The dark-haired woman was at their table in a flash, obviously drawn to the potential tip that Jack’s dress and manner practically screamed. Dr. Beckman wasn’t dressed shabbily either. The waitress’s expression was eager.
“Another round, please,” Dr. Beckman requested, giving the girl a friendly smile.
Jack watched the waitress smile back and saunter off toward the bar. One thing he could say about James Beckman was that the man was not a mean drunk. He was on his fifth Bourbon and had yet to slur his speech. But Jack was good at reading people. There was a tell-tale brightness to Beckman’s eyes, as well as a slight lean to his posture.
The man was sloshed. Jack wondered just how much practice the good doctor had had at hiding his intoxication.
Without allowing Beckman to notice the movement, Jack stole a glance at his watch. Just a few more minutes and the drug would kick in.
It had been created by Central Intelligence twenty-two years ago. A liquid that could be both injected and ingested. In either instance, the victim would become extremely susceptible to suggestion. However, it did not ensure docility. A hostile prisoner could fight the drug, and sometimes did so effectively.
So, its users learned to mix it with either tranquilizers or alcohol for the desired effect of submissiveness and obedience. It wasn’t perfect, but it had its uses.
Jack watched Beckman carefully, which the doctor no longer noticed, as his senses were blunted and his perception of reality was steadily becoming blurred. Two minutes passed, and Jack knew the exact moment that the drug had entered Beckman’s blood stream and was fed to his brain cells.
He took a nonchalant but entirely fake swig of his fourth drink and casually scanned the room as he addressed the man across the table. “It’s too bad about that incident with Craig Brandt. It cost the school sorely. I’m hoping to make up for some of the loss you experienced.” He swirled the ice in the glass, allowing an easy, apparently drunk smile to caress his lips.
He could feel Beckman’s eyes on him, but his façade remained unruffled. “If only I’d known more about it at the time – I’ve got friends in low places, James.” He shook his head in self-admonishment. “They’re bloody pains in the neck, but they have their uses, if you know what I mean.” He grinned over at Beckman.
The doctor leaned forward across the table and leveled his gaze on Jack. He wobbled only slightly as he hissed, “I bloody well do know what you mean, Jack. I had to use a number of those sons of bitches to cover up the whole goddamned disaster at the time.”
“No doubt,” Jack urged, nodding.
“That Brandt fellow royally fucked us over. Going to work for some criminal drug lab while he was a student at the school.” He shook his head, taking another drink of his Bourbon. His teeth smacked against the glass as his aim wavered a little, but he must not have felt it because, after swallowing, he continued. “Can’t friggin’ remember what it was… Something like meth maybe…”
Jack watched him search his memory.
“Real big at the time, like meth is now. But had a happy name-”
“Ecstasy.” Jack supplied.
“Yes! That was it. Mother fucker got himself into a real shit hole of a mess.” His voice was very low now, as if to make up for the foul language. “Must’ve taken the drug lab home with him one day because the whole goddamned apartment in his complex was blown to smithereens!”
Jack’s gaze narrowed.
Beckman was on a role now. He went on. “Couldn’t have the whole world knowing that our best and brightest were using their medical training to make and sell drugs under our noses.” He finished off his drink and barely managed not to slam the glass down on the table. “So, I had it covered up. Cost me a fucking fortune.” His expression became grim and his color paled a little. “Paid for it out of pocket.”
Jack digested the information. The cover up involving Craig Brandt went a hell of a lot deeper than even Dr. Beckman knew. If he was telling the truth – and Jack knew that he was – then, as far as the doctor was concerned, Brandt had been involved in illegal activity that had gotten dangerously out of hand.
The truth, however, was far more sinister.
Jack pulled out his wallet and threw a couple of hundreds down onto the table. Beckman stared absently down at them.
“You did the right thing, James. The reputation of the school is too important to allow something like that to shame it.”
Beckman nodded. His gaze was growing distant.
Jack smiled to himself and stood. “Have your secretary contact my office and we’ll set up an account for a deposit,” Jack continued. When Beckman nodded once more, figuring that sounded about right, Jack knew the doctor was gone.
He leaned down and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, drawing his attention. Beckman looked into Jack’s eyes and was captured in that intense gaze. “Have someone else drive you home, James.” He spoke the words as a gentle command. “Understand?”
The doctor nodded, but blinked, indicating that he comprehended and would do as told.
Jack straightened. With one last glance around the emptying bar, he pocketed the set of keys he’d taken out of Beckman’s jacket and left the building.
“So, what’s the deal with the old gun Jack has?” Annabelle asked, by way of somewhat nervous conversation.
Sam’s smile never wavered. “The ‘old gun’ is a Kongsberg Colt. Happens to be worth a lot of money.”
“What did he mean when he said you were ‘proving him wrong’?” Annabelle asked, ignoring the jab.
Sam hesitated before answering. He chewed on his cheek a moment and then lowered his head. “Jack and I had a running bet. He didn’t think I could get my hands on the gun, and I was pretty sure that I could.”
Annabelle’s brow furrowed. She didn’t understand, but she wasn’t going to admit this to Sam. It just didn’t make any sense, though. Jack and Sam were both very wealthy men with tons of connections. If either of them wanted an antique gun, all they would have to do is come up with the money and go to eBay or something. What could be so difficult about getting this weapon that Jack honestly didn’t think Sam could do it?
And then she remembered something. An image flashed before her mind’s eye. A No. 2 – engraved on the blued slide of the Colt.
“What does the number two stand for?” she asked then.
Sam’s smile disappeared. His gray eyes fixed on hers. She was desperately tired, but she was proud of herself when she found that she didn’t look away.
After a while, his smile slowly returned. He regarded her, then, as if she’d earned herself a smidgeon of respect in his eyes.
“It stands for exactly what it says, darlin’,” he told her. “It was number two. The second of its kind to come off of the line. Decades ago, the weapon went missing from a display case in a museum.”
Annabelle blinked. “And now Jack has it.”
Sam grinned. “Yep.”
Annabelle had all of three seconds to consider this bit of information before the front door knob jiggled.
Sam pushed away from the sink, pulling a gun from his jeans waist band at the small of his back. Annabelle stood and Sam was instantly in front of her, moving toward the living room. They made their way into the room as Jack opened the door to find Sam’s gun pointed at his head. He glanced at it only momentarily, hardly phased, and then was pulling a set of keys out of his jacket pocket and heading for the living room lounge set.
Sam put his gun back in the waist band of his pants. Jack threw the keys onto the coffee table and had a seat in the love seat facing them.
Annabelle stared at him in wonder. He was no longer wearing his Armani suit. Instead, he was dressed in leather riding gear, from the black skull cap holding back his blonde waves to his black jacket and gauntlet gloves, to the black chaps over his jeans and, finally, a pair of sturdy black riding boots with tough, gripping tread.