and wrapped around her on her right. She was being hugged by it, embraced by the death behind her. Her hair caught on fire; she could smell it. Only it smelled like burning oil. Maybe it was the plane.

The scream became a mixture of many screams. Voices raised in agony – and fear.

She jumped.

When she hit the water, it wasn’t cold. It was warm. She sank down into it, wrapped in softness, wrapped in comfort. She sank more than a mile down, without having to take a breath.

She sank several miles and her boots touched the bottom.

She looked down at her hands. They were healed. Her clothes were intact.

She looked around her. The blue stretched on forever. Warm and dark.

Behind her, the water shifted, budging her forward in a small after-wave. She slowly turned around. The plane had melted ice above her and fallen through. It was now sinking through the water. She watched it, several yards away, leaving a trail of ice blue water behind it.

A vapor trail of cold and engine oil traced its way to the surface of the water, so very, very far up.

Chapter Thirty-two

“What the hell were you thinking, Jack?” Annabelle paced the distance in front of the bed in the small room. “You could have killed me or something! How do you know I wasn’t allergic to whatever you gave me? I could have died in my sleep-”

Jack cut her off before she could continue, his voice raised an octave, his temper held carefully in check. “Bella! Come to your senses. I wouldn’t give you something that could harm you; you must know that by now.” He shook his head, taking a deep breath to calm himself as he folded his jacket and placed it within his black bag. “Not so long as I drew breath, Bella, would I ever hurt you.” He turned away from her and continued working. The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the metallic sound of gun pieces clicking against one another as Jack reassembled his weapons. Where the hell had he put his bloody bullets?

That afternoon, Annabelle had awoken, groggily and a tad queasy, to find herself tucked beneath a thick, soft blanket in an unfamiliar, if very nicely appointed room. Her vision had cleared upon wooden beams in the ceiling and she’d blinked to take in the rest of her surroundings, which appeared to be a cottage-like room, small but warm. A fire crackled in a fire place set into one wall.

There was a glass of water on the bedside table. She picked it up and sat up to take a drink without even thinking. Her mouth was so dry…

As soon as she sat up, Jack was there in the doorway. Annabelle swallowed the clear liquid as her mind raced and she stared at the man who stared back at her.

It had taken her a moment to remember what had happened, and hence, figure out where she now most likely was.

But when she did, she dropped the glass and it tumbled down the bed side to land and shatter on the hard wood below.

They’d been arguing for over an hour since. In the interim, Annabelle had managed to get out of bed and get dressed and now her black boots paced out an agitated distance on the polished wood planks in the cottage bedroom.

“You would never hurt me, Jack?” Annabelle asked then, her tone changing. “You would never hurt me? You mean… you would never lie to me or put me in mortal danger or jam a needle into my vein when I didn’t do what you wanted me to do?” She asked, her gaze narrowed, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Jack stopped what he was doing. She stared at his back.

“What about Teresa Anderson?” she asked, then.

He straightened. Annabelle continued, talking softly at his back. “Did you hurt her, Jack?”

Jack Thane slowly turned around. His blue eyes glittered in the fire light.

Annabelle swallowed again and went on, almost as if she couldn’t stop herself. “I remember, four years ago, when I took the job with Max… You tried to talk me out of it. Something about wasting my talents.” She stopped, blinked her eyes a few times, and licked her lips. “But it wasn’t that at all, was it?” she asked.

Jack took a very slow, very careful step forward. His expression was unreadable, his eyes burning holes through her soul. But she simply took a step back and continued.

“The truth was you didn’t want me working for Max because you never wanted me to find out that you’d killed my boss’s wife.”

“Bella, listen to me-”

“No,” she shook her head, and took another step back just as he took another toward her. “Not this time, Jack. Not a thing you can say in that beautiful voice of yours – not a single sentence you can mutter – except ‘I didn’t kill Teresa Anderson’ will work this time.” Annabelle found herself up against the door. On instinct, she felt for the knob behind her.

Jack stopped where he was and held very still. The tension in the air between them grew thick. Annabelle felt dizzy.

“You can’t say it, can you?”

A muscle ticked in Jack’s jaw. His posture was rigid, his expression hard. Annabelle had never seen such a look on his face. What was it? Pain? Fear? Anger? Resolution?

Whatever the look was, it was cold.

She shivered. Tears gathered in her eyes, un-welcome, but un-stoppable. “You drug me up? You keep secrets from me?” She shook her head and a tear streamed down her cheek. “I don’t even know you anymore.” She turned the knob behind her and Jack’s gaze narrowed. “I honestly don’t know if I ever did.”

She spun then and yanked the door open, shooting through it to run down the hall and into the den. Jack allowed her the head-start. His body could have stopped her immediately. If he’d wanted it so, she’d never have made it into the hall. But something in him hesitated. Some part of his mind paused, holding him back. For just a second. Enough time for her to make it out of arm’s reach and into the study, where Sam and Cassie were seated at the low wooden table, sharing a cup of tea.

Sam stood as Annabelle raced by him and toward the back door of the English cottage. Jack was hot on her heels.

Sam’s arm shot up, his hand grabbing Jack by the shoulder as the younger man made to brush past him.

“Let her go, Jack.”

“Get out of my way, Sam.” Jack growled through gritted teeth, turning a hard look on his old friend.

“Go after her now and you’ll end up pushing her further away.” Sam’s voice was low, his tone steady and meaningful. His words cut through the red haze of fear and anger surrounding Jack’s perception. He wondered at them. Sherry had told him, only a few hours ago, that letting it go too long would only make things worse. Who did he believe? The man who was his best friend or the woman he barely knew?

“I’ll go talk to her for you,” Sam finished, slowly lowering his arm.

Jack’s mind raced. His heart ached. He wanted nothing more, at that moment, than to go after Annabelle and hold her – shake her until she could only shut up and listen to what he had to say. Let him explain.

Memories assaulted him. Sam’s gray eyes may have filled Jack’s vision, but behind the iron doors of his consciousness, there was only darkness…

Darkness, and a convenience store and a wrist watch that read 11:24p.m.

From his vantage point across the street, he watched patrons pull in and out, filling up on gasoline and junk food and a numb, tired sort of late-night social interaction. It was his fourth night in this location, this exact same spot, carefully watching the building’s comings and goings. He’d learned the pattern by night two. And now it played out for him like a piece of music, each note struck in turn, a rhythm whose beat he’d carefully memorized.

And then, as his contact had promised, his mark arrived. Thursday evening – Right on time.

Jack’s gaze narrowed on the Toyota Forerunner as it pulled into the lot and parked. The driver got out.

Dr. Anderson was Jack’s mark. Dr. Teresa Anderson.

Upon sighting his mark, a shot of ice raced up Jack’s spine and settled, cold and unwelcome, at the base of his skull. His heart thudded hard against his rib cage. His palms began to sweat beneath his black leather gloves. Nausea roiled in his belly. It was an entirely unwelcome sensation, and one he’d never felt before.

His target looked up at the night sky, a puzzled expression on her pretty features. The street light she normally parked under was broken. Jack had seen to that.

His breathing became shallow. What’s wrong with me? He asked himself. You can do this. But, it was his first female assignment. And being faced with the living, breathing thing was much different from studying her two-dimensional photograph in a manila folder.

He glanced down at the gun on the seat beside him. It seemed to gaze back up at him, black and heavy and silent. Taunting.

He swallowed and looked back up at his mark. He’d been paid well. He had his orders. He’d never fouled an assignment before. Not once. He always got the job done, no questions asked.

He swore softly under his breath.

This time was different.

In a few minutes, Dr. Anderson came back out of the store and headed toward her vehicle. Jack picked up his gun and opened the driver’s side door.

Teresa Anderson glanced up at the sound of a car door opening. The parking lot across the street was awash in darkness. Long, deep shadows dominated the grounds, plunging parked cars into colorless obscurity.

She searched the darkness for the source of the sound. No movement caught her eye. A shiver raced through her, sudden and alarming. How did the wives tale go? When someone steps on your grave…

She turned back toward her car and broke into a brisk walk. The night air was hot and muggy. Sweat trickled down her back. Her air conditioner beckoned. She thought of home and the dinner that was probably waiting. Her son. She wondered how his game had gone. Absently, she wondered whether Max had remembered to take the camera.

Jack moved, silent and unseen, a black cat slipping through the darkness, until he was two car lengths away. And then he stopped, raising his gun. Two shots was the deal. One wounder, one killer. Take the purse and run. An unfortunate tragedy. A person in the wrong place at the wrong time. A mugging gone wrong.

Jack straightened. His finger released the safety on the gun and then slid into the groove of the trigger.

Then he saw the look on his mark’s face. Wistful, earnest. He recognized it for what it was.

After all, he had kids of his own.

In that instant, he knew he couldn’t do it. For the first time in his career, he would fail to finish a job.

Though his entire body had gone rigid, his hand shook.

As Anderson opened her car door and threw her purse inside, Jack took a deep breath, lowering his gun.

A strange whispering sound split through the night. Teresa Anderson jerked forward, her blood spraying the leather seat in front of her. A second whisper sliced the air and Jack flinched, for the first time in his life, instantly sickened by the display of death before him.

Something inside of him clicked into place. Before he could give real thought to what had happened, he instinctively knew what was going on. And though his mind recoiled at the thought, his body knew what to do.

He surged toward the car, grabbed Teresa Anderson’s purse, and was running through the darkness before Anderson’s body hit the ground. He made it to his car, got in, and rammed the gear shift into drive, forcing himself to go slow enough through the parking lot that his progress would not be detected by the next customers now coming out of the gas station across the street.

Both tail lights, as well as the fog lights and the interior lights, had been removed from the vehicle long ago. There was no license plate on the car and the paint was a matte black. The windows were tinted to nearly the same shade.

The car had been primed for running drugs, not assassins, but it suited Jack’s purpose in the same way and for the same reasons.

Jack drove across the grass surrounding the apartment complex to further muffle the sound of his tires. The path he took had been carefully pre-determined and he followed it just as he would have if he’d done the job as planned.

Once he made it across the field and pulled out onto an adjoining street, he drove just under the speed limit to another parking lot several miles away. There, he got out and, after screwing a silencer onto the end of his gun with shaking hands, he fired two rounds into the dirt of a nearby ditch.

He un-screwed the silencer, pocketed it, and strode to an adjacent alley, where a long figure in black jeans, a black t-shirt and a black ski-mask lay, unconscious, against a building wall.

Jack bent and placed the gun in the man’s hand. Then he lifted his own right boot and, taking a clod of dirt from one of the grooves, he rubbed it along the soles of the unconscious man’s sneakers.

Jack stood and gazed down at the man in the ski mask. His name was Ryan Washington, a small-time coke dealer and general all-around creep. Jack had chosen him specifically for his bad manners toward women.

At that thought, Jack closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair.

And then he slid into the darkness once more, unseen and silent, to disappear into the night.

Annabelle raced down road after road, criss-crossing intersections and tributary-like lanes until she wound up on a street labeled “Trinity Street,” utterly lost in her own thoughts and emotions, and semi-blinded by tears she couldn’t be bothered to wipe away. She’d found out only an hour ago that she was now in Colchester, England, and had barely a fleeting recognition of where, on a map, that might be.

Right now, she didn’t notice Colchester’s inhabitants stop and check her out as she ran by. She had no idea where she was going until she found herself standing on the corner of two streets, staring up at a sign of red lettering against a dark brown background. “The Purple Dog”. A pub.

She could hear music coming from the other side of the dark brown door. Annabelle stood there for a few moments, taking in the several-hundred-year-old architecture, admiring, despite her current state, the beauty of the building. Then she hiccupped, wiped her cheeks, and straightened out her shirt. After a calming, deep breath, she pushed past the door and walked into the pub.

She stopped just past the doors and allowed her eyes to adjust to the light. The interior atmosphere of the pub was warm, rich in dark colors and timber, and the place was about half as packed as Annabelle automatically assumed it must be once the sun went down. The crowd was young, for the most part, and well dressed. On impulse, Annabelle felt her front pocket for the money she’d folded into it. It was still there.

It was American money, but she’d been told once that lots of places took American money these days since they could just get it changed whenever they wanted. She hoped this place was one of them.

She had yet to figure out the pound system to the degree that she would have liked, but could handle the conversion well enough for a drink. A drink she badly needed right now.

She made her way to the bar, attracting the attention of several single men as she did so, and asked the bartender if he would take her cash. He nodded, so she ordered an “ale”. She wasn’t a complete idiot. Once she had what she likened to a slightly dark and heady beer, she found an empty table, somewhere near the back wall, and slid into the chair.

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 hope 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.”

It was the bravest and most ridiculously unintelligent thing she’d ever done in her entire life. In fact, the only reason she did it in the first place was because she figured Sam was going to kill her anyway, no matter what he promised. He was an assassin, after all, and he’d so much as said that he never left a mark alive. And she just didn’t want to be tortured first.

For a long, drawn-out moment, Sam didn’t say anything.

And then he sighed. And stood. “I was afraid you’d say that, Annabelle.” He shook his head. “It sure is a shame.”

Annabelle stayed where she was, on her knees, and closed her eyes. Sure, it would be nice to stand and face death on her feet, looking it in the eyes. But it just wasn’t practical. Too hard on the nerves. And hers were already shot.

She heard Sam cock his weapon and her heart surged up into her throat. Her world tilted on its axis. She couldn’t believe this was actually it. The end. And she’d fought with Jack. She was going to die. Holy crap, she was going to die!

“Do me a favor and take off your clothes, Annabelle. This has to look a certain way. Better you do it. There’re only so many ways I can bring myself to violate Jack’s trust.”

Annabelle’s eyes flew open.

What?

She looked up at Sam. He was holding the gun down at his side. A silencer had been screwed onto the barrel. A bullet had been chambered. It was ready to go, but he was waiting for something.

“Take off your clothes,” he repeated. “No mugger in his right mind would kill a woman like you without raping her first. Underneath it all, this is a job, like any other,” he continued. “It’s gotta look right.”

“Like hell,” Annabelle hissed at him, suddenly furious. A red film spread before her eyes, tainting everything slightly pink.

“Get up, then,” he ordered.

She didn’t move.

He swore under his breath and came forward, grabbing her injured arm and yanking her to her feet in one hard tug. She cried out in pain, echoing her muscles’ scream, and automatically began struggling in his grip. She couldn’t help it. It was a natural reaction to what he threatened.

And then Sam grunted as something hard and flat slammed into the side of his head. He spun away from Annabelle, releasing her suddenly so that she fell, off-balance, against the wall.

Chapter Thirty-four

Annabelle steadied herself in the corner between the wall and the ground and used her good hand to shove her hair out of her eyes so that she could see what was happening.

Both figures were dressed in black from head to toe and the darkness in the alley lent them the airs of twisted, writhing shadows. Still, Annabelle knew one of the figures too well not to recognize him.

Relief flooded her system, but she didn’t have much time to contemplate her changing luck, as Sam’s gun suddenly went spinning out of his grasp, hit the wall just above Annabelle’s head, and then fired off a round. A loud laser-like whisper accompanied the sound of cracking brick and shattering stone. Pieces of the broken wall went sailing across the alley. The shards were wickedly sharp, as Annabelle learned when one of them sliced across the left side of her neck, etching a red and ragged line before it disappeared.

She felt it slice her but barely noticed any pain, her attention was so fixed on the two struggling men and the now disowned gun. Without giving it second thought, she began to crawl forward on her hands and knees, scraping the ground with her palms in search of the weapon.

Jack’s rage boiled just beneath the surface of his focused exterior. Sam had thus far managed to block every one of his blows except the very first. The gun was gone, but only because Sam had chosen to let it go so that he could fight without its encumbrance. And everything that Jack knew, Sam knew better.

