Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series)

by Spain, Shirley

  Reaching for her hand, he took it up, kissing it.

  Jewels didn’t shrink away.

  Still holding her hand, Cooman doted, ”Miz Andrasy, you’re beautiful. Stunningly beautiful.”

  She felt her cheeks radiating red. Thank goodness for poor lighting. Jewels blushed easily. More easily than most. It was something she had never been able to control. One of the few things she was self-conscious about.

  “Please. Call me, Julia.” she said, nervously flashing a shy Princess Di look, while feeling him slowly undress her with his eyes.

  “I now see, even more clearly, why he has chosen you.”

  Chosen? Jewels had no idea what Cooman was talking about. But made a mental note of it for further exploration later in the evening when they talked.

  Watters, who was standing witness up until then, apparently decided it was time for him to leave. “Uh. General? I’ll leave you two alone, now. Let me know if—”

  “Go. Go,” Cooman quickly interrupted, his hand waving a good riddance to Watters. “Oh, one more thing...,” he called out causing Marshall to halt in his tracks, “be sure to clean up her cell.”

  “Already planned on it, Sir,” Marshall responded, disappearing into the hall.

  “Maid service?” Jewels asked, her tone playful.

  Grinning, “Not quite, though I like maid service better than shakedown.”

  “Shakedown?”

  “For various, and perhaps even obvious reasons, our guests are restricted access to anything that could be used to inflict harm to self or another. Not even a toothbrush is permitted,” Cooman explained, sliding out one of the chairs and motioning for Jewels to sit.

  Puzzlement on her face, “You’re taking away my toothbrush?” she asked, having a seat.

  Laughing, “Let’s have dinner, then we’ll talk.”

  Jewels smiled pleasantly. “I’d like that, General.”

  “Please. Call me Rhett.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE NO-FRILLS, stick-to-your-ribs pot roast and baked potato meal was a welcome addition to Jewels’ stomach. Eating so much for dinner, she regretfully had to decline dessert: strawberry cheesecake. One of her favorites.

  Dabbing her mouth with the napkin, she tossed it on her vacant plate. “The meal was lovely and very delicious. Thank you, Rhett.”

  “My pleasure, Swee—” he caught himself, “Julia.”

  Leaning back in the chair and crossing her legs at the knees, she passed him a look implying it was time to ante up to his end of the bargain.

  Cooman dropped his napkin on the empty dinner plate, picked up the small remote next to his goblet and clicked it to kill the mood music, then rested his back in the chair. “Okay. What do you want to know?” he asked, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Contrary to what she had hoped, his folded arms read as a sign he could be guarded during their conversation. Was all this pretending to be the perfect dinner guest for not? Unable to shake the sinking feeling it probably was, she pressed on anyway. “How about we start at the beginning ... at least where this began for me yesterday?” Pausing for a moment, she stroked the soda-filled water goblet then further refined her question. “Sharon Jeppson. Tell me about Sharon.”

  “Not much to tell, really. Came to SPOF with her boyfriend. Stayed with us for a couple of years, then....”

  Shrugged shoulders finished the sentence for him.

  “Then? What?” Leaning forward, she continued, “She wanted out so you had her killed?”

  Dark green eyes compressing, his face hardened as he parked his forearms on the table.

  Jewels sensed she was about to see the other side of this man who had been so nice, almost too nice, so far.

  “No,” Cooman responded indignantly. “We discovered she was going to tell the U.S. Government about our plans. That’s high treason. A crime punishable by death.”

  “She contacted me, not the Feds,” Jewels offered argumentatively.

  Coldly: “You don’t know that.”

  Realizing her interview could be cut short if she pressed too hard, she changed the subject. “Exactly what is the mission of SPOF?”

  Leaning back in his chair, his hands rested in his lap. “The world knows us as Jefferson’s Warriors.”

  The color in Jewels’ face drained. Her lips gaped.

  The stark horror of her predicament fell into place. She was in deep trouble. Real deep.

