Hell Bent
by Heather Killough-Walden
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.
“Oh, God
“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.”
