Hell Bent

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