“Settle down, Jack, and we’ll talk-” Sam began to say, but was cut off as one of Jack’s fists again made its way all too close to his jaw. He ducked and blocked and dove to the side, countering with his own assault.

Jack, for his part, didn’t waste energy speaking. And anything he could have said at that point would only have made things worse. If you can’t say something nice…

He couldn’t believe this was happening. He just couldn’t believe it. A part of him, deep down inside, was being ripped into shreds. It echoed the physical pain in his body, sore and damaged from the Colonel’s assault and the shots he’d taken from his men. Only, this was worse. Much worse.

It affected his ability to fight. Any battle required a certain amount of concentration. Combat against someone who knew what he was doing required intense focus. A battle against Samuel Price demanded nothing short of perfection. At the moment, that was something Jack couldn’t give.

Sam was older than he was, but he was still young enough. His mentor had kept in shape. It was a given in their line of work. To anyone watching, their struggle would have seemed almost choreographed. Things didn’t normally look the way they did in Hollywood, but Sam and Jack had been sparring for more than two decades. And neither of them had forgotten a single thing.

Except that Jack was wounded and he was tired. Real fear for his, and Annabelle’s lives kept his body moving fast and hard. How long he could keep it up was uncertain.

“God damn it, Jack, just hear me out!” Sam managed to get in a good shove, square against Jack’s rock-hard chest, and it knocked the younger man temporarily off balance. He slammed back against the alley wall.

“I wasn’t gonna kill her!” Sam yelled, his hands up at his sides, in a gesture of peace. “You know me better than this, Jack! If I was gonna do it, do you really think I’d have wasted any time?”

Jack’s fevered brain processed Sam’s words even as he pushed back from the wall and dove for Sam once more. This time, Sam easily side-stepped Jack’s attack, using his leg to trip the younger man, who caught himself in a roll and was up and on his feet again in a split second.

They faced one another in the dark alley and Sam shook his head, his dimly lit expression one of supplication. “Come on now, Jack. Think about it, will ya?” Sam was out of breath as he entreated his old friend. Jack stood stock still, watching his mentor carefully.

Annabelle’s fingers brushed against something that slid forward as she moved. Her breath caught and she reached for it, knowing, instinctively, that it was the gun. She grasped the grip firmly and raised the weapon. Then she slid back against the wall again and glanced up at the two men facing off.

She could see Jack’s blonde hair shining in the dim light from the street lamp several yards away. She waited, unsure of what to do.

“How could you do this, you son of a bitch?”

“I’m not as picky as you are, Jack. Never have been,” Sam said, softly, keeping his hands up in that placating gesture. “Handler came to me with an envelope and I took it – like I always do. I didn’t know it was Annabelle’s.”

“You could have turned it down,” Jack said.

“I didn’t know who she was, Jack, until you introduced us at the air strip last week. What was I supposed to do?”

“Nothing, God damn it! Nothing, Sam!”

“I can’t do that, Jack!” Sam yelled back, his ire obviously up, even as he just as obviously fought to control his temper and reason with Jack. “I can’t do that and you know it. Once you’re in, you’re in. I’ve never turned down an assignment before. If I started now, I would be in the next envelope. You know that, Jack. You know that.”

Jack stared at his old friend for a long, quiet time. And then, in a tone as low and deadly as a cougar’s warning growl, he asked, “What were you going to do to her?”

Sam drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily as he did so. He ran a hand through his hair. “I was just trying to scare her. I need the intel. That’s all. If she’d have spilled, I could have turned the rest over. You could take her underground.”

“For the rest of her life, Sam?” Jack’s eyes flashed blue fire.

“Jack, think about this, will ya? If not me, then someone else. Her life’s as good as forfeit now and that’s the black and white of it.”

Annabelle listened, her heart pounding too hard against her rib cage. It sort of hurt. She felt very dizzy. Whatever Sam had given her was having an unpleasant effect. It made her angry. A part of her wanted to shoot him right now and be done with it.

With that thought, she leveled the gun and aimed down the barrel.

“What exactly was the assignment, Sam?” Jack asked.

“At the time, they wanted the message that Max had left behind. But a lot’s happened since then. Now they want the vial. And I have to kill Brandt.”

At that, Jack laughed. It was a humorless, hard laugh and it gave Annabelle a chill.

“And what about you, Sam? What excuse are you going to give them for the delay?”

“No excuses, Jack. Never any excuses. They’ll have to take it or leave it.”

“And you’re the best,” Jack said, his expression both hard and poignant at once. “So, why not take it?” His Sheffield accent had turned mocking and his tone held no kindness. “Better, by far, than losing their best hit man.”

At this, Sam said nothing. He just pulled his gaze away from Jack’s and stared at the ground. And then, as if he’d only now noticed what she was doing, his gaze slid to Annabelle and the gun in her hand. He didn’t move. He just watched her, his expression a mixture of curiosity and defeat.

“You gonna shoot me, darlin’?” he asked softly.

Annabelle didn’t answer.

“Shoot him, Bella.”

She blinked. She glanced at Jack. He was serious. “What?”

“Shoot him. Do what I tell you. Pull the trigger.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change. He still hadn’t moved. He just watched Annabelle, a strange twinkle in his eyes, despite the sadness in his face.

“It’s the only way out of this mess, Bella.”

Annabelle chewed on her lip. Her jaw was sore. Her whole body was sore, actually. Despite the drugs already in her system, she yearned for a pain killer. And that sort of pissed her off too.

Her gaze narrowed. She came to a decision.

Sam’s eyebrow raised.

She aimed carefully and pulled the trigger. Then she pulled it again. She pulled it several more times, all in quick succession, until the clip was empty and the chamber was clear.

And Samuel Price was still standing.

Annabelle lowered the gun, her gaze still steadily locked on Sam’s. Very slowly, Sam straightened and turned around. There, in the brick wall behind him, the bullets had etched a perfect circle around the shadow made by the outline of his head.

He whistled softly.

Jack swore under his breath. “You should have killed him, Bella.”

Sam turned back around to face Annabelle, a new expression now dominating his handsome features. What was it? Admiration? Gratitude? It couldn’t be… respect?

“You owe me, Sam Price. Big time.” Annabelle stood very slowly so as not to fall over from the dizziness that assaulted her. She pushed the hair out of her eyes once more with her empty hand and then added, softly, “Asshole.”

She wobbled on her feet and Jack was at her side immediately. He gently took the empty gun from her hand and shoved it into the waist band of his jeans at the small of his back.

Without the solid weight in her hands, Annabelle lost the last vestige of a grounding sensation she had. While she sort of had the same kind of high she got from Vicodin, there was none of the pain killing effect and she was a lot dizzier. Suddenly, the world tilted again and she lost her balance.

Jack caught her easily and turned to Sam. “What and how much of it did you give her?” he asked, all business.

“A small dosage of ketamine,” Sam answered as he slowly made his way toward them. “And I carefully measured it.”

Jack’s sapphire eyes shot daggers at the older man. Sam waited a few feet away – at a safe distance – while Jack tried to lift Annabelle into his arms.

“No, Jack. You’re too messed up. Just help me walk,” she told him softly, pulling slightly away from him and gesturing for him to put his left arm beneath her right. He complied, deciding not to argue with a woman who was drugged up, almost raped, and had just fired an entire clip of rounds into a brick wall.

“It was nice shootin’, darlin’, but you shouldn’t have wasted all those bullets,” Sam said then.

From where she nestled against Jack’s chest, Annabelle licked her lips and tried to clear her head. “Why’s that, Sam?”

“Because they weren’t for you, sweet heart,” Sam answered, his gaze sliding from the two of them to something just over their shoulders. “They were for them.”

At that, Jack instinctively spun around, releasing Annabelle, and looked toward the alley’s exit. Shadows crossed through the light and then hugged the walls. They were maybe ten yards away. Sam joined him, taking up position at his side, their quarrel with one another temporarily put aside.

“Who?” Jack asked softly. A simple question, meant for a simple and quick answer.

“The Colonel’s posse, maybe. Not Night. He works alone.” Sam answered, his gray eyes scanning the alley’s shadows, his hands flexing and un-flexing at his sides.

Jack had figured as much. It was now patently obvious to him that Sam was the “other” hit man that the Colonel had talked about. The Colonel would now believe that the two of them were competing, in an official capacity, for the same job. Night wasn’t even an issue in this game – he was a wild card, and therefore didn’t count.

The Colonel most likely assumed, at this point, that the assignment was to get any and all possible intelligence from Annabelle Drake and then kill her and anyone else involved with this mess.

Which was probably what brought them to their current situation.

“I think it’s obvious, by now, that the Colonel has access to your files,” Jack whispered. It was why the Colonel had managed to track them down in New York, and it was why they were here now. They’d either bugged Sam’s equipment or were tracking him somehow. One cat was leading the other cat to the mice.

Sam nodded. “I’d suspected as much. A problem that will get fixed shortly.”

And then a chunk of the wall exploded just above Jack’s left ear, sending brick shrapnel flying in every direction. Another chip struck Annabelle, this time on her cheek, beneath her right eye, and she hissed. She was really getting tired of being beat up in various manners.

Jack hit the ground, taking Annabelle with him and covered her own body with his as he thought, furiously, about what to do next.

Help is coming, he thought. I just need more time…

But both men were sore and tired, and Jack and Annabelle were injured. The only gun they had between them was empty because Sam had seen to it that all of Jack’s ammunition had gone mysteriously missing before he’d headed out after Annabelle.

Sam was clever that way. And short sighted.

Shadows continued to scuffle along the end of the alley way and Jack closed his eyes, waiting for more shots to fire. Just a little more time…

But no more shots were fired.

“They know you’re unarmed, Jack,” came a voice from behind them, in the deeper shadows of the alleyway.

Jack turned his head toward the sound. He couldn’t believe that after twenty years, he would still recognize it so well.

A match was struck in the darkness and the end of a cigarette hissed to life. Jack watched the light draw closer, becoming brighter in time with the slow sound of boots on concrete.

“So, I’ve ordered them not to kill ya.” Annabelle managed to get her own head turned as well, and just as she caught sight of the man who came into the light, Jack pulled himself off of her and stood to face him.

“What are mates for, eh?” The man smiled, flashing straight white teeth.

Annabelle stared at him from where she lay on the concrete ground. She’d seen him before, she was sure of it. She thought for certain she would clearly remember a face like that – handsome in all the right ways, but still… wrong, somehow. Framed by all that blue-black hair. With eyes like ice. Blue ice.

Where had she seen him before?

The man’s gaze slipped casually from Jack’s to where Annabelle lay. She still hadn’t moved, the drug having drained nearly all of her ability to stand even one last time. So, instead, she pushed herself onto her side and let her head gently drop. Her eyelids were so heavy.

Sam had given her too much. Or maybe it was the ale, too.

Whatever it was, she blinked slowly up at the man with black hair and blue topaz eyes and wondered who he was. And knew she’d seen him somewhere before.

He smiled at her. It was a secret, knowing smile.

“Aye, luv. Good evenin’.” His smile spread and he looked back at Jack. “Nice bit o’ fluff you’ve got there, Jack.” He took a drag off of his cigarette and then lowered his arm by his side, returning his gaze to Annabelle. “Been admirin’ ‘er from the shadows.”

Jack didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He knew better.

The man’s gaze trailed from Annabelle to Sam, who was standing a few feet away from Jack, and wore much the same careful, wary expression. He and Sam stared at one another for several long, intense moments, and then the man chuckled softly.

He took one last drag off of his cigarette and dropped it to the concrete, smashing it under his black boot. He looked at the ground as he did this, utterly unconcerned with any threat of being taken by surprise or overcome by the other two men in the alley.

Annabelle watched him crush out the cigarette and then move toward Jack. “They told me to come after ya,” he said, shaking his head as he spoke. “Actually thought I’d take the job.” He shrugged then, extremely amused. “So I told ‘em I would.” He grinned, his light blue eyes twinkling. “Keeps ‘em on their toes, eh?”

The conversation had gone personal, the man’s voice so low that Annabelle could barely hear him. He was speaking to Jack, alone.

Jack cocked his head to one side. “Keeps who on their toes, Adam?” he asked, his own voice just as soft. He and Sam had been wrong about the men surrounding them. They weren’t the Colonel’s men. They were Adam’s. They’d underestimated Night’s erratic yet careful randomness. And Adam Night was not a good man to underestimate in any way.

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 with 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.

“My things, Sam. You’re dead, remember? So kind of you to leave everything to me, by the way,” he’d teased him as he’d faked a dreamy look and sighed. “ I do believe I’ve now become one of the richest men in the world. Too bad no one can know about it.”

Sam had rolled his eyes and laid back down on the pillows. They both knew that Jack would probably never even make use of a quarter of Sam’s “things,” and if he’d wanted to, he could have done so without inheriting it, anyway.

“How do I look?”

Jack turned at the sound of Annabelle’s voice and stared at the woman who stood across the room from him.

It was as if he were back in that bar again, his eyes falling on her for the first time. His breath was gone, his heart skipped several beats, and he wondered whether he was dreaming.

She stood tall and ethereal, her long hair shimmering in the light from the room behind her and he could smell her shampoo from here. All signs of bruising on her face had faded, leaving her skin smooth and luminescent, but for the tiny line of red that still remained from the shard of brick that had sliced her three days ago.

Her long, white dress was filmy, adhering to her perfect form, yet shifting, becoming iridescent at the slightest movement. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips full and pink and parted ever so slightly.

She was so much more than the sum of her parts that he didn’t imagine there were words in the Oxford dictionary that could describe her beauty at that moment.

He opened his mouth to tell her this, but no immediate sound came out.

She grinned at that and laughed. She may love the sound of a Harley’s engine, but to Jack, the greatest sound in the world would always be that laugh.

“I’ll take that as a good sign,” she said, still smiling broadly. “And you don’t look so shabby yourself.” Her eyes trailed down his body, taking in the double-breasted black suit, black shirt, and black silk tie that were so customary at the loss of a loved one. For some reason, in this Business, the women always wore white to a funeral. He supposed it might have something to do with how backwards the entire affair was in the first place. After all, death was the every-day occurrence for hired guns.

“Are we ready, then?” She asked softly, when he still didn’t say anything.

Jack’s gaze slid, inexorably, from appreciative to hungry in a matter of short seconds. Annabelle’s eyes widened as he strode across the room to stand before her. He loomed over her, his height and powerful presence making her dizzy. In reaction, she tried to take a step back.

He had her pinned up against the wall and out of breath before she had time to blink.

She guessed they were going to be late to Sam’s memorial service.

Jack, for his part, didn’t think Sam would mind.

Chapter Thirty-Six

To Annabelle, it didn’t feel as if they were going to a memorial service. She wasn’t wearing black and she wasn’t sad – and Samuel Price wasn’t dead. That was sort of the clincher. Instead, she felt as if she were going out for a night on the town with Jack Thane. It was something she’d never done before. Not just the two of them, dressed to the hilt. Jack had never taken her on an official date.

And though they were once more on speaking terms and she’d more or less forgiven him for putting her to sleep for the flight to England, the fact of the matter was, there were still a lot of matters left unresolved between them.

The last three days had been extremely full. People had been coming and going, Jack’s most trusted employees secreting his family away and seeing to it that Virginia Meredith and Craig Brandt arrived safely at their own destination. Sam’s immediate medical concerns were addressed with lightning speed and Jack had spent a good deal of time making certain that Sam’s safe house had basically become a satellite hospital of its own.

