Suddenly Watters clamped his massive hand over Jewels’ mouth, his face molded into stone. “Enough.”
Jewels blinked with surprise.
Tank blurted out a maniacal cackle. After regaining composure, he slapped an open hand on Watters’ shoulder for a job well done, confessing, “I underestimated you, Watters. You’re good. Fuckin’ masterful. Actually convinced the bitch she could trust you.”
Watters smirked. Raising his hand to his mouth, he folded his fingers and huffed on his nails, then rapidly buffed them against his shoulder gesturing, damn, I’m good, while keeping his other hand firmly locked over Jewels’ mouth.
Embarrassment trampled her heart and soul. How could she have been so stupid? So gullible? Unfortunately, she knew damned well how: Marshall Watters’ handsome face and studly body, that’s how.
“Tank,” Callahan called, motioning with a nod of his head for him to approach Jewels. “To draw the blood I need her right arm. The strap across her shoulder and the one at her waist needs to be released. Will you hold her down while I do that?”
“Be glad to help ya, Doc,” Tank responded with perverted enthusiasm.
Once the straps were loosened, Jewels forcefully contorted her body and jerked her arms launching a valiant, but pitiful, battle for freedom from Tank’s viselike grip that, once again, proved her resistance worthless.
Seconds later Jewels’ right arm was strapped onto a long thin board with the veins from the underside of her elbow exposed for Callahan’s needle. The straps from the gurney were immediately fastened across her shoulders and waist, engulfing her left arm.
Callahan began drawing the blood.
Initiating another futile squirming battle against the restraints, she struggled to voice another plea, but Watters’ thick hand remained an effective gag.
Under the watchful eye of Callahan, the large plastic bag filled. Doc turned his attention to Watters. “Since I’m taking two pints, she’s going to become very weak. Under these circumstances, I think it’s best to keep her here so I can observe her for a few hours.”
“No problem, Doc. You do whatever is necessary to keep her healthy,” Watters returned without emotion.
“Just remember to keep the bitch strapped down,” Tank said to Callahan. Sneering, he added, “And, Doc, don’t be tempted to take Miz Millionaire up on her offer, or I’ll have to visit your daughter.” He scratched his shiny bald head. “Uh, what’s her name? Alexis?”
Callahan’s temples pulsated with rage as he tried to ignore Tank’s comments. Deep inside, he wished he could kill the bastard, but knew even if he did, there would just be another Tank-like character waiting to fill the void. No. Callahan knew he had to remain loyal to SPOF. Anything and everything requested of him, he would do. His daughter’s life depended on it.
The blood retrieval process lasted about fifteen minutes, during which time Jewels’ had physically surrendered to the situation, no longer twisting and turning under the confines of the restraints. Didn’t even put up a fight when Doc removed the needle and repositioned her arm at her side, binding it to the gurney. When Watters finally lifted his hand from her mouth, she remained silent.
Allowing her eyelids to glide shut, she mentally replayed the actions leading to her latest predicament, berating herself for the obvious: the handsome, no-good, dirty rotten scoundrel Marshall Watters had played her for a fool. Tears meandered down her face as she promised herself never to trust Marshall Watters, or anyone else associated with this bunch of crazy militiamen, again ... no matter what her vibes told her. Never again. Never.
Chapter Twenty-Four
SATURDAY, 5:00 A.M. JUST BEFORE DAWN. The FBI helicopter touched down on the temporarily closed highway. FBI Special Agent In Charge Theodore Hines slid out. Dressed in an expensive brown pin-striped suit, yellow silk shirt and red necktie, he looked like he just stepped off the pages of a Harrod’s magazine ad.
Shielding his head with his hands, he ran slightly hunched to buck the whirlwind of the helicopter blades. Seconds later, the chopper departed. Patting down his feathered hair, he straightened his suit.
“Special Agent Hines?” a husky Salt Lake County deputy inquired after jogging out to meet him. In his late twenties and pudgy-faced, he wore a brown and gold deputy uniform. A wide black belt with the standard police-issued equipment sagged under his overflowing belly.
