Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series)

by Spain, Shirley

  Laughing, “Sorry, been busy. What can I do ya for?” he teased.

  Pacing the floor of his penthouse, “I want to know what you know about Julia Andrasy’s disappearance,” he said, his voice stern.

  “What? You think because you made a killing in the stockmarket and are now a big-time multi-millionaire you’re entitled to anything and everything, including classified information? Are you trying to buy me, Dyson?”

  “Knock it off. You know this has nothing to do with money and everything to do with camaraderie.”

  “More like your dick,” he corrected with a raunchy laugh, adding, “And you’re shamelessly playing the old Navy SEALs mentor card.”

  Dyson grunted, continued pacing. “Whatever it takes. Now are you going to tell me, or not?”

  He sighed. “Fine, but you owe me. Big time.”

  “Name your price.”

  “I’ll call you for a favor one day, how’s that?”

  “Agreed. Now what do you know.”

  Lowering his voice, “She’s been taken.”

  “For godsakes, man, the whole world knows that!”

  Clearing his throat, “She’s alive,” he whispered.

  Dyson perked up. Ceased pacing. “And?”

  “And, have a delightful twenty-four,” he said, his voice at conversation level before disconnecting the call.

  “Fuck!” He knew the drill: the waiting game. Plans were set in motion. The next twenty-four hours were critical. He wondered about Jewels. Was she drugged? Tied up? Would she be happy and surprised to see him?

  Chapter Nineteen

  FRIDAY, 1612 HOURS. Head pounding. Ribs aching. Arms throbbing. Jewels awakened to feel pain just about everywhere. Even her cheeks hurt.

  The wool blanket under her body felt rough and scratchy like a man’s two-day stubble against her aching skin. Lying on a bed butted up to a corner and facing a damp stone and mortar wall proved to be a quick reminder of where she was: the underground SPOF compound.

  To better survey her surroundings, she rolled onto her back. The fact she was able to turn was a relief. The good news: she wasn’t bound to the bed. The bad news: her hands were restrained behind her back.

  A snarl of agony spread over her face as she ab-crunched herself into an upright position. Sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment, she waited for the room to stop twirling. When her surroundings stilled, it became obvious she wasn’t in one of Doc Callahan’s brightly lit and clean medical rooms, but rather in what appeared to be a dreary prison cell.

  The ten-foot-by-ten-foot windowless room had little to boast. Trickles of water dripped down the corners of the rock walls, like a cave, and smelled like an old damp cellar. The bathroom area was open to the room with a toilet in the corner and a small stainless sink next to it. Screwed to the wall, directly above the sink, was a metal reflecting square: the prison version of a mirror.

  On the opposite wall, a twin sized bed with a heavy duty pipe-like headboard and footboard was fixed to the cement floor. Near the foot of the bed in the opposite corner, a rust-spotted gray metal door with no window and no inside handle. Obviously the only exit. A single sixty-watt light bulb, encased in a protective metal cage, dangled from the eight-foot stone ceiling in the center of the room.

  Aside from the occasional drip of water leaking from the corners of the ceilings, only the methodical thumping of her own heart interrupted the mausoleum-like silence.

  Her fingers were cold and numb and her shoulders ached from her hands being restrained behind her back. After a few moments of grinding her wrists against the metal shackles in a struggle for freedom, it was apparent handcuffs were relentless and unforgiving. That’s when she decided to get her hands in front of her body. Not only for comfort and increased mobility, but for the ability to defend herself or rally an escape should the opportunity arise.

  Having never been handcuffed before, the only exposure she had was from TV cop shows and movies where the suspect seemed to easily slip his hands from behind his back. “Okay, here we go,” she said with a determined sigh. While still seated on the edge of the bed, Jewels twisted her body and arms to the side and raised the right cheek of her buttocks, attempting to edge her hands underneath. The wild contorting and straining of her body sent a painful reminder of her aching ribs. Still, she endured the misery and wiggled around a bit more, trying to force her hands to clear her butt. A few failed attempts proved she must be going about this the wrong way.

  “Stand up,” Jewels told herself, breathing heavily. Rising to her feet she swayed. Stumbled. Fell back onto the bed. The cot springs creaked. She groaned in pain and frustration. The effects of the drug Doc had pumped into her had not fully worn off.