Information had been sent and delivered on various fronts, giving Jack the heads-up he needed to make certain everything continued to run smoothly and there were no nasty surprises. In the midst of these preparations and situations, Jack had turned to Annabelle, handed her a credit card, and told her to go and buy what she needed to live with him for at least several months.

If she hadn’t been so over-all tired and still a good amount of scared, she may have questioned this request. After all, she was an American, when it came right down to it, and she loved her country. To her, it was like any love affair. There were good times and there were definite bad times, but you stuck with each other through thick and thin because to do anything less would be weak and shortsighted. The United States of America wasn’t built on wishy-washiness. And if it were to remain strong, its people had to be strong too.

But, she had been tired when he’d told her to go shopping and she’d also known that now wasn’t the time to discuss an entirely unforeseeable and uncertain future. So, she’d taken the card and gone to town with it. Her old reservations against using his money had gone out the window. She’d figured, What the hell? He’s loaded – let’s have some fun.

After all, she’d earned it.

Jack had told her about the truth of the shooting in the secret tunnel beneath Buell Hall. And it made her feel… strange. Sort of sick, but sort of proud too. Strong, and weak at the same time.

I’ve killed, she thought to herself. I have pulled my trigger and taken a life. Many lives. And it’s not as if I did it by accident. I certainly aimed first.

It was a humbling thought, and one that would suddenly darken her mood, stealing the colors from around her, making everything seem a little colder.

So, when she’d gone into London with Jack’s throng of bodyguards, she hadn’t held back all that much. Anywhere and everywhere that she found something that made her feel more comfortable, that brought her some semblance of peace and warmth, she latched onto it and put it on his card.

She’d even purchased a pair of Ugg boots, even though it was May and the boots were therefore on sale. Which sort of rankled. She finally got a chance to spend big bucks and what did society go and do? Make the object of her desire cheap! It was kind of a rip.

But, once she’d gotten the boots back to the apartment and put them on, her opinion of them had changed in a heart beat. They were warm! They were soft! Comfortable! And easy to run in! The list could go on and on.

She vowed to buy more next winter season. With her own money.

And that was another thing that had been shadowing her of late. She was out of a job and wondered when she would next have one. She didn’t like the idea of being unemployed. It was… nerve wracking. She needed something to do, and preferred it to be something half-way important to someone other than herself.

At DesignMax, she’d made peoples’ businesses boom by giving them beautiful web pages that were eye-catching, informative, and easy to operate. She’d been able to rely upon her inherent creativity in this manner, while successfully making a living at it.

It was stressful. Some of the customers were jerks. But, deep down, she’d been happy. Happy enough, anyway.

Now… She felt as if she were floating, with no solid foundation beneath her and no clear picture before her of where she was going. She felt like she was just waiting. For what, she didn’t know.

“You okay, luv?” Jack asked her from where he sat in the driver’s seat – to her right. She wasn’t sure she would get used to that any time soon. Up ahead, cars zoomed by on the right side of the road and she had the minor urge to grab the wheel from Jack and steer them back over to the opposite side of the road, where her internal workings swore to her that they belonged.

“I’m fine,” she replied, dragging herself out of her thoughts for a moment. She glanced at him and then glanced back out the window. “So, I guess Sam’s pretty wealthy, huh?” She asked, sort of curious about assassins and their finances.

“Aye. The wealthiest among us.”

She gave him an impressed look. “Why’s that?”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment and then narrowed his gaze on the road. “His father pulled a job in Dallas in the early sixties that set Sam up for good.”

Annabelle frowned. “His father?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “He had to go into deep cover after the job was completed, so the stipulation was that the payment be given to his son. And it was.”

“Big payment,” she muttered, thinking about how much money Sam would have to own to have more than any other assassin, including Jack.

Jack took a deep breath, his own expression a little troubled. “It was. One of the biggest.” He fell silent for a moment, his gaze distant. “Sam also has one advantage over everyone else in this field,” he said then. “He was raised by a piece man, so his training began very early. In the time he’s been working in this Business, he’s accumulated more money, on his own, than any other hired gun. Add to that his father’s money, and you have one rich man.”

Annabelle stared at Jack, wide-eyed. Not only because it was nearly impossible for her to even imagine that kind of money, but because she’d just figured out what job Samuel Price’s father had actually done.

“Early sixties… Dallas…” She mumbled.

Jack turned to her then, slowly placing his gloved index finger to his lips. That simple gesture was all she needed as a confirmation.

It was a good ten minutes before she was able to speak again. In that time, the stars had winked out above them as clouds had begun to roll in. They were stuck in traffic. It was Friday night.

Annabelle cleared her throat and rubbed her temples, which had begun to ache a little. “Can you explain something to me, Jack? About the Business?”

“Of course,” he answered softly.

“How is getting married time and again a ‘cover’?”

He shrugged. “Expensive honeymoons in foreign countries and large donations to churches help explain a lot of tax anomalies,” he told her simply. “It also provides the means to other codes, such as the one you heard me utter over the phone when I told an employee to ‘get Sherry to Rome’.”

Annabelle blinked up at him. She remembered that. After Max had been killed and the police had become suspicious about his apparent suicide, they’d gone to Jack’s house to question him. Jack hadn’t been there, of course. But his wife had. And she’d quickly made sure that Jack knew about the incident.

Annabelle could recall the phone conversation Jack had, word per word. “You said, ‘Get Sherry out of the country. She’s been wanting to visit Rome. Tell her that I’ve asked her to meet me there.’ Then you said, ‘a few days, four at most.’”

Jack’s brows raised. He cut his gaze to her and then turned back to the road. “You have an amazing memory, Bella.”

She shrugged. “Yeah.” She did. She always had. As Adrian Monk would say, it was a gift – and a curse.

“When I spoke those words, I was basically giving Sherry, herself, the heads-up on what was occurring. At the time, I wasn’t certain we weren’t being monitored and whenever possible, Bella, we try not to take chances.” He paused, formulating his explanation before he went on. “‘Rome’ is a red-alert term. I was making certain she understood that Detective Chen’s visit was sure to be followed up by whoever it was that killed Max.”

“What about the ‘she’s always wanted to visit’ part?”

“It comes from the term ‘nice place to visit, but wouldn’t want to live there’, and refers to the nearest safe house, wherever that happens to be at the time.”

Wow, Annabelle thought. That’s complex.

“And the ‘few days, four at most’?”

“Sherry had asked me who was involved. That answer told her two things. One, I didn’t have a name, and two, there was more than one person involved.” He smiled at her. “Four at most.”

Okay, Annabelle thought, I’m in way over my head. I need to get back to the real world, with normal sentences and normal businesses and no flying bullets…

“Relax, luv. You’ll be fine,” Jack told her softly. He was eyeing her carefully, as if he could sense her overwhelmed apprehension. She caught his gaze for a moment and then pulled her eyes away. He turned back to the road.

“Jack, there’s something that’s been bothering me.”

Jack kept his gaze trained on the road. A fat raindrop landed on the windshield. And then another one. Only an hour before, the sky had been clear, the moon full. Now the night had drawn a blanket, thick and stifling. Lightning arced across the London sky line.

His black driving gloves tightened on the wheel.

“What is it?” he asked, keeping his tone even. It was hard. There was a storm coming. He could feel it. And it wasn’t just outside.

Annabelle hesitated a moment, and then cleared her throat. Her fingers nervously fiddled with the material of her dress. She pulled her white wrap more tightly around her shoulders and bit her lip.

“I saw the detail of men you had watching over your family.”

Jack said nothing. His grip grew tighter.

“There were quite a few of them even before you increased their number.” She paused. “And I couldn’t help but wonder…” She felt stupid asking this. Of course, his answer would be ‘no’. It couldn’t be anything other than ‘no’. After all, for all intents and purposes, he’d been married, right? Anyone going after the people he loved would go after his supposed wife and family. Not her. But she needed to hear it from him.

“Did… Did you ever have people watching me too?”

Lightning split the night sky. Thunder rolled.

Ah, Christ.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Annabelle threw open the car door at the next stop light and jumped out of the car. It was the fastest series of maneuvers she had ever managed, involving her seat belt and the door at once.

“Annabelle!” Jack reached out for her a split second too late. She raced, blindly, down the street beside the cars, irrespective of where she was going or what she was going to do when she got there. She was so angry – so fueled by a passion beyond her understanding – that she simply needed to get away. To run away as fast and as far as she could. She needed wind and didn’t have a bike. Running would have to do.

It was either escape, or pull the gun out of the holster strapped to her thigh beneath her dress and kill Jack Thane with it.

Behind Jack’s black luxury sedan, three other dark colored cars threw open their doors and Jack’s hired guns shot from the cars to race after Annabelle.

Jack had his own door open and was sliding over the roof of the sedan just as the first of his men joined him. “Go around!” he bellowed the order, not slowing as he tore down the street after her.

Absently, Annabelle was extremely glad that she’d chosen to wear flats. She was equally glad that she was a very fast runner; long legs helped a lot, and years of gymnastics and running, despite the pain, had made her agile and strong.

Her hips were already beginning to ache, but she ignored them, enraged beyond any ability to reason.

Behind her, Jack dodged passers-by and sprinted at full speed to catch up with the fleeing woman fifty yards ahead. He’d considered the possibility of her doing something like this but had honestly believed that Annabelle possessed more sense than to take off on her own in an unfamiliar city, without an escort. When Godrick Osborne so badly wanted her dead.

He’d been wrong. She possessed no sense at all whatsoever.

He winced as he thought to himself, or she’s so bloody beyond pissed that she doesn’t give a fucking toss what the hell happens any more…

And when it came down to it, he knew damned well that she possessed a good deal of common sense. Everyone had their breaking point. He’d simply pushed her too far.

He swore under his breath as she turned a corner and shot out of sight.

At that moment, Annabelle hated everything about Jack Thane. She hated what he was and everything he stood for, with his codes and guns and tranquilizers and his false marriages and his hired goons spying on her for… How long? How long had she had shadows following her, knowing her secrets, watching her from the darkness like fucking peeping toms?

What of the boys she’d dated since meeting Jack Thane? Now that she considered it, they hadn’t exactly been dates. They’d all broken up with her after barely meeting her and before they’d even had a chance to get to know her. One had only so much as asked her out when he called that night to say that he’d suddenly changed his mind.

Suddenly.

It was Jack all along.

She screamed in wordless outrage, but the sound was captured and drowned by the thunder that rolled overhead and the rain that began to slam into the world around her by the bucket load.

In the heat of it, she managed to retain just enough sanity to know that there was no way, in the end, she could out-run Jack Thane. He would catch up with her. And she would have to shoot him. And she wasn’t sure she would feel too good about that. You know, when she’d had time to cool off. Later.

She realized that the only way to get away from him long enough to have any real time to think was to hide. But where?

She knew nothing practical about London. Except that she could now confirm that the rain did seem to come at the most inopportune moments, as a friend had once jokingly told her. She was running full-tilt and that didn’t give her time to slow down and notice anything.

And she could feel them closing in on her. She could feel Jack and the others. Like homing beacons that had spread out into a city that they were a hell of a lot more familiar with than she was. She felt desperate, in that instant. So very, very desperate.

What would she have to do in order to get away?

Air left her lungs in a painful rush as he tackled her from behind, lifting her off of the ground with an arm around her waist and a hard spinning motion that shoved her roughly into an adjoining alley and up against a wall.

She gasped as her lungs expanded again and she found herself struggling immediately, rage and pain fueling her movements. But he held her fast, her wrists pinned to the bricks above her, his body pressed against hers to keep her from kicking him.

“I can’t believe you’d be so bloody stupid, Bella!” He roared at her, his words melding with the thunder that cracked above them. “You’ll get yourself killed!” His face was inches from hers, his blue eyes boring holes into her soul. His accent had deepened with his fury.

“Fuck you, Jack!” She screamed into his face. “How could you do this to me, you goddamned son of a bitch! I trusted you!” She tried, with all her might, to yank her arms out of his grip. All she could think about was how he’d violated her trust, lied to her, and continued to lie to her over and over again. How many times had she unknowingly bared her body to one of his men by undressing in front of a window where the curtain wasn’t completely shut? How many times had she gone to the doctor for things she didn’t want the world to know about – only to have his men give him a detailed report? And she wondered, too. She wondered how many other things he knew about her. Had he had her researched? Would he even tell her if he had?

She couldn’t trust Jack, despite the fact that he’d put his trust in her and she had never – not once – violated that trust, even though it hadn’t always been easy. That really hurt. It hurt. It hurt so bad that she desperately wanted to make him hurt more.

Annabelle wanted out of Jack Thane’s world – the Business and all of the wrong that it stood for. At that moment, in fact, Annabelle sort of wanted to die.

She bucked in his grip, bucked against the pain inside, the bricks behind her tearing the skin on the backs of her hands as she twisted madly. The rain had soaked them both, and her ire-fueled strength finally allowed one arm to slip free. It was her right arm, and her sprained shoulder screamed at her as she quickly balled up her fist and struck the side of his face as hard as she could.

Jack’s head snapped to the side under the impact. His left ear began to ring. Thunder cracked again overhead, lightning illuminating the alley.

Pain and frustration got the better of Jack and he grabbed her wrist roughly again, using it to spin her around, jerking her back against his chest. He then twisted the injured arm up behind her back until she cried out in pain.

“Stop fighting me!” He bellowed.

“No!” Pain arced through the right side of her body, but he didn’t let up. “Let me go!” She sobbed into the wet night as he grabbed her other wrist and proceeded to twist it, too, behind her back, until he had both arms firmly under his control.

“You lied to me Jack!” She yelled the accusations, even as he placed both of her slim wrists into his left hand and used his right to pull her against him. “How many times did you lie to me!”

Jack could feel her trembling against him and he desperately wanted it to stop.

“I’ve never lied to you, Bella!” He yelled into her ear. “Not once! Now, stop fighting me!” He growled the last part, angry at her for hurting herself as she fought him, and frustrated, at the same time, that any of this was happening.

“You bastard!” She fought wildly in his grip, wanting nothing more than to get free and turn around and rip his head off. He knew her struggles would cause her injury, knew she was bruising in his grip. But he wouldn’t let her go. Not for anything.

Jack was in Hell. His heart was breaking; he couldn’t believe how badly it hurt. He couldn’t believe the harsh efficiency and detachment with which he was capable of apprehending the woman he loved even as she cried in his arms. Cried because he had hurt her. And because he continued to do so – in so many ways. He had never told her a bald-faced lie, but he’d kept things from her, and to her, there was no difference between the two. And he knew she was right.

“You spied on me, you drugged me up,” she cried, “what else have you done?” She tried, one last time, to yank away from him, but it was a pointless action, done out of her uncontrollable fury more than anything else. “I hate you, Jack Thane.” She finally sobbed, her head falling forward in defeat. Her hair cascaded in wet locks around her hidden face, but her body shook with each pathetic sob, and the trembling wasn’t letting up. She shook with pain, both physical and emotional.

Something inside of Jack snapped.

“Boss?”

Jack knew they were there. He’d heard them coming down both sides of the alley. Jack looked up and, while still holding Annabelle’s wrists in one of his gloved hands, he held out his other for the cuffs that he knew his employee would supply.

Without a word, one of the men came forward, handed him a gleaming steel pair of cuffs, and then stepped in front of Annabelle to hold her arms still as Jack slipped them onto her.

Her head snapped up when she heard them click into place.

“You’re going to keep me locked up, Jack?” Her tone skated the thin ice between hysterics and despair. “And I didn’t think you could be any more cruel to me.”

In a self-deprecating tone that Annabelle had never heard him use before, Jack laughed. It was a nasty laugh, pitiless and cold. “You have no idea, luv.” He roughly took hold of her upper arm then and pulled her toward the end of the alley, where a black luxury sedan with dark tinted windows idled patiently, waiting for its passengers.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“They say that only a woman he loves can drive a man to drink.”

