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.