“Yeah. Where is it?” Hines quizzed.
“Over there,” the deputy pointed with his flashlight. “About two-hundred feet down that dirt road. We confirmed the Hummer is registered to Julia Andrasy.”
“Anything inside?” Hines asked, walking rapidly.
The deputy had to occasionally jog a step or two to keep up. “Blood. Lots of blood. On the windshield. All over the seats. On the floor. A real blood bath,” the deputy said, breathing heavily.
“A body?”
“No, Sir. Not in the vehicle or anywhere around it, at least not as far as we’ve been able to ascertain.” Pausing, he added, “Looks like the vehicle hit something somewhere else, though. The driver’s air bag has been deployed and the front end’s pretty banged up.”
“A deer?”
“No. Don’t think so, Sir. Didn’t see any blood or hair, which is usually easily seen with the naked eye when an animal is hit. I’m sure your CSI’s will be able to tell you more once they check it out at your lab.”
“Thank you, Deputy. I can take it from here.” Hines dismissed the officer with a nod of his head.
The burgundy metallic Alpha Wagon was parked in the middle of one of the dirt ranch roads that branched off the rural highway.
Telephone poles, tumbleweeds, and sporadically scattered tufts of sage brush surrounding the earthen road glowed in a salmon hue as the first rays of the morning sun peeked over the mountain.
With flashlight in hand, Hines surveyed the vehicle. Reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief, he covered his hand before opening the driver side door and peering inside.
Blood was smeared all over the windshield, extra heavy on the passenger side, looking like a gruesome finger painting Charles Manson might have been inspired to create. Vital fluid dripped down the back rest, gathering in a thick, sticky pool on the passenger front seat. Crimson blobs splattered the passenger door, dash, and console. The driver side was saturated with blood as well.
“Fuck. A goddamned blood bath,” he mumbled, covering his mouth with the handkerchief to filter out the sickening odor of the coagulating juice of life. Carefully leaning over the seat to inspect what appeared to be a mutilated women’s T-shirt, the distant sound of a helicopter approaching startled him, made him rear back, touch his body against the blood-streaked interior of the open door. Leaping away like he had been electrocuted, he inspected his suit. “Goddammit!” A small amount of blood had transferred to his suit coat and pants. Unacceptable! But he had more pressing issues to deal with, like that helicopter.
Scanning the sky for a sign of the aircraft, he sprinted toward the county deputies and waved wildly. “I don’t want fucking reporters around here,” he yelled.
“Sir,” a deputy called back to Hines. “The rest of your team,” he said, pointing to the incoming helicopter.
“What the fuck?” Hines growled. No one from his team was expected. Jogging to meet the helicopter as it landed, he intended to ward-off the unwanted assistance.
The black unmarked aircraft touched down on the temporarily closed highway. Three men wearing black suits, white shirts, and black ties exited.
With folded arms, he waited for the men in black to approach him. When they were within earshot, he held out his FBI badge at arm’s length and announced, “Excuse me, guys. This is a restricted area. FBI investigation.”
“Special Agent Hines,” the tall clean-shaven man, who had the air of a mafia hitman about him, coolly surmised. “This investigation is now under our jurisdiction,” he stated, fishing in his jacket pocket for credentials.
“And who the fuck are you?” Hine
s asked venomously.
Flashing his photo ID, “Lieutenant Commander Warren Bradshaw, Militia Threat Assessment Force.”
Hines scrutinized the man’s identification. “This is bullshit.”
Flipping closed his identification and stuffing it in his suit pocket, Bradshaw flashed a superior grin. “We report directly to the President of the United States. So unless you want to be reassigned to a file clerk position, I suggest you gather your FBI credentials and vacate the area. We’ve already got a man at your office gathering your hard copy notes and computer files. If we need anything else, we’ll call you,” he stated, folding his arms across his chest.