  After lying there for a few minutes to catch her breath, she sat up and rose to her feet again. Though still a bit unsteady, she maintained the standing position. Once confident she wasn’t going to crash back onto the cot again, she closed her eyes. Inhaling deeply and exhaling to induce a quiet mental state, she relaxed every muscle in her body, especially focusing on her shoulders. Then visualized success: effortlessly sliding her cuffed hands over her butt, down her legs to her ankles and simply stepping her feet behind her bound wrists. Her face flushed with happiness at the imagined results. Jewels opened her eyes. “Okay, here we go for real.” And almost as smoothly as she had imagined, her shackled hands slipped to the front of her body.

  “Ahhh,” she sighed in relief, stretching her arms high above her head and arching her back, popping and cracking her shoulder joints and spine. Aching ribs aside, she felt pretty good ... maybe it was the aftereffects of Doc’s drug.

  “Time to check the damage,” she said with a hint of hesitation, though determined strides carried her to the sink and imitation mirror. Gasping, she stared at the image reflected in metal. Her face was clean. Hair neatly gathered into a ponytail riding high at the crown of her head.

  Rotating her head from side to side, she inspected her cheeks for possible damage. None. Pushing her bangs up her forehead, a narrow adhesive bandage was revealed. “Hmm. Must be from the wreck,” she muttered. Other than that, her features were unmarred. And frankly, she didn’t look half bad, considering all she had been through. Of course the enhancements of permanent eyeliner and eyelash extensions helped immensely. Basically, all she was missing was lipstick. And a shower. And fresh clothes ... clothes! Her blue jeans were gone.

  Besides wearing a fresh three-sizes-too-big T-shirt identical to the one Doc Callahan had given her earlier, she was now dressed in a pair of camo army pants, the kind with pockets on the sides of the legs. Though the pants were big, they weren’t so large that they fell off when she walked. Good thing, because there was no belt.

  Jewels forehead crimped in puzzlement. “Wonder why I didn’t notice these pants earlier when I was sliding my hands down my legs?” Shrugging, she answered her own question, “Probably the drugs.” Wiggling her toes she noticed army green wool socks, which scratched like asbestos insulation on her feet. Having never been a fan of anything wool, especially socks, “At least they’re warm,” Jewels said with a sigh.

  With bruising and clothing issues no longer a concern, she decided to freshen up. Cranking the single knob of the faucet, she cupped her hands under the running water, splashing it on her face. Gasping, Jewels stood up tall at the shock of cold water on her skin. If she wasn’t fully coherent before, she was now. With her face dripping in frigid water, she scanned the room for a towel. Saw none, improvised with wadded toilet paper to dab her face dry.

  The slap of footsteps in the hall drew her attention. Sounded like someone was approaching her cell door.

  Dumping the makeshift facial towel in the sink, she sprinted to the door. Code black. Again, the element of surprise was on her side.

  Lacing her fingers together to make a baseball bat with her cuffed hands and crouching at the hinge-less side of the entry, she poised her baseball bat to strike. When the door opened she would burst through swinging.
/>   Though her heart hammered, she slowed her breathing. Listened. Anticipating the precise moment to attack.

  Footsteps stopping.

  Keys jingling.

  Bolt unlocking

  Hinges whining.

  Door opening.

  Like a triggered booby trap, Jewels exploded from the crouching position. With every bit of strength she could muster, she swung her flesh bat at the face of the brick wall of a man in the doorway.

  WHACK! The man was knocked off balance, staggered backward.

  Jewels stabilized, assumed a combat stance, hammered a side kick into his gut.

  “Awwwh,” he gasped, buckling in two.

  Hunkering down, she rammed the side of her shoulder near the edge of his, twisting his body and thrusting him backward, once again off balance. This time, the bruiser hit the floor. Landed hard on his ass. Jewels hurdled over his fallen body.

  Herculean arms clipped her legs.

  She crashed facedown on the cold stone floor, her feet near his head.

  His coal-shovel-sized hand clamped onto her ankle.

  Quickly rotating onto her back, Jewels viciously kicked her feet, clobbering his mighty forearm.