Jack gently set down the empty shot glass and looked up. He didn’t say anything as Avery took a seat beside him and waved the bartender over. “Pint of ale, mate.”

The bar tender nodded and poured the amber liquid into an ice-rimmed glass and set it down in front of the Hell’s Angel.

Jack looked away.

“How long has it been?” Avery asked, nonchalantly, as he eyed the man beside him, who, as he was himself, was dressed from head to toe in black biker leather.

Jack didn’t answer.

“Heard about the scene in London,” Avery said next, turning the mug so that he could get a grip on its handle and take a long swig.

Still, Jack said nothing.

“Heard it was because you’ve been keeping an eye on your girl without her knowing about it.”

“You hear a lot of things.”

“Aye,” Avery nodded. The silence stretched between them for a minute.

“Also heard she was bloody fast and that you were bloody lucky she didn’t decide to just blow your head off.” Avery said then, as he took another swig and then set his drink down, sighing. “She’s a good shot, eh?”

“She is.”

“And she’s fast.”

“So what?” Jack muttered. He was on his fourth shot and was just now starting to feel the second one. Some of the pain inside was numbing a little, finally, and he frankly couldn’t bloody wait until he couldn’t feel a fucking thing.

“So, I know why she’s mad, JT. She’s lost here, in this world,” Avery gestured to the bar around them and England, beyond. “Where she doesn’t belong – or at least, doesn’t think she belongs.”

Jack listened quietly, his gaze steadily ahead as he reached for his fifth shot glass and Avery gently slid it out of the way. Jack’s jaw tensed and his gaze rose to meet Avery’s – sapphire meeting amber.

“You’ve taken away everything she’s ever known, mate.” Avery continued softly. “And then you went and told her that part of what she thought she knew wasn’t true. She was never safe in her own bubble. Just think about it, JT. It’s a hard blow.”

“It saved her life, Avery.”

“I know, mate.” Avery nodded, placatingly. He glanced at the shot of brown liquid that he’d moved and looked thoughtful. “Listen up.” He swung on the stool and picked up the shot, downing its contents himself. Jack watched him with a mixture of interest and irritation. Avery swallowed it with a clenched-teeth expression and then continued. “You and I both know that what you do is dangerous. So dangerous that once you’re in, you’re in forever, or you’re dead.”

Silence. But Jack nodded. Once.

“So, what if I told you that I’d decided I’d rather kill people for a living than walk into another classroom and deliver another lecture to a bunch of rich kids who don’t give a fuck about what happened the day before yesterday, much less two hundred years ago?”

JT narrowed his gaze at his friend. Avery was a professor of British history at Oxford University.

Being a Hell’s Angel was sometimes a little like being Batman. One mask for the day. One for night.

At work, Avery wore a long-sleeved button-up shirt that hid his ink. To his students, he was Professor Avery Valentine. None of his pupils would know who he was if they saw him in that bar, at that moment, dressed in black leathers, an earring in his ear, and having a private conversation with a paid assassin.

He took another swig of his beer, as if to chase the aftertaste of the shot and then asked, “What would you tell me?”

Jack was distracted enough by Avery’s proposal to give that thought for a moment. Avery was a capable man and in good shape. Jack had never personally seen him chase after anyone or pull a gun and shoot, but he knew that Avery kept himself up and had no compunctions about panning someone’s head in. And he was fairly good at that, at least.

“I’d tell you to get some training,” he said, his tone flat, his words soft. “And I’d think about it.”

Avery smiled, cocking his head to one side. “Really?” He narrowed his own amber gaze. “And you don’t even know whether I can shoot, mate.” He lowered his voice and leaned in a little. “Who’s the safer bet, JT? Me? Or Annabelle Drake?”

Jack blinked. The alcohol was beginning to buzz through his blood stream now; the world fuzzing a little around the edges. It had been twenty years since alcohol had made it past his tongue, and it was hitting him hard. But he wasn’t so far gone that Avery’s words didn’t hit him where it counted.

“You want me to induct the woman I love into the Business?” Jack asked softly. Right now, all he wanted to do with the woman he loved was have her brain washed until she loved him again and then fuck her brains out for the remainder of his life.

He’d never been so unreasonably furious as he had been in the last two days. Never, in his life. Not even when Adam Night had led him into the catacombs in France and allowed him to get lost for a full day and night before sending someone to the rescue. Not even then, had he felt the rage in him that he had felt for the past forty-eight hours.

He was so out of it that he’d been handed Godrick Osborne’s file, assigned him as a mark, and he didn’t give a whit. He only cared about Annabelle.

“Nah, JT.” Avery shook his head. “I’m not telling you to induct her. She’s already been inducted, hasn’t she?” Avery said, making the sign of a gun and shooting it three times at an invisible foe.

Jack knew he was referring to the men Annabelle had killed in the tunnels under Columbia, and he wondered how his fellow Hell’s Angel had come by that information, as well.

“Besides,” Avery shrugged gently. “She was involved the moment you decided you were going to invite her into your life, mate. The only way out of this mess now is to give her what she needs to be able to protect herself.” He paused, for effect and to let the information sink in. “You’re pissing in the wind if you think she’s going to just let this go with enough time, JT.” Avery shook his head, his look serious and sad at once. “Your only hope is to arm her well and call off your guard. Allow her the solitude she needs.”

Jack thought about that for a moment. Why hadn’t he ever considered it before? Annabelle was fast and strong and a better shot, even, than he was. She was a natural – uncanny with a gun of any kind. Of the first ten rounds she’d ever shot under Jack’s supervision, five of them had hit the target’s center. And it had been moving at the time.

So, why had the idea of her being an assassin completely escaped him until this moment?

Because it hadn’t escaped him. He had thought of it. He’d just ignored the idea. Because he didn’t want to lose her. He couldn’t lose her.

“I know you think you can’t live without her, JT. And I believe you.” Avery told him. “But you’ll have to, anyway, if you don’t make some changes soon. Like yesterday.”

Jack turned back to the bar and ran a hand through his hair. He was feeling light headed. Christ, he thought. I’ve become a god damned light weight.

“She has no job, she has no way of determining her own future. Women don’t stay happy very long under those conditions.” Avery finished off his beer and set it down with a satisfied clunk. “It’s a better plan than keeping her under lock and key, is it not?”

Jack took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “How the hell do you know so much, Avery?”

“Word gets ‘round, mate,” Avery said, pushing his empty mug toward the edge of the counter so that the bar tender could pick it up. “And I’m married.” Avery smiled a telling smile.

Jack turned to his friend and studied him closely. It had been a few years since he’d last seen him, but he hadn’t changed any. The man didn’t age.

“Thanks, mate.” Jack stood then, clapped his friend on the back, and headed toward the door of the bar. It took some effort to walk steadily.

“By the way, JT,” Avery called after him. “Stella says ‘hi’.”

Jack turned around.

“She says to give Clara and Ian a hug for her and asked me to tell you to stay out of trouble,” Avery chuckled softly. “I’m fairly sure that last bit was her idea of a joke.”

Jack finally smiled. Stella was Avery’s wife. Jack had been best man at their wedding. He nodded a goodbye, then, and left the bar, his alcohol-fevered brain trying its best to formulate a plan as he stepped out into the Essex night.

Alex knocked gently on the door to Annabelle’s rooms. “Miss Drake?”

“Come in, Alex.”

He opened the door and stepped inside. Annabelle was seated at the window, reclined in a large plush chair, sipping on a cup of tea. Alex crossed the room to stand beside her. “How you doing?” He asked softly.

She looked up at him. There were dark circles under her eyes. He cringed when he saw them. Jack wouldn’t be happy that she wasn’t sleeping. Hell, Jack wasn’t happy at all these days.

Annabelle didn’t answer. She just smiled gently.

“Can I get you anything?” He asked then, suddenly simply wanting to ease the pain he saw in her light brown eyes.

“No, thank you.”

“Mr. Thane has given me permission to get you anything you desire, Miss Drake,” he said as he knelt on one knee beside the chair. “I have a laptop. You can go online.”

Annabelle’s gaze narrowed at that. She put her cup of tea down on the table beside her and turned to face Alex. “Oh?” She asked softly. “I’m sorry, Alex, but for some reason, I have a hard time believing that Jack would just give me permission to check my email or join an online forum at this juncture.” She shook her head. Electronic signatures were too easily traced. It was a dangerous world, and their immediate quarrel with one another aside, Annabelle and Jack would probably agree on the fact that there was still a bad guy out there somewhere to contend with.

Alex sighed. “No, he wouldn’t. But he doesn’t mind if you wish to use it to do something that doesn’t reveal anything identifiable about yourself.”

Annabelle’s ire was mounting. She knew where this was heading and it really rankled. “Like what, Alex?” She asked, keeping her tone even.

Alex swallowed. He shrugged. “Like shop?”

Annabelle stared at him. “Shop?” She asked. Her voice had lowered to a whisper. “Shop?” She stood slowly, and Alex stood with her. She looked up at him, so used to Jack’s towering figure that Alex’s lesser height didn’t so much as phase her.

“What is it with you men?” She went on, moving around the chair and effectively forcing Alex to step back. His expression had become distinctly nervous. Annabelle’s voice hadn’t raised above that deceptively calm whisper, but goose bumps were riding up his arms.

“I’m in a cage, Alex. I’ve lost everything I’ve ever known.” Suddenly, as if saying as much drained what little strength she had, Annabelle stopped in her tracks and sighed. She shook her head and ran a hand through her hair. “Even Jack.” She whispered. “So, unless you can buy freedom and a second chance on Craig’s List, I think I’ll pass for now.”

Alex watched her standing there, seeming so diminished. Like a flower without the sunlight.

Make her happy, Alex. I don’t care what it costs or what she wants – as long as she doesn’t leave the complex. Just make her happy…

Jack Thane’s orders echoed in his head. Alex racked his brain as he watched Annabelle Drake head back to the chair she’d risen from and sink down into it once more. She laid her head back and closed her eyes. Her pale lips parted. Alex recognized exhaustion when he saw it. And this exhaustion was mental as well as physical. Sitting there in a shaft of sunlight, her gold hair shimmering in waves around her pale features, she looked like a fallen angel.

She put her fingertips to her temples then and began to rub. Her brow furrowed.

Alex took a deep, slow breath and chewed on the inside of his cheek. And then his hazel eyes brightened with an idea.

“Have you ever had a massage, Miss Drake?”

That got her attention. She sat up and blinked. Sunlight reflected off of the amber specks in her almond eyes. She turned to face him.

“What?”

“There is a woman here in town who gives incredible deep tissue massages. Mr. Thane has used her several times.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m just shooting in the dark here, but I wondered if it would make you feel more comfortable.” He paused, then added, “help a little with that headache you have?”

Annabelle watched him for several long moments. And then she blew out a sigh. “Actually, I’ve only had one massage in my whole life and it wasn’t deep tissue.” She turned back toward the window and stared out at all of London below her. Her head was pounding. It had been doing that a lot lately. Her neck and shoulders were basically one solid knot from not sleeping. Tension.

A massage might be nice…

“She could come here?” She asked softly.

Alex straightened. “Yes,” he answered, trying not to sound too overly hopeful. “I can give her a call right now. She brings the table and everything.” He was about to go further in his explanation when his front jacket pocket vibrated against his chest. He took out the cell phone, opened it, and placed it to his ear. “Jackson.”

Annabelle watched him as his eyes widened. “He what?” He asked, his tone thoroughly surprised. “You’re shitting me.” He looked up at Annabelle and then turned away slightly, as if embarrassed that he’d cursed in front of her. This brought a smile to Annabelle’s face.

“No, I’ll deal with it myself. Trust me, you don’t want to be responsible for this one.” He closed the phone and replaced it in his pocket, returning his attention to Annabelle. “I have to go. But I’ll get the call in to Victoria on my way out. She should be here within the hour.”

Annabelle sighed and shrugged. “That sounds fine, Alex. Thanks.”

Alex watched her for another moment and then nodded. “Sit tight.” As he turned to leave, she called softly after him.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

Alex shot her a glance over his shoulder and then left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Annabelle watched him go. Then she stood and quickly made her way to the door, taking care not to make any noise as she moved. She pressed her ear to the door and listened carefully.

“… Mr. Thane’s transportation… no, he’d kill you…”

Annabelle’s brow furrowed. She cupped her hands around her ear and concentrated.

“First time in something like twenty years, I think.” It was Alex’s voice. He was talking to one of the other men. There was movement too. A bag or jacket being zipped up. The metallic clinking of gun parts being checked and loaded.

“Jack Thane’s fallen off the wagon.” Someone laughed and then whistled low. “Wow. What do you make of that?” That voice belonged to a young man by the name of Simon Jeremiah. He’d only been working for Jack for a few years, if she had her information correct. He was Australian, in his early twenties, and the buff blonde was very much into surfing in his spare time. Which he had little of these days. Working for Jack Thane was no cake walk. But, rumor had it that the job paid very well.

“I think you know as well as I do what to make of it. It’s no mystery.” Alex crossed the room then, if Annabelle was hearing correctly. His boots made a specific sound on the hardwood floor in the den outside her room.

“You know the rules,” Alex went on. “She has free reign of every public area within the building, but she’s not to leave the complex. And if she steps out of this apartment, you’re not to leave her side. Not for anything.”

“You,” Alex said then, addressing someone else. “Call this woman and have her in Miss Drake’s quarters within the hour. Money is no concern. She knows the drill.” Alex’s tone of voice had changed to become more managerial and direct. He was giving someone orders.

“And you two will have to meet her at the door. Check for weapons. She’s used to that as well.”

Okay. So, if Annabelle was counting correctly, Alex had addressed three different groups of people. Simon was one of at least four men who would be left to guard her.

She stepped back from the door and took a deep breath. There was no way she could take out four men. With a gun, yes. Apparently, that much had been proven. But, in any other way, shape or form, not a chance. And she couldn’t shoot those guys anyway.

She was screwed on using this opportunity as an escape route.

Which made her wonder about a few things. She paced across the room to a door on the opposite end and went through. Beyond was a complete in-home gym, set up with a steam room on one end and a sauna on the other. Between the two, against the wall, was a roiling, boiling hot tub, steaming and waiting to relieve the ache of inflamed muscles.

She ignored all of those things and headed for the rack of weights instead. She lifted a twenty pound dumbbell in each hand and began to curl them. As she did so, she stared blankly at herself in the mirror and wondered why she wanted to escape so badly. Where would she run to? And how long, exactly, did she think she would be able to remain missing before someone – before Jack – found her?

Not long.

Jack…

Her wrists and hands were still sore from the abuse they’d taken in the alley that night. Scrapes on the backs of her hands were just now healing, and the bruises around her wrists from the cuffs were deepening into their ugliest colors. She felt a mild ache in them as she worked the weights, but ignored it.

Her mind was stuck in re-wind now, reliving the events of the last few days, from their fight in the alley to the scenes that played out afterwards, like a nightmare domino effect.

He’d lied to her and that had hurt her. She’d run, simply wanting to get away from the craziness for a while. To hide. But, he’d caught her of course and they’d yelled at one another. Said awful things.

She’d told him that she hated him. As she remembered the words she’d spoken, she realized that from that moment on, Jack Thane had been a different person.

He’d brought her back to his flat at the top of Canary Wharf Tower and told her, in no uncertain terms, that she would not be leaving the premises for the next several days. She’d rebelled, going so far as to shove him square in the chest at one point. She’d told him she was not a piece of his real estate, to be bought or kept – she wasn’t property. She’d demanded that he allow her to go home, to take care of what was left of DesignMax, and to attend Max Anderson’s funeral.