Hines’ face flushed with indignation. Fists balled into white knuckles. “Fuck this bullshit.” Turning to one of the Salt Lake County deputies on the scene, “Give me a ride to Salt Lake and double-time it,” Hines demanded, stomping toward a county cruiser.
The MTAF agent raised a battery operated megaphone to his lips. “Attention officers. Please return to your vehicles. Keep the highway closed and remain in your vehicles for further orders. If you are not involved in the road closure, you are dismissed. Thank you.”
Hines sat in the front seat of the cruiser, waiting for the officer who was yammering to a fellow deputy across the roadway. A sly grin skimmed his otherwise stressed face. “They don’t have the map. Won’t get the map,” he said, patting his jacket pocket where the placemat was stored.
His grin widened and face relaxed as he recalled MTAF’s zero-contact media policy. They were a secretive organization who relied on other federal agencies to make nice with the media. MTAF simply didn’t hold press conferences or issue press releases. Information was dispensed to the public, usually by the agency who had lost the case, and always at the agency’s earliest convenience. In this case, it meant FBI Special Agent In Charge Theodore Hines would determine the specifics doled out to the media.
“As far as the world is concerned, I’m still in charge of Jewels’ case,” he said, with a maniacal cackle. The public wouldn’t learned of the MTAF’s involvement until tomorrow. At the earliest.
Chapter Twenty-Five
SATURDAY, 0537 HOURS. “We only get one shot to defect,” the leader whispered to the three men huddled in a tight circle just inside the door of one of the empty cells. “The bitch of it is, with Julia already here, the risks are even greater and the timetable for us to take action has just been moved up.”
“Let’s take her with us,” suggested the man keeping an eye out in the hall as lookout.
The leader sneered. “I thought about it, but—”
“Come on, we deserve a play thing,” another man added, waving his brows.
The group served up guarded chuckles.
The lookout gazed into the hall. Still all clear and quiet.
“Forget, it. Not only will she slow us down, but I guarantee the Commander will be relentless in his pursuit of us, just to get her back ... and you know the kind of resources he has, not to mention his one-track mind.”
The men wagged their head in somber agreement.
One of the men cleared his throat. “Okay, when do we do this?”
“Before the Commander gets here.”
Eyes widened in the group. “That would be today,” one man blurted out. “Shit. I’m not sure we’re ready.”
The leader shrugged. “Ready or not, if we’re gonna do this, we gotta do it today. We’ll have to force a distraction.”
“Huh? A distraction? What kind of distraction?”
“Leave it to me,” the leader said with a sly grin.
“How will we know?”
“Oh, you’ll know. It will be obvious,” he said confidently, turning on his heel and slithering out the prison cell door.
Chapter Twenty-Six
SATURDAY, 0700 HOURS. TAP-TAP “How about a warm shower?” Watters cheerily asked, popping his head around the edge of the cell door he had just opened.
Jewels was awake, had been most of the night since the vampires stole her blood then had the gall to return her to the prison cell and advise her to “get some sleep.” Right. Like that was going to happen. Sitting on the bed and leaning against the corner of the wall, her knees were tucked up under her chin. Ruminating, her eyes were fixed on an odd colored stone in the ceiling at the far corner of the cell.
Watters’ voice only stirred her to a single blink of the eyes. Jewels was angry. Pissed royally. Not so much at
Watters or any of the other deviants in SPOF, but at herself for choosing to trust him. What a fool. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
Approaching Jewels reservedly, he stood at the foot of the bed. “I’m sure you’d like to freshen up and take a hot shower.”
She glared monstrously at him.
“No ulterior motives ... I promise,” he said with a full throttle smile, blatantly attempting to charm her.
“Fuck you,” Jewels snarled, eyes seething.
Raising his eyebrows, he recoiled in surprise. “Whoa-ho, Miz Andrasy. Mighty heavy words for a lady who supposedly doesn’t swear.”
“Fuck you,” she snapped again, squinted eyes staring fiercely back at him.