  Cooman, not sensitive to Jewels’ reaction, continued as if delivering a sermon, “We’re doing God’s work. Following Thomas Jefferson’s footsteps. Trying to restore our country to the greatness he started. Each of us has taken an oath on our life to remain faithful to SPOF and obedient to our mission to expose the Evil One’s hand, to open the minds of the people of the United States of America, so they can see for themselves the decayed state in which our country now exists.” Sitting up tall, he pounded his fist on the table declaring, “We must get back to the Constitution! We must rid ourselves of the evil forces masquerading under the guise of the United Nations.”

  Bending forward, he lowered his voice, “We aim to expose these conspiracies to the people, who will then join us in taking back our blessed country,” he stated, his tone almost reverent.

  “I’ve followed this story closely—”

  “Yes, we know,” Cooman interrupted, settling back in his chair.

  “The Jefferson’s Warriors I know are the most feared terrorist organization in America—”

  “Militia, not terrorist,” Cooman corrected, waving a finger at her.

  “As you wish. This militia organization claims responsibility for its acts by leaving a thirteen-star

  American flag attached to a wooden flagpole staked in the ground. A copy of the U.S. Constitution with Jefferson’s Warriors scrawled across it in black marker is usually nearby. This so-called trademark has appeared at the sites of all six bombings, including the landing dock of the Seattle Bainbridge Island ferry sunk a few months ago. Most recently, it was found at the police station explosion in Vegas, where thankfully, no one was killed.

  “Collectively these attacks have resulted in nearly a hundred deaths of innocent men, women and children. Yet, in spite of such atrocities, the faces and identities of anyone linked to Jefferson’s Warriors remains a total mystery to law enforcement.”

  A pleasant smile softened Cooman’s face. His eyes appeared enthralled. Body relaxed.

  Her plan might be working after all! “Theories abound,” Jewels continued, her tone professional, facial features controlled, like a TV anchor woman. “Some say Jefferson’s Warriors are everyday people who have everyday jobs, like car mechanics, waitresses, or bankers. This theory claims these so-called ordinary people, who have met each other through church or their child’s school or the Internet, have united to partake in one illegal action. Perpetrate one bombing and stop. Then the next group of everyday, ordinary people perpetrate the next bombing, then stop.”

  Jewels sipped a swallow of Diet Coke from the sweating goblet before proceeding. “Far right wingers espouse Jefferson’s Warriors stink of government. A conspiracy to give cause to abolish the Second Amendment and disarm law-abiding citizens. But the most popular theory is one that has turned Jefferson’s Warriors into a bunch of folk heroes, with many believing because our country is so screwed up, Thomas Jefferson has actually come back from the dead to take matters into his own hands.”

  Cooman sat up straight, his seaweed eyes wide with excitement. “Yes, yes! I’ve heard them all before. And the reason: we are great fans of your paper. Your articles. You.”

  The news reporter in Jewels overpowered her common sense warning she should be more concerned about their fixation with her, than any other detail. Flexing her upper body across the table to position herself closer toward Cooman, Jewels lowered her voice, locked her eyes on his, pressed, “So, Rhett. Tell me, are any of these theories close to the truth?”

  His eyes broke contact with hers to fix on her breasts
.

  Figuring he wasn’t going to respond and very much wanting to redirect his attention away from her boobs, she leaned back and waved a finger. “I must admit, I’m most curious about how Jefferson’s Warriors, the Sovereign Patriots Of Freedom, eluded detection for so long. It seems you must have an insider pretty high up in government.”

  Cooman raised his eyes from her chest, smiling proudly. “Yes. We do have someone very high up looking after us: God. We’re blessed by God and have His help.” Cooman inhaled deeply before adding: “And we take care of our own problems.”

  “Like Sharon?”

  “Yes. Like Sharon.” Cooman made a clucking noise with his tongue and cocked his head, coldly explaining, “She took an oath. Swore on her life. We were just fulfilling our obligation to her oath.”

  “So does that mean no one can ever leave SPOF alive?”

  “You are a smart lady.”

  Jewels’ facial muscles twitched nervously. “What about me? I didn’t take an oath. Does that mean—”

  Quieting her with a motion of his hand, “Your fate lies in the hands, the heart, and the wisdom of our Commander.”

