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  Hell Bent

  Heather Killough-Walden

  Jack Thane is a man with a very big secret. For years, he has relied upon the skills and resources that came with this secret in order to protect the people he cares about, especially the young Annabelle Drake… the only woman he has ever loved.

  However, now Jack’s past is catching up with him – and it’s after Annabelle. Suddenly, Jack has gone from the predator to the prey as he strives to keep Annabelle from the very deadly clutches of some of the most powerful people in the world.

  Annabelle Drake’s best friend is a six-foot-two, blonde haired, blue eyed angel in black leather with a penchant for v-twin motorcycles and shoulder holsters stocked with reliable guns. He’s a man with a dark job, a quick mind, and a body capable of just about anything. He’s also off-limits as anything but a best friend… for so many reasons.

  But when the forces that normally turn to Jack for their more covert problem solving needs suddenly turn on Annabelle, she has no choice but to turn to Jack for help. Annabelle finds that being under Jack’s protection means allowing him to get closer than she’d ever planned on letting him get… and that when it comes to dangerous, those who are out to get her have nothing on the man she’s with.

  Hell Bent

  by Heather Killough-Walden

  Prologue

  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.

  Chapter One

  Several days earlier…

  “Oh, God…” With some effort, Annabelle pulled her face out of her pillow, mumbling as she did so. Then she rolled herself over in bed and slowly raised her arm to shield her eyes from the ray of sunlight streaming through the window across the room.

  “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.”

  She’d showered? Now she vaguely recalled something about hot water… clothes in a pile by the bathroom door. And, Jack had called her boss? Annabelle rolled her eyes and was immediately sorry that she did when more pain assaulted her.

  She had to admit that she appreciated Jack looking after her. But the truth was, her job was the source of much discontent in her life, and part of the reason she’d gone on a binge the night before.

  “The good doctor wasn’t pleased, but he was understanding,” Jack continued calmly.

  “He’s up to his eyeballs in more work than he has any right to be,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m just adding to his stress.” Stress for him because he depended on her so much and now she wasn’t there and it was because she’d been careless and immature. And, stress for her because she hated her job but felt guilted into not quitting.

  She took a slow, deep breath. Then another one. Sometimes deep breathing helped with the pain. It wasn’t working this time. She said, “Speaking of cars, Jack, I need to borrow your bike.”

  Jack stopped what he was doing and turned to face her, one damnably perfect brow arched inquisitively. “Oh?”

  “My car was impounded yesterday.” She shifted uncomfortably beneath her covers and then, distractedly, she glanced under them to see what she was wearing. Jack watched her carefully, an amused expression on his handsome features. She si
ghed when she saw that she was down to a white tank top and Victoria’s Secret Pink panties. She very much doubted she’d picked them out herself. When she felt like crap, she normally chose comfy sweats and thick socks to curl up in. Not little bitty undies and a tight tank top. That had been Jack’s doing.

  She looked back up at him, ignoring his wicked smile. “The bike, Jack? I promise I’ll be good to it.” She didn’t bother asking him for one of his cars. They both knew that she wouldn’t drive them – they gobbled gasoline and she was a hard-core conservationist. In fact, the car that had been impounded was a Honda Civic hybrid. Ugly, but practical.

  A bike, on the other hand, was ecologically sound, economically prudent, and very, very fun. Especially Jack’s bike, which was a Harley Night Train. It was the most beautiful thing Annabelle had ever laid her eyes on. She liked the bike almost more than she liked its owner. Almost.

  “It isn’t the bike that I’m worried about, luv.” His smile became less amused and a touch more gentle. He brought the clothes and shoes to the bed and sat back down. “You can’t possibly be at a hundred percent just yet. You caused quite the stir last night.”

  Annabelle’s blush was inescapable. She sulkily yanked the bra and t-shirt out of his hands and proceeded to dress beneath the blanket. Aside from the migraine, it wasn’t too difficult. Women just know how to do those kinds of things.