Watters sucked in a deep deliberate breath, easing onto the edge of the bed.
Black panic choked her body as images of his speculated heinous intent invaded her mind. With wide eyes darting about and short fast breaths, she nervously compressed her body into the wall to further distance herself from him.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured.
Disregarding his words and convinced he harbored some diabolical scheme, she lurched off the bed, bolting toward the open cell door.
Almost instantly he snatched her forearm, whipping her butt back down on the mattress. “Wait,” he said, his voice calm.
Despite his intense hold practically crushing her arm, the sincerity in his tone compelled her to bridle her instinct for survival which was screaming DEFCON ONE. “I’m sorry. Truly. I am sorry. There was nothing I could do this morning.”
“Riiight,” Jewels responded sarcastically, yanking her arm free from his grip. Crimping her lips and fixing her eyes at the floor, she massaged her paining arm.
“You have every right to be upset over the blood collection episode. But you must admit, you weren’t hurt. Nothing really happened.”
The audacity of him to say such a thing! Wrinkling her forehead in simmering anger, she continued to stare at the ground.
Gently laying his hands on her shoulders and turning her toward him, he tapped a finger under her chin, lifting her head to gaze in her eyes. “As God as my judge, I promise you, when it comes down to something really important, you can count on me to help you, Jewels,” he said, emphasizing the name by which only her friends call her.
“Hmph. You’re after the money,” she responded acidly, jerking her head away from his fingertip and tightly folding her arms over her chest.
Watters rocketed into a standing position, clenched his teeth and balled his hands into white-knuckled fists. “No, Julia. I don’t want your damn money.”
Studying him, confusion swamped her mind and heart. No matter how hard she worked to maintain it, the emotional wall she had tried to build to keep him away was rapidly crumbling.
Watters rubbed the back of his neck. Regret for coming across so harshly absorbed his tough-guy exterior. After a moment he dropped to his knees, taking up her hand. “I want you to know that you can trust me.”
Never having felt so drawn to anyone—save Robert—as she was right now to Marshall Watters, Jewels’ mind was a jumbled mess. And her vibes, those damned vibes, were once again urging her to trust him. Trust him! Finally she softly uttered, “I want to believe you, but—”
“Then do,” he whispered, gently placing his index finger over her lips.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE LONG HOT SHOWER had felt good. Marshall Watters had told the truth. No ulterior motive. Just a refreshing shower and clean clothes; woodland green
camos, several sizes too large. And this time, her very own pair of jack boots were included with the ensemble ... of course, at least two sizes too big and without laces. Apparently shoelaces, along with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and hand towel, were among the forbidden items for SPOF guests.
Having returned to her cell about an hour ago, she glanced at her watch: 8:00 a.m. A smile of satisfaction blossomed on Jewels’ face as she plopped onto the bed. Within two hours her remaining overnight-shipped envelope would be delivered to Jodie Clarkston, who would surely mount a rescue operation. And with any luck at all, by eight o’clock tonight, she would be lounging in the comfort of her own home.
Remembering the day was Saturday, her positive thoughts for a speedy rescue flickered. It was possible Sheriff Clarkston would not be in her office until Monday morning. If that was the case, then she wouldn’t get the map and the tape recording in time to rescue her before the Commander took possession of her later today.
Crashing onto her back on the bed, knees bent, feet flat against the mattress, she stared at the rock ceiling, casually twirling strands of her long hair around her pointer finger, mentally plugging away at keeping hope alive. Marshall Watters could be her secret weapon. When it was really important he said he would help her. Would Marshall consider the Commander’s taking possession of her to be one of those really important times? Regardless of what her vibes were telling her, the voice of reason supplanted hope with skepticism. “Better not put all your eggs in the Marshall Watters’ basket,” she advised herself.
The jingling of keys outside her cell door fractured her course of thought. “Marshall?” she quizzed, leaping to her feet. An undeniable thrill teased her emotions in anticipation of seeing him again.
Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) Page 21
