Hell Bent

“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!