She’d been worried, over the last few days, about what the cops were going to do or say about her disappearance. And Dylan’s. And she’d been worried about Mackenzie, the jerk that trapped Max and Annabelle in a never-ending contract for a web site that would never quite manage to be to Mackenzie’s liking. Would Mackenzie sue DesignMax because of the unfinished site? Would Dylan end up suffering for that?

Annabelle had things to tend to and she’d said as much to Jack.

Jack, for his part, had laughed a mirthless laugh and simply shaken his head, his blue eyes blazing madly. He’d told her she would be going nowhere.

When she made a dive for the cell phone on the table beside her bed, he’d beat her to it and pocketed the item. “I’ll be closing your account with the phone company,” he’d said, his tone matter-of-fact, his expression cold. “Since you obviously have no concept of keeping yourself safe, you’ll have no further contact with the outside world until I deem it prudent.”

And then she had attacked him, picking up a hard-backed book from one of the shelves and hefting it at him with all of her might. He’d dodged it easily, so she rushed him. And, of course, he’d caught her, spun her around, and tossed her onto the bed with no effort whatsoever.

But his eyes were positively ablaze. An anger such as she’d never before witnessed was radiating off of his tall frame in heated waves. “Keep it up,” he’d told her. “I can keep going.” He strode to the bed and towered over her. “Dylan Anderson can think you’re dead. Cassie Reid will never see you again. You want me to contact your mother personally and let her know her only child has decided to no longer speak to her? Or do you think it would hurt her worse if she, too, thought you were dead?” He’d hissed that last part, his expression something between deceptive control and a hellish rage barely held in check.

She’d lunged off of the bed, wanting to rip him apart with her bare hands. He’d been right. He was capable of far more cruelty than she’d imagined, and he wasn’t holding back.

But he made short business of her outburst, simply catching her by her already sore wrists and holding her fast in front of him. “No phone, no computer, Annabelle,” he told her, bringing his face a mere few inches from hers. “You’ve hereby signed away the last of your freedom. You’re not thinking straight and you’re obviously incapable of understanding the depth of the situation.” He shook her then, causing her head to snap back before he drew her close once more. They were both breathing heavily, and she could feel his words across her lips, just as he could feel her shaking in his grasp. “You will not run again, Bella, so help me God.”

“I can’t believe I actually thought I loved you, Jack.” Her tone had dropped and her words were barely a whisper, but they hit home. Jack’s blue gaze turned steely as she watched. His grip tightened ever so slightly on her arms.

And then, suddenly, he was letting her go. He stepped back from her, his jaw tight. He stared at her for several long, tense moments, and then he took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose. “So be it.”

It was the last thing he’d said to her. He’d turned around and left the apartment, assigning half a dozen men to watch over her twenty-four-seven.

She hadn’t seen or spoken to Jack since that night. It had been two days. And every minute had become an hour; every hour, a century. She had nothing to do but think about the out-of-control mess that her life had become. It was virtually unrecognizable.

And that wasn’t all. She was filled with a much deeper ache. A horrible, gut-wrenching, throbbing kind of ache that threatened to engulf her entirely.

She loved Jack Thane.

She’d loved him since that first night, on her twenty-first birthday.

And yet, she’d told him that she hated him. He’d lied to her, hurt her, locked her up and threatened her. And she loved him. Why?

Why…

Because she knew how safe and solid he felt when she had her arms wrapped around his waist while they were rocketing down the interstate at ninety miles an hour on a Harley Davidson machine. Because he was the only assassin who didn’t kill women and children. He didn’t even kill single fathers – or soldiers, for that matter. Because he looked at her in that hungry, determined way full of angst and hope and human fear that could only come with the strongest emotion a being can feel for another. Because he was always there for her. No matter how small or mundane the problem was, he deemed it worthy of fixing it for her immediately. And the big problems were dealt with just as efficiently. He was protective, strong, and confident. He knew what he was doing and never held back in doing it for Annabelle’s sake.

He’d saved her life countless times.

Come to think of it, she had even saved his.

And, when they made love… They claimed each other body and soul, in a tangled desperation that refused to be sated – a heat that could not, would not cool.

She loved him because he loved her.

And here they were, hurting each other. So badly.

Annabelle put back the weights and straightened. She stared at herself in the mirror, this time actually seeing her reflection for what it was. She was dressed in a tight white tank top and black jeans, with her typical riding boots finishing the ensemble. And though her physique was defined, and her muscles were certainly more cut because of it, it was suddenly obvious to Annabelle that she’d lost a significant amount of weight.

She was wasting away in this situation. She’d had little appetite and it showed. Soon, she would become weak. She would lose what little edge she had.

She needed to get out. Fast.

That thought came with one piggy-backing on it. If two of the men outside were going to leave in order to meet the massage therapist at the entryway to the complex, then only two would be left behind with Annabelle – for just that short space of time.

Two men instead of four. Was that do-able?

She thought about it seriously for a moment and then sighed, shaking her head. She had no weapons, but for the weights in this room and her own strength. And the men outside were prepared for such an eventuality. They weren’t stupid. They’d been trained by Jack.

With a strangled sound that bespoke of desperation, she ran a hand through her hair and left the at-home gym, heading for the massive shower in the other room. The hot water would feel good. And she could prepare herself, because when Alex got back from wherever it was he’d gone, she was going to tell the man that she was finally willing and ready to talk to Jack Thane.

And she knew Jack would come.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Jack exited the bar, holding on to the door a little as he did so in order to keep his balance. His eyes scanned the bikes lined up along the sidewalk.

Either he was more plastered than he thought, or his bike was gone.

“No bloody way-”

“Mr. Thane.”

Jack turned to face the source of the voice. Alex slowly approached him, a concerned look in his hazel eyes. “Sir, can I get you a ride home?”

Jack’s gaze narrowed. He swayed slightly in his stance, but at least his vision wasn’t blurry. “You’ve got nerve.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I had no choice.”

“Oh?”

Alex smiled a nervous smile. “As per your own orders, Mr. Thane, I am to keep Miss Drake safe at all costs. If you get on your bike right now, a number of things might happen. You could kill yourself. You could kill someone else. You could actually make it back to the apartment, with a long angry ride behind you, and then you and Miss Drake could fight. Again. All of those things would hurt her in some way.”

Jack stared at Alex. For a long time, he didn’t speak. And then he turned to face him fully and closed the distance between them in two long strides. To Alex’s credit, the man didn’t back up.

“Where is my goddamned bike, Alex?” Jack’s tone had lowered to a growl. His teeth were clenched. His blue eyes sparked dangerously.

“I’m sorry, boss, but I can’t-”

Alex was cut off when Jack suddenly grabbed the younger man by the neck and swung him around to slam him up against the nearby brick wall. Despite his altered state of mind, Jack’s body moved as it had been trained to, like lightning. The attack was so fast, Alex hadn’t seen it coming, and his breath left his lungs with the impact.

“Do you have any idea how stupid it is to touch another man’s ride, my friend?”

The voice that asked the question was not Jack’s. It came from behind him. Jack released Alex and turned around. Alex dropped to his feet and managed to at least catch himself solidly.

Avery stood a few feet away, half of his Hell’s Angels chapter behind him. It was a motley looking crew, at best.

Alex found himself taking that step back after all.

Annabelle started the water running in the shower and quickly disrobed. She let the clothing lay where it fell and made certain the water was hot enough that it would cloud up the glass door in a matter of short minutes.

Then she got in and let it soak her through. She was already clean, having just showered the night before, but once you’re under the hot water, it’s sort of automatic to go ahead and wash up anyway.

After she’d shampooed and conditioned and soaped and rinsed, she shut the water off, and the multiple angled shower heads surrounding her stopped spraying hot water.

She stepped out, toweled off and pulled on one of the plush robes hanging in a closet within the giant bathroom. It felt good on her skin, warm and comforting. She didn’t bother dressing, as she knew the massage therapist would only have her undress again anyway.

She left the bathroom just as there was a knock on her door.

“Come in.”

The door opened slowly “Miss Drake, this is Victoria Albrecht.” Simon stood in the doorway and motioned to a woman who was two steps behind him. “She’s the massage therapist that Alex hired.” He stepped into the room, retaining a respectful social distance between himself and Annabelle, as she was only wearing a robe. And none of Jack’s employees wanted to cross him on that particular matter.

Victoria Albrecht was a large woman, and Annabelle would have placed her somewhere in her late fifties to early sixties. She was big boned and stout and her skin had that ruddy Germanic complexion that said her body possessed of purely Anglo-Saxon genes and nothing more.

She smiled at Annabelle, flashing teeth that were well cared for. Annabelle figured a lot of that had to do with how much the woman was most likely paid. Jack wasn’t known to stiff people on tips.

“Hi, Miss Drake. It’s wonderful to make your acquaintance,” she said as she came forward, offering a strong-looking hand. Annabelle took it and smiled back. She was warm to the touch and immediately imparted a sense of calm and trust with that simple gesture. Her smile was honest, and her manner was easy. And instead of the Germanic “Helga-esque” accent Annabelle had been expecting, Victoria’s accent reminded her more of Mary Poppins.

It was instantly endearing. Annabelle was beginning to relax already.

Simon waited in the doorway until he could see that Annabelle was comfortable in the woman’s presence. “I’ll just bring in the equipment,” he told them and then ducked out of the room. He came back in carrying a large plastic case. He set it down in front of Victoria and then straightened. Can I get you anything else, Miss Drake? Mrs. Albrecht?”

Annabelle turned to him. “No, I’m fine – unless there’s anything you’ll need, Mrs. Albrecht?”

“Victoria, dear. And, no. I carry everything in there.” As she spoke, she opened the case and Annabelle and Simon could both see that it contained a portable, retractable massage table and various bottles of oils, a selection of CD’s, and a few scented candles.

Simon waited until Annabelle looked back up at him. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. Will you be okay? His expression asked.

Annabelle nodded. Simon smiled and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Victoria asked Annabelle a couple of medical questions as she took things out of her case and began to set up. Annabelle answered the questions to the best of her ability and watched as Victoria lit a fire in the hearth in the master bedroom and set the table up a few feet away. She then took out a CD from the case and turned back to Annabelle.

“Now, I can tell that you’re one who really needs to relax, so I don’t want you trying to make idle chat with me because you think I’m uncomfortable,” she said, smiling. “Is that clear, luv?” Her eyes twinkled and Annabelle couldn’t help but smile back. It was funny because Annabelle had been worried about exactly that. She really just wanted to slip away from herself for a while, and talking would force her to stay in the moment.

“Yes, it’s clear,” Annabelle said.

“Good. When I want you to turn over, I’ll gently tap your shoulder and hold the blanket for you. Got it?”

Annabelle nodded again.

“I’m going to put this in the player,” Victoria said, gesturing toward the built-in speakers in the ceiling. The stereo system’s controls were hidden in a closet in the hall joining the weight room and the bedroom. Albrecht most likely knew this already from having attended to Jack and, possibly, his employees.

“While I do, why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the table. We’ll start with your back, so lay face down. The blankets are heated and you’ll be sure to let me know if you’re uncomfortable with the temperature at any time, right?”

Annabelle nodded. “Okay.”

Victoria disappeared and Annabelle shrugged off the robe. She pulled the folded blanket down on the massage table and then lay on the table, facing down, just as Victoria had told her to. She deftly nudged the sheet back up when she was finished.

As she tucked her arms under the blanket, she listened to the fire crackling in the hearth and the soft sounds of ocean waves and rain that were now playing over the speaker system. Slowly, she began to relax. It was hard not to. The combination of the warm blanket on her naked flesh and the sound of the fire and the rain were like a sedative cocktail.

She closed her eyes. Above and behind her, she heard the cap of an oil bottle being unscrewed. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to let the calm steal over her entire body.

The first touch was instantly soothing. The hands on her back were warm – almost hot – and that heat spread across her skin and into her muscles as they began to work out Annabelle’s knots. The ministrations were incredibly deft; her massage therapist seemed to know exactly when to touch what part of Annabelle’s body, and exactly how hard – and in what way – to rub.

Annabelle simply couldn’t help the moan of pleasure that escaped her lips as, bit by bit, her body seemed to slip into another plane. On this plane, there was no pain. No tension. Her headache was gone and the fear that had been riding her about the inevitable upcoming fight with Jack began to float away.

I can handle Jack, she thought. I can do this.

She felt stronger, more capable.

There was a gentle tap on her shoulder and Annabelle remembered that she was supposed to turn over. Her arms felt a little like jelly at this point. She smiled to herself as she slowly pushed herself up and rolled over, keeping her eyes closed against the sudden light above her.

The blanket was repositioned over her and she tucked her arms underneath.

And then something cold, hard, and decidedly sharp was pressed against the side of her neck.

Annabelle’s eyes flew open and light flooded her vision. She blinked repeatedly as a face came into focus. It was a man’s face, handsome but cold, with eyes like blue ice, and it was framed by a mass of hair as blue-black as the darkest night.

“Need a ride, mate?” Avery asked. He’d come up beside Jack, his stance rigid, as if he were prepared to move fast at any given moment.

Jack was about to answer when the phone in Alex’s front pocket rang. Everyone looked at him. He hesitated and then swallowed, almost audibly in the sudden silence surrounding them.

Then he reached into his pocket and extracted the phone. With a wary glance at his boss, he flipped it open and placed it to his ear.

“Jackson.”

His expression went from one of stressed wariness to one of terrified shock in a matter of short seconds.

He looked back up at Jack, his eyes wide.

Jack didn’t think twice. He immediately jerked the phone out of Alex’s hands and placed it to his own ear. “It’s Thane. What’s going on?”

On the other end of the line, someone coughed. It was a wet sound, full of pain and probably blood. “Sir… Drake is alone in… her room…”

Jack’s gut clenched.

“… With Night.”

“Adam.” Annabelle barely managed the whisper. Her breath was caught in her throat. She swallowed, and the blade of Adam’s knife threatened, cold and hard.

“Aye, luv.” Adam smiled, flashing those perfect white teeth. “Feel better?” He stood over her straight and tall, his body angled so that the knife he held was out at arm’s length, pressed almost casually against her neck.

Annabelle’s pulse raced wildly. She felt dizzy with it. She blinked, and stars swam in her vision when she re-opened her eyes.

“Where…” Her voice trailed off, and she had to start over. “Where is Victoria?” She asked softly. She really did sound as if she was about to faint.

Something dark flashed in Adam’s icy gaze. His smile disappeared. “She was bought and paid for, luv,” he told her. “Osborne got to her before Jackson did.”

Annabelle watched him through tunneling vision. She blinked, knowing her expression must reflect the confusion she felt at that moment.

Adam’s gaze slid from Annabelle’s eyes to her lips and then down to the knife at her throat. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then he slowly removed the blade.

Annabelle knew better than to sigh with relief. If Jack was telling the truth, Adam was unpredictable, at best. He might only be pulling the blade away so that he could swipe it back across her throat with more momentum.

But she did at least find that she could breathe a little easier. The spots in her vision began to recede.

Adam deftly slid the blade into a sheath wrapped around his left bicep, all the while not taking his eyes off of Annabelle. “She was sent to kill you,” he told her, almost matter-of-factly. “The oil’s poisoned.” He turned slightly and retrieved a bottle from the table behind him. Then he held it out above Annabelle, allowing her to stare up at it.

“Kills on contact. Would have hurt like a bugger, too.”

Annabelle found herself swallowing audibly once more. She stared up at the small bottle, her mind spinning wildly out of control. It was Adam all along. Touching her, easing her pain… Victoria had never laid a hand on her. Annabelle wondered, in fact, where the dead woman was at this moment.