  But he didn’t relent. How was she supposed to know her iron-bodied assailant was a former Navy SEAL who never gave up?

  “Stop it!” he barked, latching his other hand onto her free ankle to thwart her kicking assault.

  Rocketing into a seated position, she maniacally pummelled the man’s head, chest and shoulders with her fists. Purposely she angled her hands to strike with the cuffs, hoping the metal around her wrists would provide devastating impact, similar to that of brass knuckles, to coldcock the bastard.

  “Stop it!” he barked again, plastering his solid body on top of hers to gain control of her flailing arms, slamming them hard in the ground above her head.

  “Get off me!” Jewels demanded, desperately squirming under his hold.

  Keeping her arms firmly planted above her head, he leaped to his feet, then in one swift and powerful move, twisted her onto her stomach, encircled her waist in his arms and hoisted her to a standing position with her back pressed firmly against his chest.

  Frantically Jewels flung her cuffed fists back and upward, hoping to strike his face, but he quickly subdued her efforts, forcing her arms into the anaconda grip he had around her waist.

  “Stop it!” he barked a third time, hefting her back into the cell, her feet dangling in the air a good six-inches off the ground.

  “Put me down,” she screamed, furiously pounding her stocking feet against his tree trunk legs and wildly wiggling her body.

  Moments later he roughly pitched her onto the bed. Her back smashed against rock wall. The impact forced a squeal.

  Stepping to the foot of the bed, he planted his legs wide and folded his thick arms over his chest like an arrogant conqueror.

  Disregarding the pain—and Genghis Khan—she rebounded into a sitting position, scrambling off the bed toward the open door.

  Like a lifeguard hook, his huge arm snared her waist, whipping her body back onto the bed. This time he didn’t give her the chance to run again. Pouncing on her legs, he exerted the force of one massive palm to press her cuffed hands deep into the mattress above her head.

  Wailing in pain, her face contorted in frustration while tussling with the man’s brutal grip. “Get off me, you jack-booted Neanderthal!”

  “Bravo, Sweet Cheeks. Bravo,” a masculine voice with a strong southern drawl cheered from the doorway.

  Silencing her verbal assault, but continuing to squirm, she stretched her neck to see around the brute holding her captive to assess her audience.

  In the doorway stood a medium-framed man, clapping. Appeared middle-aged. Cocoa brown hair sculpted into a flat top. A suntanned face flooded with deep rivers of wrinkles. Seaweed green eyes matched his camo clothes. Thin lips were set in a permanent frown. Jewels thought he looked like a typical jarhead; one of those intimidating, take-no-shit old school Marines. Great. Like that’s just what she needed. Another testosterone-jacked-up jackass to add to her ever-growing cast of heavy-handed assholes involved in her kidnapping.

  Chuckling, he repeated her insult, “Jack-booted Neanderthal. That’s a good one.”

  Watching Jarhead approach, Jewels ceased fighting, but her body remained tense. The stress lines on her brow intensified. His stride was confident. Aura reeked of leadership. Speculating he was the one who had laid claim to her, she inquired, “So, are you the Commander?” Her voice edged with impatience as she gasped to catch her breath.

  Turning to the guard holding her down, “Ohhh. Sweet Cheeks knows about the Commander?”

  The Hercules clone shook his head in disagreement. “Not as much as she thinks she does, Sir,” he coolly replied.

  Angered by them treating her as if she was not trapped in their presence, Jewels hotly spouted, “Excuse me, but I don’t think you know whom you’re dealing with here. My name is Julia Andrasy and I own the New Greensburgh Press. I have many very powerful friends, including friends in the FBI. So you better tell me who you people are and what you want with me.”

  Jarhead hovered at Jewels’ bedside. Eyes narrowing, he scoured her face. “Sit her up, Watters,” he commanded.

  Instantly the muscle man latched onto Jewels’ forearms and yanked her into a sitting position.

  Grimacing in pain, Jewels’ brow furrowed deeply. But like every other encounter with the men associated with SPOF, her misery garnered no relief from the ruthless grasp this powerhouse maintained on her forearms.