  “Would that be God?”

  Cooman erupted in belly-busting laughter.

  Embarrassed, she longed to be a beetle and crawl under the carpet. Pressing her back against the chair and folding her arms over her chest, she bore the humiliation silently.

  Laughing so hard and so long, tears rained down his cheeks. Finally, he brought his laughter under control and absorbed the tears in the rumpled napkin he scooped up from the used dinner plate. “I apologize, Sweet Cheeks. I thought you knew.”

  Instantly Jewels sat tall, arms dropping to her sides. “Knew? Knew what?” she snapped, resentment in her voice doubly so for letting the Sweet Cheeks comment go uncorrected.

  “That the Commander is a man—flesh and blood—who’s the brains behind the Warriors. He operates freely on the outside. Never comes here.”

  Jewels sensed there was more to it than that. Much more. “And...,” she prompted, anxiously tapping her long fingernails on the table, a perturbed look on her face.

  Shaking his head, Cooman rolled his eyes upward, like he was searching the top of his brain for the proper words; the appropriate words. “Um. How shall I say ... the Commander has chosen you.”

  “Chosen me?” she echoed, remembering Cooman had said something earlier about her being the chosen one.

  “Yeah, Sweet Cheeks. He’s chosen you to be his wife.”

  “Wife?” Jewels voice raised an octave, her eyes seething. “Does this man who has chosen me to be his wife, happen to have a name?”

  “All in good time, Sweet Cheeks. All in good time.” Cooman teetered back in the chair, balancing on the rear two legs.

  Crimping her mouth in annoyance, she was unable to contain herself any longer. “Will you please refrain from calling me Sweet Cheeks.”

  Sneering, he rocked forward in the chair, planting all four legs on the floor. “Okay, Miz Andrasy, I’ve answered plenty of your questions, now it’s your turn to fess up.”

  “What do you mean?” Jewels asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “First, where’s the map Sharon gave you?”

  “Uh, map?” Knowing right away she had failed miserably at pretending she didn’t know what he was talking about, her face burned red.

  “Yes, the handwritten map we know Sharon handed to you at the deli,” he said with a don’t-fuck-with-me tone.

  “It’s someplace safe.”

  “Uh-huh,” he responded in a disbelieving tone. Steepling his fingers, he assumed a judicial expression. “And have you told anyone about it?”

  “No,” she quickly replied, knowing at least until Saturday morning, her answer was absolutely true. She hadn’t told anyone ... yet.

  “Fine,”’ he responded with a long searching look at her face.

  Out of nervous habit Jewels sipped on the goblet of Diet Coke greatly diluted by melted ice.

  Cooman broke the look of suspicion long enough to dip under the table for a moment and came up with a briefcase. “Sure you didn’t tell anyone?” he probed, as if to give her one last chance to tell the truth.

  Knowing full well a poker face was something she never possessed, she swallowed hard. Yet, technically, she was not lying. Convincing herself she should be able to pull this off without a doubt, she flashed an improvised smile. “Please, Rhett, you’ve been honest with me, and I’ve been honest with you.”

  Raising a brow in a suspecting slant, “Really?” he questioned.

  Gulping air, she forced another smile, batting her eyelashes. Could she charm her way out of this one?

  “Then what the hell do you call this?” he snapped, pulling an overnight express delivery envelope from the briefcase and flinging it across the table like a Frisbee. It landed on her empty dinner plate.

  Bolting to her feet, Jewels scooped the opened envelope off the table. Frantically dug inside, hoping not to find the map or the cassette. Both were there. Her heart sank. Had they found the second envelope, too?

  Cooman’s face melted into a mask of pure rage. He fixed his smoldering eyes on her. “Gonna turn us into the fucking F-B-I,” he exploded, bringing his fist down hard on the table when he said “I.” Leaping to his feet, he kicked his chair across the room, hurling it into the stone wall.

  Clutching the envelope to her bosom, she recoiled in fear at his violent outburst. Wide-eyed, she watched the veins pulsate at his temples. Face grow scarlet and pinched. Fists convulse with suppressed fury.

  With a snarl on his thin lips, he zeroed in his eyes on hers, madly stomping toward her.