Adam put the bottle back down behind him and turned fully toward Annabelle once more.

Before she could blink, he was leaning over her, bracing himself above her with a hand on either side of the massage table. His face was mere inches from hers, his eyes boring into her own.

She could feel his breath across her lips when he spoke next. “Here you are,” he whispered, “holed up with arseholes too stupid to properly check for weapons, and you don’t even know what the man looks like who wants you dead.”

Annabelle gazed up at Adam and found herself lost in the blue of his eyes. Something about his words, about his presence, at that very moment, had the strangest effect upon her. She found herself warming beneath him. She felt… light headed. And she wasn’t certain it was all from fear.

She wanted to speak, but her mouth had gone a little dry. She licked her lips, and Adam’s gaze flickered to her mouth.

“What does he look like?” She found herself asking. Of all the things she wanted to know, that was the one she chose? She couldn’t explain it. But what was said was said.

Adam slowly cocked his head to one side, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. He straightened, moving away from her and taking a step back from the table.

Annabelle took the opportunity to sit up. She did so slowly, propping herself up on her elbow with one arm and holding the blanket to her chest with the other. Her long hair spilled all around her, a few wavy strands cascading in front of her face as she turned onto her side to face Adam.

He watched her as if fascinated by her every move.

She shivered.

Adam noticed. His smile broadened, but he chose not to comment. Instead, he turned his back on her and walked to a set of shelves against one wall. “Got something for you, angel.” As he moved, Annabelle had a chance to study him.

He was dressed in black from head to toe, and the color blended in with his hair, making him appear almost ethereal. Like a vampire or a ghost. But whereas Jack normally dressed to ride, Adam was more of the SWAT persuasion.

He looked lean and hard but his build was not as large as Jack’s. It was like the difference between a wolf and a coyote. Jack was a wolf, but Adam was fast and sneaky. And in the Business, that was far more deadly than a good set of fangs.

She noticed, now that she had a moment to look, that his hair was not touched by any gray as Jack’s was. She would place him in his late thirties, maybe. Or, he just had amazingly good hair.

Laying atop the shelves against the wall was a manila folder. Adam retrieved the folder and then turned back around to face Annabelle. She found herself gripping the blanket tighter as she quickly got down from the table and stood on somewhat wobbly legs on the other side, the table between her and her dark visitor.

Adam watched her for a moment and then slowly strode back across the room toward her. Annabelle surprised herself by not stepping back as he approached.

He looked a little surprised as well.

And then he held the folder out and let it drop onto the massage table between them.

She glanced down at it. It bore no external markings. “What is it?”

“Osborne’s file,” Adam said. “It was given to Jack.”

She looked up at him.

He shrugged. “Thought you might like a look at the man pulling all the strings.” His expression turned more meaningful and something nasty flashed in the depths of his eyes. “I’m not surprised that Jack hasn’t shown it to you, luv. He never was one for egalitarianism.”

Annabelle gazed warily at him for a moment. And then she swallowed again and decided to ask another question. “Is Simon all right?”

Adam wasn’t phased. “He’s alive, if that’s what you’re askin’, angel.”

And that was all she was going to get from him.

She looked back down at the folder. Ever so slowly, she reached up and opened it, allowing it to spread on the table between them. The first thing Annabelle noticed was the black and white photograph clipped to a bunch of print-outs beneath it.

It was a black man wearing dark glasses, dressed in an expensive suit.

“Oh my God,” she said, staring wide-eyed at the picture. “It’s Mackenzie.”

Chapter Forty

Adam said nothing. But when she looked back up at him, the expression he wore was one of such knowing, that Annabelle couldn’t help but put the puzzle pieces together.

“That’s where I’ve seen you before,” she muttered. “At Mackenzie’s office. When Max and I went to meet with him…” She shook her head, images spinning before her mind’s eye. She saw Mackenzie – Godrick Osborne – talking with Max, telling him that he wanted more done on the site, more pictures, more text, more everything. The job had gone on far longer than it should have, but the contract kept Max and Annabelle slaves to whatever Mackenzie wanted… Whatever Osborne wanted.

And what he’d wanted all along was Teresa’s laptop.

He’d been waiting for Max to find it. Or, maybe he was trying to get a lay of the land so that he could send someone in after it.

“Oh my God,” Annabelle repeated, at awe with the truth of the situation. She’d seen Adam, on the sidelines, while at the Mackenzie building. Now that she thought back, she recalled that their eyes met. For just an instant. “It wasn’t ‘the Mackenzie’ building at all. It was the lab…” The secret lab where Brandt’s cure had been created.

Annabelle hugged the blanket more tightly around her. Her arms were covered in goose bumps. “When I saw you,” she said, “were you there on your own, or had Osborne already hired you?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. It was all she could manage.

Adam’s ice blue eyes glittered in the firelight. He looked like he was thoroughly enjoying the play of emotion that was crossing Annabelle’s delicate features.

“You were the only one who saw me that day, angel,” he told her. His own voice had dropped as well. “Osborne never knew I was there.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say.

Adam laughed. It was actually a very pleasant sound. She’d half expected anything Adam Night did to be maniacal – to remind her of the Joker or something. But Jack had understated much about Adam Night. Including how charming he was.

“You’d best get dressed, luv.” He moved so fast, she didn’t see it. But he pressed something underneath the massage table, and the entire thing collapsed in on itself, falling to the floor. Annabelle jumped as it hit, and Adam stepped over the table to close the distance between them.

She took several steps back. Again, he wasn’t phased. He just continued to smile and come forward, effectively backing her into the wall behind her.

“If you’re going to have any hope in Hell of stopping Osborne before he gets to Brandt, you’ll have to move now,” he told her as she hit the wall and stopped in her tracks, eyeing him apprehensively.

Annabelle blinked. Her pulse was racing once more. Her brow furrowed. He wanted her to go after Osborne? Her? “What?” She asked.

The manila folder was in Adam’s hand. He’d picked it up before he dropped the table. He held it out between them now, dangling it like a carrot before a hungry pony. “Take it, angel. Kill Osborne and you’ll be free of Jack’s hold.”

Annabelle glanced at the folder and then looked back up at Adam.

He went on. “What does he have over you now? Money? Protection?” He laughed then, and it was just as mirthless and empty as Jack’s laugh had been two days ago. “Fat lot of good it did you, eh, luv?” His smile disappeared as his ice blue gaze flicked across her face, to her lips, to the curve of her chin and collarbone and back up again. And then he grew serious. “You’ll never have freedom again, angel, to live your life, to do so much as step foot outside and get on a bike.” His smiled returned for just a moment. “Which I know you so love to do. Nah,” he continued. “He’ll always be there, lording over you.” He shook his head. “Unless…”

Annabelle gazed into Adam’s blue eyes and considered his words. The crazy as hell thing was, he was right. If she had her own money, her own way of hiring people to protect her, she would be able to leave Jack’s shelter. Especially if Osborne was dead. And, if she killed Osborne… It would take care of the proverbial two birds with one lead slug.

“Christ,” she said aloud, as she realized that it was a way out. It just wasn’t the one she’d been expecting.

She licked her lips, her gaze now having settled on the folder that Adam held. “Are you telling me that Godrick Osborne is now on his way to kill Craig Brandt?” She asked. Might as well get the facts straight.

“Aye, luv. That, he is.”

Annabelle took the folder. She straightened and squared her shoulders. “Where are they?”

Adam Night grinned.

Jack floored the gas pedal, deftly steering around cars and pedestrians as he made his way through the streets of London. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Alex gripped the oh-shit bar for all he was worth. He wasn’t sure that terrifying news could literally sober a person up when they were loaded, but he was willing to bet that, despite Thane’s penchant for hell bent driving maneuvers, he probably wasn’t feeling very inebriated at the moment. More like angry as hell.

And scared. Alex could feel waves of the strange emotion coming off of Thane. It wasn’t something he’d witnessed before. It was actually quite frightening, in and of itself.

Several more intense minutes passed and Jack pulled up in front of the apartment building. He threw open the door just as the doorman came forward to greet him. When the doorman saw the look on Jack’s face and the speed with which he was moving, he simply amended his actions to step to the side and let Jack by without pause.

Alex followed on his employer’s heels as they raced to the stairwell and began taking the stairs three at a time. It was a long climb up, but they managed it in short time, both barely breaking a sweat with the effort.

At the top, Jack inserted his key into the lock leading to his flat, and turned it. Two more doors and he was rushing into his foyer. And Simon Jeremiah was sitting against the wall, one leg bent, one straightened out in front of him. He had one hand pressed to his stomach and his other arm lay useless at his side.

Jack scanned the room with practiced eyes and then bent beside his employee. “What happened, Simon?”

Simon blinked up at Jack and licked his lips. His nose was bleeding, but there seemed to be no signs of struggle anywhere on his body.

“Night drugged us, sir. Then he killed Mrs. Albrecht and left with Miss Drake.”

Jack processed the information, noting the name Albrecht and remembering that it was the name of his massage therapist.

“I called Victoria for Miss Drake, sir,” Alex said from behind him.

Jack placed his fingertips to Simon’s neck and felt the pulse there. It was erratic and faint. His mind scanned the knowledge he had of different poisons until he had the right one and then he stood.

“Alex, get the antidotes. They’re in the vault.” He took off his watch, which appeared to be an ordinary, if not gorgeous, Ulysse-Nardin, and handed it to Alex. “Take the date to eighteen and turn on its light; the vault will open. You want the green metal syringes marked ‘66’.”

Alex nodded, took the watch, and disappeared. Jack knelt back down beside Simon, pressing his fingers to the man’s neck once more. The pulse raced at what had to be more than one hundred and thirty to one hundred and forty beats per minute and was rising. Jack took a deep, calming breath and grabbed Simon under the arms, lifting the man until his legs were under him.

Simon moaned and pulled them both toward the wall, where Jack braced his arms to keep them up. He looked around as he did so. He could see outlines of two other men laying in the room beyond the foyer. They were unconscious.

The poison his men had been given must have been laying in wait in something that Adam knew they would ingest at the exact moment he wanted them to. Something like… The sodas that were open beside still-wrapped sandwiches from a sandwich shop down the street.

Okay. So, they knew how to detect poison in food, but had utterly ignored the possibility that there might be something in a foreign drink, despite the fact that it looked un-tampered with.

If they survived, he would have to enlist Sam’s help in a little training with these guys.

At the moment, however, Jack concentrated on trying to keep Simon’s blood pressure down. The poison was designed to initially knock its victim out. But, then the pain it caused as it wreaked its havoc on the body would wake the victim up.

So far, Simon was the only one conscious. He must have been the first to drink. He was the one who’d called Alex’s cell.

“Simon, where did they go?” Jack asked, needing the information, despite the man’s poor state. But before Simon could answer, Alex was beside them again, handing the syringe of antidote to Jack. Jack didn’t hesitate before grasping one side of Simon’s neck and inserting the needle into his carotid artery on the other side, unloading its contents smoothly and quickly.

Simon bucked in Jack’s arms, but Jack held on tight, lowering Simon to the ground as the antidote reached the man’s heart and spread throughout his body. At first, he went rigid with what seemed like pain, but then his muscles relaxed and his breathing evened out. He was once more unconscious.

Jack released him and stood, taking the remaining syringes from Alex and moving toward the other two fallen men around the corner. Two more quick and efficient injections, and all three men were still unconscious but, at least now, they would most likely live.

Jack sat back then and ran a hand through his hair. He felt like shit. His body was hot and cold at the same time, his head was pounding, and he felt like vomiting everything he’d ever eaten. He was never, ever, ever touching alcohol again.

Which was what he’d said last time.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and stood again, making his way to the rooms where Annabelle had been staying. The first thing he did, almost automatically, was scan the room for evidence. What was missing? What had Annabelle taken with her? Were there signs of struggle?

He took in the collapsed massage table and a white sheet puddled at the entrance to her walk-in closet. He noticed the used bottle of massage oil on one of the lamp stands, and a small, unopened vial of what looked like shimmering oil beside it.

He noticed the dying fire in the hearth and listened as rain and surf sounds played over the intercom system. He followed the sound to its source, opened the closet, and shut the CD off.

Then he listened.

The shower was running. He moved down the hall, through the master bedroom, to the massive bathroom beyond. He opened the door, pulling his weapon as he did so, just out of habit.

Victoria Albrecht was taking a shower. Of course, she was fully dressed and utterly drained of blood as she was doing it, but the hot water had managed to steam up the room nonetheless.

Jack opened the shower door and leaned in to shut off the water. Beneath him, Albrecht’s wrists and neck had been slashed – the deep gashes clean and cruel, made with an extremely sharp blade and very quick movements.

A large white ball had been shoved into her mouth to hush any initial protestations.

Jack turned away from the grisly picture she made and peered around the rest of the bathroom. A robe was missing. A used towel hung, still damp, on a nearby hook.

Jack left the bathroom and made his way to the walk-in closet, where he’d seen the sheet discarded earlier. He opened the door and entered the closet.

He didn’t have to look very far to find a clue to where Annabelle had gone once he was in, because a folded white piece of paper with his name on it was hung with a piece of tape from an empty hanger.

Jack pulled the paper off of the hanger and unfolded it.

Angel’s gone to earn her wings, Jack.

See you around.

Jack swore under his breath and spun on his heel. He raced through the flat to his quarters and then ran through the master bedroom and to a small room that opened up off of one wall, which contained nothing but a vault.

The vault was open now that Alex had been in it. But the syringes of antidote weren’t the only things missing. Osborne’s file was gone as well.

Jack hurriedly took a prescription bottle down from the top shelf, and popped off the lid, shaking two white pills into his mouth. He put the top back on the bottle and raced into his bathroom, where he turned on the water in the sink, cupped it with his hand, and brought it to his lips. The water helped the pills slide down.

Jack then left his quarters and re-joined Alex, who was just now helping Simon sit back up as he slowly regained consciousness.

“Get geared up. Annabelle went after Osborne.”

“Yes sir.” Alex left Simon where he sat and made his way to the trunk in the family room. He opened the lid and pulled several weapons from its depths, arming himself well. Jack joined him a moment later, now wearing a long-sleeved shirt that looked a lot like the one he’d had made for Annabelle and a belt and cross-strap with various compartments on them. Jack chose his own weapons, loaded them, and added them to the ones he was already carrying.

Then, as the morphine made it to his blood stream, he turned and left the apartment, Alex right behind him.

Chapter Forty-One

“Oh my God.”

Virginia Meredith looked up from where she’d been staring through the lenses of a microscope. Craig stood a few feet away, gazing into one of his own. His expression was one of disbelief and wonder.

“I think…” He looked up then, and their eyes met. “Holy shit, Ginnie, I think I found it.”

Her eyes widened. She was immediately at his side and nudging him over so that she could steal a peak through the microscope. She blinked. “How…” She looked away and then peered through it again. “How?” She finally asked.

“We knew the channel was one point seven, but the serum wasn’t quieting it; I just had to find the right combination… And, this morning, I wound up with one that felt familiar to me. I tried it,” he said, “And it worked.” He laughed then, running a hand through his hair. He found he was shaking. “We’ve officially shut and locked the pain gate!”

Virginia laughed as well, and then she was leaping into his arms, where he easily caught her and spun her around. Across the room, a door opened and closed. Craig looked over Virginia’s head and his grin widened. “Doctor Sinclaire, we’ve done it!”

Doctor John Sinclaire was a small man of Indian origin, and John Sinclaire was not at all his real name. However, that was what he went by because it was pronounceable. Jack Thane was a close friend to the doctor; it had been Sinclaire that Jack was talking about when he’d told Craig Brandt that he knew someone in England who could help get him set up in a well supplied lab.