  “Still wanna marry me?” she asked sullenly. All she could picture was her head bent over the porcelain bowl of the toilet, her strawberry blonde and gold hair falling lankily on either side. What a vision she must have been. Actually, now that she was thinking of it, images of last night’s unpleasantness were coming back to her. They only deepened her embarrassed flush.

  “In a moment’s notice, luv. Just give me the word and I can be divorced within an hour.”

  Annabelle blinked and stared up at him. Not a hint of teasing could be detected in his expression. His voice had dropped an octave and his blue gaze was steady. Annabelle, on the other hand, had been utterly and completely joking. Not only had she tried to make it clear to Jack that, because of… stuff… she could never be his wife, but the man was also married right now, and his current wife could kick the shit out of both of them. Well, out of Annabelle anyway. There wasn’t much on Earth that could kick Jack’s ass.

  Annabelle found herself beginning to squirm beneath his gaze. She looked away, deciding on a change of subject. “Come on, be honest with me, Jack. Sherry’s on the juice, isn’t she?” She mumbled, not meeting his gaze. Sherry was Jack’s new wife. Wife number three. And she had a body like granite. She terrified Annabelle. Except for when Annabelle was drunk. And then, unfortunately, not nearly enough terrified Annabelle.

  Which she had made all too clear the night before. When she’d picked a fight with a Canuck hockey fan who had said something derogatory about the late, great Sergei Zholtok. When Sherry had come forward to suggest that Annabelle settle down, Annabelle had whirled around to wail on the large woman without thinking. It hadn’t ended pretty, and Annabelle figured she was lucky that Jack had been there to prevent the situation from becoming even uglier than it had.

  Jack chuckled. The deep, sexy sound sent a shiver through Annabelle.

  “Cold?” he asked, obviously having noticed the small gesture. Annabelle watched as the blue in his eyes darkened. “Shall I turn the heat up?” His expression remained innocent. Annabelle could truly sense the deception in it. She’d always been good at reading people, and she had nearly ten years of experience with Jack.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

  Ever the one to retain control of a situation, Jack expertly diffused it. “Sherry is a good girl, Bella. Give her a chance.”

  “She looks like a skin walker who stole Arnold Schwarzenegger’s body and lopped a bunch of curly red hair on top.” Annabelle knew she was being ungracious. She couldn’t help it. She felt like crap and candidness was a fault she could never work around when she was feeling below par.

  “You read too much fantasy. Perhaps horror.”

  “She wants to eat me for breakfast.”

  Jack’s smile returned. It was unabashedly wicked. “Now, there’s a thought- ”

  “Jack!” Annabelle held out her hands for the folded jeans that he was still holding. Her head was pounding and the coffee in the other room was screaming her name.

  Jack sighed and handed her the jeans. He watched, somewhat bewildered, as she skillfully pulled them on without allowing him a single glimpse of her golden flesh.

  Annabelle realized, as she was pulling them on, that he had chosen her tightest pair. Typical man. Then, once she’d buttoned them up, she was surprised to find they weren’t as tight as she’d expected. One of the benefits of throwing up all night was that you were dehydrated enough in the morning that just about anything would fit you.

  She finished and settled back against the head board of the bed, thoroughly taxed. She sighed, again rubbing her head with one hand as the other felt above her covers for the bottle of pain killers. “Jack, the bike? Yes or no.”

  He answered her sigh with one of his own and stood. “Very well, but you take the meds when you get to work, not before.”

  Annabelle sighed and shoved the bottle in her front pocket. “Fine.” There would be no arguing this particular point with him. She knew from experience. The bottle bulged out and pressed against her pelvic bone, but she would transfer it to her jacket later.

  Annabelle threw the covers aside and turned on the bed to pull on her socks. When she reached for her shoes, she saw that Jack had chosen her riding boots, even before he’d agreed to let her have the bike. He’d known, all along, that she would be using it. Which meant that he knew about her car. She frowned. He really did know everything about her. How did he manage that?