  Was he going to bitch slap her? Unleash a full-fledge fist pounding? Jewels’ fight or flight instinct lurched into overdrive, urging her first to run and seek cover, then to find an object for use as a weapon. But her vibes—that little voice within her yet to misguide her—told her to not cross General Rhett Cooman.

  In the milliseconds she had to think about it, she realized this former Green Beret could probably kill her with one hand if he wanted to ... especially if she gave him a reason. Following her feelings, and against all logic and otherwise better judgment, she resigned to silent submission rather than countering his aggression with evasive or defensive moves or attempting to talk him down or argue with him.

  For each of his angry strides toward her, she stepped backward, withdrawing until her back hit the corner wall. With nowhere else to retreat, she assumed a submissive posture. Shoulders rounded. Eyes lowered. Arms folded over her chest with the envelope in her clutch, waiting for the beating she believed was sure to come.

  Mere inches from her face, Cooman stood there. The blasts of fury-loaded air shooting through his flared nostrils drowned the panicked pulse roaring in her ears. His onion breath rolled across her face and neck like the stench of an open sewer.

  Instinctively her nose crinkled. Head recoiled.

  After a few seconds of him staring her down, Jewels watched his bunched fists relax. Cautiously, she looked up at him and was about to relax a little herself when suddenly his right hand thrust toward her face.

  In anticipation of being slapped, she winced, pinching eyes shut and turning her head as her hands reactively shot the envelope up in front of her face like a shield.

  Her cowering reaction froze his hand in mid air. “Give me that goddamned envelope.”

  Immediately surrendering the envelope, she maintained a submissive posture. No eye contact.

  Ripping the envelope away from her, he tucked his hands behind is back, assuming an authoritative stance. “Miz Andrasy, you may consider this dinner over.”

  Sheepishly she looked up at him just long enough to send him a tiny, but sincere, smile of gratitude for sparing her from a beating.

  Pointing to the door with his chin, “Shall we go?”

  It wasn’t a question, it was an order. Nodding, she stepped into the dreary hall.

  Quickly approaching her side, he l
ocked a vise grip hand around her left upper arm and stormed down the hall, Jewels in tow. He walked so fast she had to jog to keep pace.

  The barren hallways echoed Cooman’s angry strides and Jewels’ hurried click-clacks of high heels strumming against the stone floor. Occasionally she wheezed in pain, but otherwise remained silent. After a turbulent jaunt, they arrived at her prison cell.

  Flinging open the door, he angrily shoved her inside.

  Stumbling a few steps, she wobbled on the high heels, but maintained her balance. Turning back to face Cooman, she glared, resentment and mistrust radiating from her face.

  Smirking, he stepped nearer.

  Once again she felt his eyes undressing her. Holding her breath, she instinctively crossed her arms over her nearly bare chest while slowly backing away from him.

  “I don’t want the men seeing you like that. Change out of those clothes immediately,” he ordered, stepping backward into the hall vigorously pulling the door shut, locking Jewels inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  FRIDAY, 2330 HOURS. Sitting behind his desk, “Big Bird, this is Little Bird checking in,” General Cooman called over the shortwave radio in his office.

  Seconds later: “How’s Sweet Cheeks, and what the hell happened at her place? Phase One’s a total fuck-up.”

  He sighed. “Sweet Cheeks is fine, Sir. A little bruised and shaken up, but just fine. And the fuck-up? Well, that’s my fault, Sir. Sent Tank.”

  “Bastard whacked Sweet Cheeks’ dog. A gory slice and dice job,” he said with disapproval.

  Snickering, “Well, if it’s any consolation, he got sliced and diced, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Cooman propped his feet up on his desk. “It’s a long story, but in short, Sweet Cheeks escaped from Doc by throwing out a sweet-talk line and he bit. Then she nabbed a scalpel and some scissors and sneaked her way outside. Of course, Tank was there to stop her, but when he put down the AR she went at him with the knife and scissors in hand. Windmilled him good. He’s all slashed up. Severed his brachial artery and carved one helluva slice across his face. But he’ll be fine.”