Sinclaire was a good doctor, a caring man, who was driven by that goal a few very special people in the medical profession are driven by – the need to make a real contribution to the field of medical science.

So, at the moment, John Sinclaire stood dumbfounded, an almost comically surprised look on his youthful face. His eyes were golf-ball white and his mouth was open wide. “Oh my Gott,” he said softly. “You are kidding me.”

Craig shook his head and gently set Virginia down. They were both grinning broadly, and Craig’s eyes were shining. He reached under the microscope and extracted the slide, holding it out toward Sinclaire.

The Indian doctor slowly came forward, as if his legs wouldn’t move fast enough beneath him. He gazed at the slide. “You found the right combination?”

Craig nodded.

“Holy shit.” Sinclaire took the slide gingerly and held it as if he were holding an eighty carat diamond. “We must reproduce these findings quickly,” he said, almost distractedly, as he continued to stare at the slide. “We must back them up right away.”

“I’m on it,” Craig told him, turning at once to the task at hand.

“Why not belay that, Mr. Brandt,” came a deep voice from the same door that Dr. Sinclaire had come through.

Everyone spun around to face the intruder, Sinclaire barely managing not to drop the slide in his hand.

A tall black man stood in the open doorway, two very large, very mean looking men flanking him. They were armed.

But so was Craig.

He hadn’t felt completely safe in six very long years. Being on the proverbial “wanted dead or alive” poster will make you a bit jumpy over time. So, in the six years since he’d gone underground, he’d learned a few things.

One of them was to never let your guard down. And since Osborne had yet to die, Craig had yet to go a day without carrying a weapon. Right now, a shoulder holster beneath his lab coat held two loaded pistols, compliments of Jack Thane.

Craig shoved Virginia down to the ground with one hand and drew one of his guns with the other. There was no warning to his action; it was automatic. At the same time, Dr. Sinclaire squealed with alarm and threw himself out of the way, sliding into a protected alcove behind a cooler that held Petri dishes and vials as if he were sliding into second.

Osborne’s men reacted as quickly as they could, simultaneously attempting to shove their own boss to the floor while drawing their weapons. However, they were precious moments slower than Craig had been. Brandt fired off a few rounds and one of his bullets found purchase in the chest of the man to Osborne’s left before the big guy was able to protect himself.

The giant man jerked backwards with the impact, slamming into the wall behind him and scrambling to get his feet back beneath him. When no blood blossomed on his shirt, Craig realized that they were wearing vests and his fear level ratcheted up a few notches.

Meanwhile, Virginia scrambled across the ground behind the lab counter, and then cowered against its farthest corner, protected by feet of metal and wood on two sides.

Godrick Osborne called out to Craig from where he was hidden behind another counter. “Brandt, you can’t win this fight! Think about it!”

“Go to Hell, Osborne!” Craig replied, ducking beneath the counter beside Virginia as Osborne’s men once more took aim and fired. Craig, too, was wearing a protective vest beneath his clothing, as were Sinclaire and Virginia – Jack had insisted upon it. But all that did was even out the playing field once more so that three relatively small people were up against three relatively big people who very much wanted them to be dead and had practice making people that way.

Craig glanced at Virginia and their eyes met. Six long years the man on the other side of the counter had made their lives hellish. Craig had been on the run, in hiding, always looking over his shoulder as he simultaneously tried to keep the woman he loved safe. Virginia had thought he was dead. That was Hell enough.

“Brandt, all I want is you!” Osborne began again, yelling to be heard clearly through the layers of wood and metal separating him from his target. “You’re the one who knows the cure. Turn yourself in and Meredith and Sinclair can go! You have my word!”

Virginia shook her head furiously. “Don’t believe him, Craig.”

“I’m not.” Craig told her. He knew Osborne was lying. The business man would never take the chance that Virginia or John Sinclaire knew the right combination to make the cure work. He had no choice but to destroy everything and anyone involved with its creation – and that included everyone in this room, along with Annabelle Drake, Dylan Anderson, Cassie Reid, and the entire Thane family.

Osborne wouldn’t stop until they were all dead.

“How about this, Osborne!” Craig began, his mind frantically working as he chose his words. “Let us go and we’ll credit the cure to you and let the past be the past! Forget about Teresa and Max Anderson! No one has to know! Just publish our findings and take the cure public! You’ll have everything you’ve made up until now and you’ll go down in history as the man who cured EM!”

There was silence after this, and Craig’s heart pounded hard in his chest.

“Come, come, now Brandt!” Osborne finally shot back. “For a highly intelligent man, your naiveté surprises me! You and I know what a propensity humanity has for blackmail. Temptation is too strong! No…” There was a scuffling sound and Craig’s eyes darted to the edge of the counter. He wondered what they were doing on the other side. “I’m afraid there’s no two ways about it, Brandt. You have to die.”

Craig looked up as he heard a painful gasp from around the corner. And he knew, without having to check, that one of Osborne’s men had gotten to Dr. Sinclaire.

“Come on out, Brandt, or the good doctor takes one through the eye.”

Craig closed his eyes. Virginia cupped his face in her hands. “No. Don’t do it. Craig, please,” she whispered hurriedly. Then, with a grimace, she added, “he’ll kill John anyway.”

“Time’s running out, Brandt!” There was the click of a cocking gun.

“Osborne!” Craig called back, his mind furiously spinning. “I have my cell phone! If I press one of these buttons, the information I’ve recorded into it will be sent to a lab in Minnesota!”

“Nice try, Dr. Brandt,” came the too-calm reply. “Your phone is on the counter. And, it’s off, by the way.” Osborne added, his tone amused.

And then a gun went off and someone grunted in pain. A body hit the floor.

“No!” Craig couldn’t help himself. He jumped up from behind the counter and faced Godrick Osborne and his men. However, the sight that greeted him was not the one he’d expected.

John Sinclaire had backed up against the far wall, and stood there now, his color a pallid gray, his hands gripping the wall in fear. However, he was very much alive. The bullet that had been discharged had not been aimed at him.

It had been aimed at the man who was holding him. That man now lay on the floor, a pool of blood spreading beneath his inert form. He’d been shot in the head.

In the doorway stood Adam Night, gun at ease at his side, a cocky smile on his handsome face. His ice blue eyes glittered with mal intent. Godrick Osborne had turned and was facing the newcomer.

“Night, what the hell are you doing?”

Adam calmly stepped into the room, not bothering to reply or, even, to maintain eye contact with Osborne. Instead, he looked at the floor and lazily spun the gun in his right hand around his middle finger. His steps were slow, his demeanor utterly unconcerned.

Osborne’s gaze narrowed. “Kill him.”

The large man beside Osborne raised his gun arm.

Another bullet was discharged, and the second of Osborne’s guards hit the floor. This time, Adam kept his gun at arm’s length – and turned it on Osborne. His expression hadn’t changed. He still appeared laid back, indifferent, and the eerie glint in his eyes burned like blue fire.

A hundred yards away, on the roof top of a neighboring building, Annabelle Drake peered through the scope of a high powered rifle and watched the scene in the lab unfold with bated breath. Her heart pounded hard in her chest. Sweat trickled down the side of her neck. A drop of it threatened her left eye, but she ignored it, since that eye was shut tight anyway.

“Just shoot him,” she whispered, quietly begging Adam Night to pull his trigger one last time. But she knew he couldn’t hear her, and that even if he could have heard her, he would have ignored her.

Night wasn’t going to kill Godrick Osborne. Because he wanted her to do it.

Adam Night may be crazy as hell, but he was damned smart too. He seemed to know Annabelle very well, even though he’d only just met her. As if he’d known she couldn’t have brought herself to kill all three of them, he’d stolen into the lab and taken care of Osborne’s goons himself. But he was saving the best for her.

The single window that let sunlight into the lab was mirrored to shield it from unaided human sight, however, the Swarovski crystal scope on the .204 Ruger rifle that Annabelle used was special issue. Adam had given it to her. She’d had to refrain from saying “wow” when she’d pressed the butt of the entire semi-auto composite into her shoulder and peered through the scope. After all, it was a killing machine. It wouldn’t bring down an elephant, but it would put a good-sized hole through a human head just fine. And Annabelle knew that she only had it now because Adam Night fully expected her to use it against another human being.

“He’s not human, Annabelle,” she whispered to herself now. Her voice shook. “He’s a monster.”

Just kill him. Do it. He killed Max. He killed Teresa. He wants to kill everyone. Kill him first.

But as she stared through the scope, she felt her will draining away. “I can’t do it.”

As if he could hear her, Adam Night turned toward the window in the opposite building and, though it was physically impossible, he actually appeared to stare at her through the scope. He smiled. His lips moved, and even though she couldn’t hear his voice, she could easily tell what it was he’d said.

Yes, you can.

“Christ.”

And then Adam’s expression hardened and he lowered his weapon.

Annabelle’s brows drew together. “No…” She watched as Godrick Osborne, no longer threatened with Night’s weapon, spun around and vaulted over the counter that stood between himself and Virginia Meredith and Craig Brandt.

Brandt rushed forward, but not fast enough to keep Osborne from roughly grabbing Virginia and pulling his own weapon from the holster beneath his suit coat.

“Get back!” Osborne shouted at Craig and Craig stumbled back as the barrel of the Desert Eagle issue handgun was pressed to Virginia’s temple.

Annabelle swore lividly and flipped the switch that controlled the rifle’s laser sights. A red spot appeared on Osborne’s forehead. Craig’s eyes flickered to the glowing mark and widened.

Osborne noticed the movement. He cursed and dove for cover behind another counter a few feet away, drawing Virginia Meredith along with him.

Annabelle swore again, this time barely refraining from standing and stomping her booted feet in frustration. She couldn’t see what was happening behind the counter. She wondered why Osborne hadn’t just shot Virginia and then taken Craig out next. Maybe he still needed something from Brandt. And he could always use Virginia against him.

Damn…

She swung the rifle to the side and peered at Adam through the scope.

Night turned around and strode to the door of the lab’s exit.

No, no, no… Don’t leave, Adam!

At the door, he paused and glanced back in her direction. It wasn’t possible, but their eyes met anyhow. He grinned then, teeth flashing. He pressed the door open, and then disappeared into the darkened hall beyond. In a few moments, he was out of her view.

“God dammit!”

Annabelle’s cell phone rang. She blinked, pulled back from the gun’s scope, and swiped her sleeve across her eyes. She glanced down at the LCD screen of the phone on her belt. It read: JACK.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she re-opened them, she peered once more through the gun’s scope. The phone stopped ringing. There was no change in the scene in the lab. Osborne was behind one counter with Virginia and Craig had taken shelter behind another. Nobody was moving.

Annabelle’s mind raced. If Osborne thought that he was being targeted from afar, maybe he wouldn’t chance moving until he had back-up. Which he was most likely calling for right now.

The men he called wouldn’t be told to enter the lab, where they were sure to simply get shot like the last two guys had. No. They would be sent to deal with the long-range shooter that currently threatened Osborne.

They would be sent to take care of Annabelle.

“Shit.” Annabelle stood and spun around, running toward the roof access door.

Again, the phone on her belt went off. “Mother piss bucket!” She hissed, not even realizing what was coming out of her mouth. Why had she brought the phone with her in the first place?

She’d brought it so that she could call for help if she needed to. In the case of an emergency.

Did this qualify as an emergency?

She blew out a sigh and ripped the phone off of her belt. She cradled the gun with her right arm as she pressed the phone to her ear with her left. “What!”

“Bella, Dylan is missing. He snuck past my men.” Jack said.

Annabelle stopped in her tracks.

It took a second to process the new information and then she was spinning back around and nearly sliding into the spot she was laying in before. Once more, she positioned the rifle in front of her and peered through the scope.

Down below, in the lab, Godrick Osborne was once more standing, pulling Virginia Meredith along with him, making certain that her own body shielded his from the window. He moved toward the exit door, Virginia reluctantly being dragged in front of him.

But before he could reach the door, it came open of its own accord, and in walked Dylan Anderson. The door slammed shut behind him and Osborne froze, as did Virginia. Dylan’s arms dropped slowly to either side and Annabelle could clearly make out the Colt .45 in his right fist.

He said something to Osborne. Annabelle couldn’t tell what it was.

Osborne reacted by jerking Virginia roughly, making her cry out. Annabelle couldn’t hear the sound, but she could see the look on Virginia’s face, her mouth open wide. Annabelle could only see a sliver of Osborne’s head from this angle, like a crescent of a moon. From her limited perspective, she guessed that Osborne was holding his gun to the other side of Virginia’s head again. The poor girl had a barrel aimed at her from both directions.

Dylan looked nervous now. His grip on the gun fidgeted, his fingers flexing and un-flexing. His eyes darted between Virginia and Osborne.

Annabelle’s heart beat drummed in her ears. Time had slowed, almost stood still.

And then, quite suddenly, it sped up again.

Osborne, apparently having decided that enough was enough, withdrew his gun from Virginia’s head and leveled it, instead, on Dylan Anderson.

Dylan reacted as quickly as he could, but it wasn’t fast enough. He was a kid. He’d never shot anyone before. He was the good guy in this equation, which meant that he was the underdog, the one wronged, the nice person simply out for some kind of desperately desired justice.

It also meant that he wasn’t a killer, and hence, lacked a killer’s reflexes.

For some reason, however, Annabelle didn’t seem to lack them at all.

For, in that same instant, when time at once stopped and skipped into the future at full speed, Annabelle gently squeezed her trigger. The 20-caliber Hornady bullet spun across space and time at what would seem like many to be electric speed.

The window to the lab didn’t even shatter. The hole the bullet made was tiny and the glass spider-webbed around it with a beauty nearly poetic. Osborne’s body jumped to the left as that same bullet entered his right temple and exited through his left ear.

Virginia Meredith at once felt the man’s arm go limp around her and she dropped to the ground and scooted away even as Osborne was still falling.

It took an eternity for Godrick Osborne to hit the floor. His form swayed, his eyes open yet unseeing.

Dylan Anderson slowly continued to raise his weapon, aiming numbly at a bad guy that was no longer standing there.

It wasn’t until Osborne sank to his knees and then, ever so slowly, toppled forward to land on what was left of his face that Dylan realized the man had already been shot and began to lower his gun once more.

The teenager stared, blinking rapidly, at the now very dead Godrick Osborne, lying face down in a spreading pool of blood a few feet in front of him. He watched the rapid tide of red make its way toward him and found himself unconsciously stepping back out of the way.

On top of the roof of the next building, Annabelle Drake felt the distant ache of her weapon’s recoil on her right shoulder. The curve of the trigger was a bend of cold, smooth steel beneath her finger. There was no sound but the buzzing of nothing in her head. That severe silence that follows a gun blast.

It was a throbbing drone that drowned out the rest of her world as Annabelle continued to hold her breath. She couldn’t let it go. And she wouldn’t let it in.

It wasn’t until Craig Brandt slowly stood from where he’d been hiding behind the counter and Virginia Meredith ran into his arms that Annabelle realized she wasn’t breathing. Even then, however, she couldn’t make her lungs move. No expanding. No contracting.

She simply gazed, unmoving, at the felled man in the expensive suit who was now missing half of his brain. The floor of the lab had been painted red. So much blood. Three bodies worth.

Like an explosion, the roof exit door behind Annabelle suddenly burst outward, slamming noise in to her world and air into her chest as if she’d been hit with a tidal wave of existence. She found herself spinning around on the ground, letting go of the rifle she’d used to kill a man.

Her head pounded as her lungs suddenly and violently expanded. But that was the only part of her that worked; her legs would not lift her. She couldn’t even get them beneath her.