  She shrugged it off as she reached for the black leather boots. A cold, hard shiver of anticipation went through her. They were Harley-Davidson’s, old, rugged and well worn. She’d had them for years now, since she’d first learned to ride.

  When she finished, she stood to find that Jack was watching her in silence. He was leaning against the door to her bedroom, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were intensely, impossibly blue, the way they got when he was paying extra close attention to something. Annabelle was uncomfortably familiar with that look. It was the way he watched his marks when he was on the job.

  Jack Thane was an assassin.

  For all she knew, Annabelle was the sole person on the planet – alive, anyhow – who was not an assassin, but knew that Jack was. And it was that knowledge that had kept her from accepting his proposal for marriage on more than one occasion. Marriage would mean late nights, staying up, wondering where the man who was supposed to be laying beside her actually was. What he was doing. Who he was doing.

  And, by “doing,” she meant killing. It was an unsettling thought – enough so, that she couldn’t quite make herself get into that proverbial bed. But, strangely enough, it wasn’t as unsettling as one might think it would be for someone like Annabelle Drake.

  Annabelle drove a hybrid car, recycled, donated to wildlife charities, used canvas shopping bags at the supermarket… She wanted to make the world a better place.

  Jack sometimes wondered how she could, at once, want to save the world and yet not mind that he took people out of it. She was always quick with the retort that the two were not necessarily exclusive concepts.

  Jack’s eyes, right now, were burning like sapphires. Annabelle didn’t say anything right away, allowing herself this rare opportunity to simply gaze at the man who killed for a living. He was a very handsome man. Jack was thirteen years her senior, and at forty-three, he was, as far as Annabelle was concerned, the perfect male specimen.

  She didn’t know much about his past, in England, except that he’d grown up an orphan in Sheffield. They never talked about it much past that. But, she often wondered about it. What he’d done as a child, who he’d known – that kind o
f thing. She also often wondered whether Sheffield regularly produced men like Jack. If it did, she’d need to visit England soon.

  His thick blonde hair had just begun to gray at the temples, which was a physical trait that Annabelle found herself unaccountably attracted to. His chiseled, handsome face was lightly lined and tanned from spending as much time as possible out doors while the weather was nice.

  He was tall, at six foot two, and he was built, but not too built. He didn’t have a disappearing neck and his testosterone levels were just right. Jack was clean. He didn’t work out for the physique, but for the power that it actually afforded him. He was strong and he was fast.

  And when that strong, fast body was positioned perfectly atop a Harley Davidson Softail of black and chrome, he was, without a doubt, well… If he wasn’t always married or about to get re-married – and if he wasn’t an assassin – things would be different between them.

  Much different.

  The Softail… The bike, Annabelle. She wrenched herself from her risqué reveries and blinked. The bike. Transportation. Work. She blinked again and her vision focused to find that Jack was still watching her. His expression was so fixed, she nervously brought her arms up to hug herself. Pain stabbed behind her right eye, prompting her to act.

  She winced. “Coffee,” she whispered.

  Jack’s expression softened and he smiled. “Right.” He straightened and led the way out of her bedroom, through the living room and into the small kitchen beyond.

  “I already know what you’ll say when I ask you this, but I’ll ask anyhow. Do you need help with your car?” His accented voice was low, his tone soft.

  Annabelle shook her head, once, and reached for the mug that Jack pulled from an overhead cupboard. “No, I’ve got it. Thank you, though.” She knew that if she left it up to him, he would have her car out of the impound lot and to her work place before an hour had passed, but she couldn’t allow him to do it. When it came to Jack Thane, there was one rule that Annabelle never broke. She never took Jack’s money. Never. She knew where it came from. When she borrowed his bike, she always replaced what little fuel it used. Not that it wasn’t standard procedure to do so when borrowing an automobile of some kind from a friend, but Annabelle was particularly staunch about it when it came to her bosom companion, the paid assassin.