  Jarhead bent at the waist to obtain eye to eye contact with Jewels. Scratching his head and squinting his eyes, he pressed his memory. “Let’s see. Five-foot-seven tall. One-hundred-fifteen pounds. Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-three measurements. Bleach bottle blonde. Thirty-four years of age. Born in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania. Married Robert Jay Andrasy fourteen years ago....”

  Straightening, he paced a three foot area in front of her as he continued, “Now widowed. No children. Despite her husband’s death some eighteen months ago, remains faithful to their marriage. A self-made multimillionaire, net worth estimated to exceed four-hundred-thirty-seven million—”

  Perking up, Jewels sat taller. “What? Who the hell are you people?” she brazenly quizzed, glaring monstrously.

  Ceasing to pace, he puffed out his chest as if posturing in a bar fight and wagged a reprimanding finger at her. “Now, now, it’s rude to interrupt,” he stated with a scorching look, his southern drawl accentuating his demeaning tone.

  Defiantly jutting her chin out at him and constricting her eyes to a frigid stare, she curled her lip in aversion. “Well, now, now,” she mocked, “it’s rude, actually creepy, sick and wrong, to collect this kind of information on—”

  “Shut up or I’ll shut you up,” Jarhead yelled ferociously, cocking his hand back as if to strike her.

  Turning her head, she pinched her eyes shut and held her breath, bracing for the blow.

  “Better put a sock in it,” her captor warned, violently jerking her forearms a few times to further emphasize his advice.

  Slightly nodding, Jewels slowly blinked at the guard acknowledging his message was received.

  Clearing his throat, Jarhead resumed pacing, yammering off the details he had memorized of Jewels’ life. “An award-winning, highly respected newspaper journalist. Prides herself on reporting both sides of every story. Loves animals, especially her golden retriever named Boo-Boo Bear...,” he paused, smiled admiringly at Jewels as he rattled on. “Possesses near expert knowledge of guns, particularly handguns. Rarely goes anywhere without carrying a concealed Glock 21, .45 ACP loaded with Hydra-Shok hollow point cartridges....”

  Jewels gulped air. Jarhead was really creeping her out. And his incessant pacing back and forth within a three foot square was driving her nuts.

  “Owns an impressive collection of fully automatic weapons, one of her favorites being the belt-fed MG-42.
Favorite vehicle is her custom H1 Humvee Alpha Wagon. Sometimes drives a Ferrari, and has been known to push it in excess of one-hundred-twenty miles per hour....”

  Hanging her head, overwhelmed, Jewels felt like an unwilling guest on a hellish version of “This Is Your Life.”

  And the rambling continued. As did the pacing.

  “Vices include a heavy addiction to Diet Coke, fountain style preferred, and chocolate covered chocolate cake donuts. Doesn’t smoke. Drinks alcoholic beverages sparingly. Is an accomplished horse woman, even considers herself a cowgirl at times. Feels most comfortable wearing Rocky Mountain jeans, a V-neck T-shirt and Skechers athletic shoes.”

  Jewels didn’t know how much more of this verbal violation of her intimate life she could endure in addition to the muscle man who was squeezing her arms so tightly she had lost the circulation in her fingers.

  “Secretary’s name is Belinda Parker—”

  “Please, stop,” Jewels softly begged, choking back the tears, her heart spasming with fright. She felt sick. Weak. Faint. Her body started to collapse back toward the mattress, but the strapping man readjusted his viselike grip on her forearms, forcing her to remain sitting up.

  Jarhead ceased pacing. Bending over to face her, he planted his hands on his knees like a coach about to bestow critical advice. “Yes, Julia Andrasy, who only the closest of friends call Jewels, we do know who you are and we know all about your FBI friends.”

  Jewels remained speechless. Slowly blinked at him. Stunned. How did they know so much about her? And why?

  Straightening, Jarhead thrust his hands on his hips, sucked in a deep breath. “Now just to prove to you we’re not all jack-booted Neanderthals, I’m going to take those handcuffs off you.”

  The guard shot a confused look at Jarhead, shaking his head in disagreement that she should be released from the cuffs.

  Paying no attention to the guard’s input, Jarhead continued addressing Jewels. “But it’s important you understand, Sweet Cheeks, you must act like the perfect, well-mannered lady we know you are. That means no hitting. No kicking. No biting. Do you understand?”