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.