“They used rubber grips in World War Two?” she asked, incredulously.
“No,” Jack chuckled. “Sam changed out the grips.”
Sam. That would explain it. She realized, at once, that it must have been one of the weapons available in Sam’s cupboard on the boat.
“What was a World War Two gun doing in Sam’s cabinet?”
Jack was silent for a moment and she looked up at him. He was grinning from ear to ear. “Out of… jest,” he replied finally. “He was proving me wrong.”
Well that explained absolutely nothing, she thought.
She looked down at it for a few seconds more, noting the fact that the bluing on the weapon was nicked in several places and there was a very worn “No. 2” carved beneath the K and crown.
She didn’t ask any more about it. She’d never been a gun aficionado. She didn’t know anything about them except how to load them, aim them, and shoot them. But something about this gun gave her the willies.
She let his hand go and stepped back. He watched her for several seconds more and then re-holstered the weapon.
“So, you’re telling us you’re going to invite the man out to dinner on the pretext of giving him a bunch of money and then you’re going to pull a gun on him?” Dylan was still staring at him through the mirror. His arms were crossed over his chest.
Jack smoothed his jacket back into place and gave Dylan a close-mouthed grin. Something dangerous flashed in his blue eyes. It had the effect of completely unnerving the boy, who fidgeted and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Of course not,” Jack said. “The gun is simply a precautionary measure.”
“The Colonel and his men are still out there,” Annabelle supplied, giving Dylan a slightly reproachful look. “None of us should go out without protection.”
Dylan chewed sulkily on the inside of his cheek and looked down at the ground, shifting from one foot to the other. He said nothing further.
“None of you will be going out at all. Stay here and wait with Sam. I’ll be back before midnight.”
Annabelle was irritated at the bossy tone Jack had just taken, and her narrowed gaze told him that much when he turned around to face her and the others. His lips cocked into a half-smile and one of his brows rose.
She knew it was pointless to reprimand him for his tone at the moment. Besides, he was right. There was no need for any of them to go out just now. Food and drinks could always be ordered and delivered – and with any luck, they wouldn’t have to shoot the delivery boy. It only took one person to do this particular job, and that person happened to be Jack. Mr. Moneybags.
“Be careful, Daddy Warbucks” Annabelle found herself saying.
Jack smiled down at her. “Always, luv.”
Chapter Eighteen
At forty-five minutes till the stroke of twelve that night, the entire group, minus Jack and Sam, sat around the kitchen table, satiated and sedated by the food they’d ordered and the long hours they’d been awake.
Clara yawned. And then everyone else did.
No one said anything.
Dylan yawned. And then everyone else did.
“Stop that, you guys. It’s contagious.” Annabelle muttered after she finished yawning. She rubbed her eyes. They felt dry and scratchy and she guessed they were quite red.
“You all head off to sleep. We’ll wake you when we have news.” Sam walked into the kitchen, his cell phone in his hands. He appeared to have just gotten off of it because he closed it, pocketed it, and then reached up into the cabinet for a clean glass.
They all watched him pour water from the faucet and turn around to lean back against the sink as he took a casual sip. His long legs were crossed at the ankles, his stature completely relaxed, awake, and anything but tired. His gray eyes twinkled.
Beatrice shook her head. “No’ bloody likely. We’re waitin’ for Jackie.”
“Yeah,” Clara agreed, stifling yet another yawn. “We’ll wait for da’ to get back.”
Annabelle rubbed the back of her neck, then folded her arms on the table and laid her head down on top of them. She still had a headache from earlier and had only just been able to stop herself from digging into her backpack’s stash of Vicodin for the pain.
“Crap, I shouldn’t have eaten. Now I’ll never be able to stay awake.” Cassie muttered under her breath and joined Annabelle in laying her head down. Annabelle moved her head to glance over at her and then glanced up at Dylan, who sagged further down in his chair.
The boy didn’t say anything, but when he ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his red eyes, Annabelle knew he was on the same wave-length as her friend.
“Bloody traitors,” Clara accused softly, without rancor.
“Oh, what’s the use, dear? Let’s grab some zeds for a few yonks, eh?” Beatrice stood, patting her daughter gently on the arm. Clara blew out a sigh and pushed back her chair, standing as well. They both dragged their feet as they left the kitchen and headed down the hallway toward one of the two rooms in the apartment.
Annabelle raised her head to watch them go. One room down. One room left. Four tired people. She glanced over at Sam to find him watching her. His steady gaze inexplicably caused a shiver to run up her spine.
“Cold?” He asked.
She blinked. Hadn’t Jack asked something like that just recently? Her thoughts were all jumbled. She couldn’t really remember.
She shook her head.
He smiled, took another drink of his water, and then, as if he had been reading her mind, he said, “Other room’s mine, darlin’, but you’re welcome to bed down in it. There’s a daybed in there too. I’ll take the couch.” He put the glass of water down on the sink beside him and crossed his arms over his chest.
She looked over at Cassie, who seemed to be nodding off right there at the table. She nudged her friend.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hmm,” was the half-asleep reply.
“Down the hall, Rip Van Winkle,” she urged gently. “Second door on the left. You and Dylan go take a nap.” She patted her friend’s arm, as Beatrice had done with her daughter.
Cassie nodded against her arms and slowly stood, half-opening her eyes in time to step around her chair and head like a zombie down the dimly lit hallway. Dylan pushed up and followed her without a word. The boy was dead on his feet.
Annabelle watched Cassie disappear into the darkness at the first door on the left – and then come back out, mumbling something derogatory under her breath about men and toilet lids. She almost stumbled into Dylan on the way back out, as he had stopped when she’d gone in and now stood swaying on his feet, waiting. Cassie turned and trudged further on to the second door on the left. Dylan followed, his shoes dragging on the carpet.
They headed in, one after the other. After a few seconds, Annabelle heard the door close.
And she was alone with Samuel Price.
Jack smiled behind the rim of his glass of Scotch on the rocks. The drink was his third. Or, at least Dr. Beckman would have sworn it was. In truth, Jack hadn’t had a single sip. He didn’t drink, and tonight was no exception.
But it was important that James Beckman believed otherwise.
“You’re bloody pulling my wanker,” he laughed into the drink, shaking his head in mock disbelief.
“No! I tell you, it really happened!” Beckman insisted, laughing heartily. “And then the asshole had the nerve to come back in to work the next day as if nothing happened!” He slammed his hand down on the table, leaning forward as he roared with more laughter. Jack met the man’s laughter with chuckles of his own, calling the waitress over as he appeared to finish off another drink.