A large man dressed in the same manner as Osborne’s personal guard stormed the roof, his gun arm up and ready. Within a few short moments, he had located Annabelle, and turned to level his weapon upon her.

Once more, a bullet split the sky. And, the sound, like thunder, followed after.

Annabelle jerked with the explosion. She blinked once, and waited to feel the pain. But as she gazed at the man with the gun and waited for her body to bleed and die, she instead witnessed his own legs give out beneath him. He hit the ground, and then fell forward. His gun went spinning across the roof to skitter to a stop a few feet away.

Annabelle hadn’t been shot at all. The fallen man had never had a chance to pull his trigger.

Still stunned, Annabelle looked up from the dead gunman to the man who had been, unseen, behind him, standing in the roof exit doorway.

Jack slowly lowered his weapon. Their eyes met.

Annabelle drew a second, shaky breath. Sirens wailed in the distance.

Chapter Forty-Two

It was something of a Houdini act, the way the Business tended to the clean up after a mess of a job like Godrick Osborne’s.

Some times a mystery was best put to rest with the truth. This was one of those times. Back in the United States, Max Anderson’s death was now officially considered a murder, and one Godrick Osborne, the killer.

Detective Chen, her partner, and the entire Twin Cities police force believed that when Annabelle Drake and Dylan Anderson had fled the country out of fear that Osborne would kill them, as well, Osborne had tracked them down and nearly accomplished exactly that.

That was where the truth of the situation went from black and white to a less distinct gray and the story became embellished, with the help of well-paid props and a few careful bribes.

Osborne did, indeed, manage to find Annabelle and Dylan, but he’d been unfortunate enough to do so while they were hiding out in a private residence, where one Jack Thane kept and displayed many impressive war relics, including several hand guns and rifles from Vietnam, Desert Storm, and the war in Iraq. A hefty tax payer and benefactor to the British Museum, Jack Thane was granted authorization to keep the items, as long as they were locked safely behind glass.

Glass could be broken. And Osborne’s bullet wounds were easily explained.

Concerning the reports of weapons’ fire in downtown London… A series of explosions in a medical lab had apparently caused the unfortunate and untimely deaths of three lab technicians, not to mention massive amounts of property damage. The victims were found in their once white lab coats, mortal wounds riddling their charred and unidentifiable bodies. Luckily for him, Dr. John Sinclaire, who headed the research at the lab, came away unscathed.

Dylan Anderson decided to return to Minnesota for his father’s funeral and for the reading of his father’s will. But, when that was done and said, he had plans to turn right back around, board another plane, and head to the UK once more. It seemed there was nothing left for him in Minnesota. And he’d just had a birthday. He was now eighteen, legally capable of deciding what to do with the rest of his life. He wanted to spend at least part of it in England. Apparently, there was something of interest to him there.

Jack attempted to bridge the gap between he and Dylan by helping the boy get the papers he would need to apply for citizenship in England. It worked. Sort of. It would have worked a lot better had Dylan and Clara Thane not begun dating.

As for Annabelle…

An account had been set up for her, into which 612,580 British Pounds had been deposited. Godrick Osborne’s death had been worth a cool million in American dollars. Annabelle Drake found herself suddenly, almost shockingly, loaded.

And gainfully employed.

The higher-ups in the Business insisted on recruiting Annabelle as a long-range sniper. The job she’d done on Godrick Osborne had been a long-shot, and one she’d pulled off flawlessly. Annabelle had suddenly become a valued contractor; she didn’t fit the profile of an assassin and yet she’d proven herself capable more than once.

She wasn’t sure, yet, how she felt about any of that. The truth was, she wasn’t feeling a whole lot of anything at all. She was sort of numb, still.

She went through the motions of setting up a cover and finding a place to live, feeling, the entire time, as if she was walking through a strange sort of dream. She had access to more money than she’d ever had in her life, and couldn’t think of a single thing she wanted to spend it on.

She took care of the necessities, renting a flat in London and an office space downtown, where she would claim to run day-to-day operations as an apprentice to Jack Thane, the real estate mogul. It would allow her access to her money without having to make any uncomfortable explanations as to its origins. Cassie had decided to remain in England as well, and work, in both public and private capacities, as Annabelle’s “assistant.” At least Annabelle could honestly afford to pay her well.

But that was about as far as Annabelle had gotten.

Right now, as she stood in front of Max Anderson’s open grave and listened, vaguely and distantly, to the pastor read from the Psalms of the Old Testament, her mind wandered to that little girl – the niece of the congressman who had paid Godrick Osborne to find a cure for Erythromelalgia.

Craig Brandt had gone public with his findings, crediting John Sinclaire and Virginia Meredith as partners in the discovery. It would be years yet, unfortunately, until the drug passed the plethora of tests necessary to take it to market. Annabelle wondered whether the girl could afford to wait that long.

Modern medicine was a strange thing. It saved lives, and it took them away. They were the reason that Annabelle stood there, now, saying her last goodbyes to a dear friend. Without a drug that had allowed her to slip into a comforting oblivion for the flight across the Atlantic, she never could have made the return trip home. Nor would she be able to head back to the UK later.

They also took away her pain.

Annabelle slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the small container of hydrocodone pills that rested there. Working for the Business gave her access to any drug she wanted or needed at any time. It was a freedom she had yet to fully wrap her head around. But, she’d made use of at least part of it, requesting a bottle of Vicodin right off the bat. She’d partly done it because she’d lost her other stash somewhere in the muddled mess of the last few days. And she’d also partly done it just to see if she actually could.

She turned the bottle of pills between her fingers and felt them flip over. Yep. She could.

Drugs definitely helped.

“… ashes to ashes…” A shovel full of dirt hit the white coffin below, scattering across its shiny surface to tumble into the darkness on either side.

And drugs definitely hurt.

How many people had died in the last few days because of the pharmaceutical industry? And six years ago? Teresa Anderson, Max Anderson, the Colonel, Godrick Osborne, and a dozen unknown, nameless individuals who’d signed up on the wrong roll sheet. Because of medicine.

Annabelle pulled the small bottle out of her pocket and stared down at it.

“… dust to dust…”

Another load of dirt joined the first six feet below. Dylan covered his face with his hands where he stood beside the opening. Clara came up beside him, silently offering comfort.

Annabelle blinked. And then tossed in the bottle.

*****

Several yards away, from the sheltering shade of an oak, a man on a motorcycle watched in grim silence as the funeral progressed.

A woman beside the open grave tossed something into it.

And then, as if reconsidering her actions, she moved as if to jump in after it. A tall teenage boy, also beside the grave, hurried toward her, managing to wrap his arms around her to hold her back. Others joined him as the woman tried harder to make it into the grave.

The figure on the motorcycle shook his head, his lips curling into a smile.

And then he started up his bike and rode away.

Epilogue

The noises in the mall were like echoes around Annabelle; they caught her ears at a glance, and from a distance. She watched as a little girl and boy gazed into a window across from her bench. They leaned in, palms pressed to the glass, and stared at the new Star Wars figures. After a few moments, they whispered between themselves, sharing some secret their mother couldn’t hear.

Annabelle knew what they were saying.

She watched the boy point and the little girl smiled. Annabelle smiled too. Then she blinked.

And the little boy was gone.

The young girl stood alone, the boy once beside her now merely the ghost of a memory. As she continued to gaze into the window, this time sharing her secrets with only herself, her red-haired mother knelt, softly speaking her name.

The child turned to face her. They spoke in hushed tones. The girl nodded; they held hands and then slowly moved away.

A yard, two, ten, and the pair were gone. They were slight and delicate phantoms that haunted garishly lit halls, cushioned in their imperceptible existence by the noisy silence of a thousand unseeing eyes.

Annabelle watched the space where they had disappeared, and then she turned to gaze into the window in front of her. There were no Star Wars figures. Instead, there were Webkinz and Neopets and Twilight posters. But the fingerprints on the glass were the same. They’d been left there by a little girl or a little boy. Or, maybe both. Maybe even twins.

“Ian has a Webkinz, you know.” A deep Yorkshire accent sliced easily through Annabelle’s thoughts.

She glanced up. Jack Thane stood beside the bench, his thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. He was dressed in riding gear – black jacket, black boots. Dark sunglasses hung from one of the pockets of his leather jacket.

They hadn’t had a chance to speak since the incident in London. The clean up had been harried, the funeral set with blinding speed, the flight had been a drugged-up blur. Her life had managed to pull a chameleon act in the short space of a few days; it was no longer recognizable as her own.

And she had yet to make things right with the man she loved.

He was a welcome vision, despite her twisted-up emotions. At six foot two, with wavy blonde hair and piercing blue eyes stolen from the depths of the Atlantic, he was a sexy, welcome vision. He always would be, she guessed. He was just that kind of man.

The expression on his handsome face would have been unreadable to anyone else. But Annabelle knew him well. A number of things were going through his very quick, very efficient brain.

He knew what she had been thinking. The sympathy in his eyes told her that much. He’d always been able to read her like a book, so that was no surprise.

He was sorry for their fight. That was obvious, as well.

And he was afraid. It was something no one else would have recognized in his hard features. But she could see it there. Just at the edges of his sapphire eyes. He was afraid for her and the life he had forced her into – and he was afraid of her.

He was afraid she would blow up on him. Or give him the silent treatment.

Or run from him. Again.

But Annabelle was too happy to see him to do any of those things. Instead, she smiled and motioned for him to sit beside her. He did so. And, as he did, she caught the scent of leather and faint cologne. He smelled like sunshine and wind. So different from the air in the mall, which was stagnant with the smell of price tags and plastic bags.

Annabelle felt his presence at her side like a living, breathing brick wall. Large, sturdy, strong. Reliable for leaning on when you hadn’t the strength to stand.

She stared down at the tiled ground and waited for him to speak.

“I didn’t get the chance to thank you for saving my life.”

“Ditto,” she told him, softly.

Jack fell silent and she let the silence grow. It wasn’t that she wanted to punish him with a lack of words. It was only that she truly didn’t know what to say.

“I heard you got a present from your new shadow.”

He meant Adam. Adam Night. Her would-be protector; whether she wanted him as one or not.

Jack was right. Adam had left something for Annabelle. On her pillow. Under a pitch-black .357 magnum bullet.

She nodded. “A note.”

She knew he wanted to see it, so she didn’t keep him waiting. She pulled the folded parchment from her jeans pocket and handed it to him. He unfolded it and read aloud, his accent lending each word just enough of a British lilt that she could imagine it was Adam speaking instead….

“Nicely done, angel. You’ve earned your wings. I’ll be seeing you around. Signed, A.N.” Jack re-folded the paper and tucked it into his own leather jacket pocket. She didn’t fail to notice the confiscation. She figured there would be no arguing with him on the matter.

“We haven’t seen the last of him, have we?” She asked, softly, still not looking up.

“No.”

“Is he going to hurt me?”

“No.” There was no hesitation. It surprised Annabelle, so she finally turned her body fully toward him and cocked her head to one side. “How can you be so sure?”

He smiled, flashing those white teeth. “He and I have a lot in common, luv. That’s how I know.”

Annabelle thought about that and then asked, “He’s here right now, isn’t he? Watching us?”

Jack nodded. “You’ve got good instincts, Bella. They’ll serve you well in this Business.”

Annabelle blinked. She swallowed hard. “And… what if I don’t want….” She stopped, licked her lips, and started over. “What if I don’t want to be in this Business?”

It was a long time before Jack Thane replied. His blue eyes seared her soul as he considered her question and everything that it meant.

Annabelle felt as if she were waiting on hot coals. The world slowed in its rotation; time began to crawl.

And then, with quiet deliberation, Jack turned his body toward her and leaned slightly forward. “Then I will find a way to help you out of it, Bella. So help me God – if it kills me, I will.”

Jack’s Sheffield accent wrapped around Annabelle, the way it always did, providing a shielding barrier between herself and the rest of the entropy surrounding her. His words knocked the breath from her lungs – and filled them back up again.

She would never force him to make such a decision for her. She knew she was in the Business forever. But that he was willing to try – that he would be willing to put his reputation, his career, and his life on the line in order to win her freedom – meant everything to Annabelle.

She realized that she had been dying to hear those words. Not “I love you.” Not “Marry me.” Anyone could mutter such phrases. Jack, himself, had muttered them many times – to many women.

Annabelle had wanted something else from him. She wanted to know that he cared for her enough that he could truly let her go. Forever, if need be.

Those were the words she had needed to hear.

She found herself smiling, then, her eyes wide, a weight lifted from her shoulders.

And then Jack’s expression became more serious; almost concerned. “You all right, luv?” His voice and tone had both lowered. He draped his arm over the back of the bench and regarded her closely.

She grew warm under his sparkling blue gaze.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached up and gently cupped the side of his face in her hand. Jack blinked, stunned by the sudden contact. Annabelle took advantage of his surprise and ran her hand to the back of his neck. She shivered as her fingers brushed the silken locks of his blonde hair.

She pulled him toward her and leaned in to kiss him, placing the gentlest of kisses across his cool, dry lips. As she did, she caught another waft of leather and spice and the mint of his breath. Her stomach grew warm and tight and she pulled away with very real regret.

But when she looked back up at him, it was to find that his expression had changed. He was no longer only surprised. The blue in his eyes had made way for expanding pupils, and his gaze had darkened. There was a sudden aura about him now that made him appear hungry. Dogged.

Annabelle slowly sat back away from him, but she didn’t get far before Jack’s gloved hand was wrapping around her wrist. Slowly. Carefully.

But resolutely.

“Let me take you out of here, Bella.” He said.

Annabelle was taken aback; the heat in her body at once leaping to roaring, roiling life. She wasn’t certain whether it was even a question. But she was even less certain that she cared. She nodded, quickly, and Jack gracefully stood, pulling her up alongside him.

He laced his hand with hers and took off down the aisle. Somehow, he managed to steer her through the crowd without letting anyone else touch her. His tall, dark form seemed to beg deference. Women openly gawked. Men eyed him warily. But all of them got out of the way.

Within short minutes, Jack was pulling her through a side exit and into one of the higher, more deserted levels of the multi-leveled parking lot.

She had just enough time to realize his intentions and feel her heart jump up into her throat before she was up against a wall and jack’s hard form was pressed against hers. His lips whispered across her ear. “Do you forgive me then, luv?”

Annabelle couldn’t think. She could barely breathe. He was all around her, the scent of him, the feel of his hard edges, the sound of his voice. He was in her mind and she swore that if she made love to him a million times, she would never be able to do so with out hyperventilating.

All she could manage was a nod.

It was enough for him.

*****

In a dark stairwell a floor down, two teenage boys pushed through the exit doors and began taking steps two at a time. It was when they reached the eighth step and the middle landing that a tall man with black hair straightened from where he’d been leaning against the wall.

“You don’t wanna go that way, mate.” He told the boys, a strong Sheffield accent curling his words. The boys stopped in their tracks and watched him as he snuffed his cigarette out on the wall and then let it fall to the ground, where he casually crushed it under the toe of his boot.

“It’s occupied,” the man continued, flashing them a predatory smile. “So find another way around.”

There must have been something about the man – the way his ice blue eyes shifted so easily between them, or the casual grace with which he choreographed the snuffing of his cigarette. Or maybe it was his height and build and the strangely, dangerously soothing sound of his voice, with that accent that they’d so rarely heard.

They couldn’t have told you exactly what did it.

But whatever it was, those two teenage boys decided not to tempt fate that night. Instead of arguing with the stranger, they turned around on the stairwell landing and went the other way.

Adam Night watched them go and then chuckled softly.

With a sharp glance at the parking level above him, he shook his head, leaned back against the wall once more, and lit another cigarette.

THE END