Glaring, “You always were a no-good trouble-making wench,” he interrupted with a snarl.
Blinking wildly, Jewels didn’t believe her ears. Shaking her head, “You don’t mean tha—”
“Get this fucking tart away from me,” he barked to the guards, who instantly snatched Jewels by the arms, roughly toting her across the room, back to Marshall.
Everyone but Jewels realized Kirk was actually trying to protect her. By distancing himself, he hoped they could not use him as leverage to coerce her into agreeing to do God-only-knows-what.
Back under the control of Marshall’s firm grasp above her right elbow, she buried her face in her hands and softly sobbed.
“Secure him,” Cooman ordered, nodding toward the prisoner.
The guard jerked the pulley rope, forcing Kirk’s arms upward. In reactive response to the pain, he bent his body forward so his torso was parallel with the floor. Groans of suppressed misery escaped between his ground teeth.
The guard watched Cooman, who nodded for him to proceed to the next level. The guard yanked on the rope.
“Aaawwwwh, God,” Kirk moaned in torturous pain, raising up on his tiptoes.
“No! Please stop, Rhett,” Jewels begged.
Cooman nodded at the guard to tie-off the pulley, leaving Kirk in the painful position, but not yet to the point of dislocating his shoulders. Turning to Jewels, “Who is this guy to you anyway?” he asked, curiosity in his voice.
“She’s just a fucking wench. Nothing. A bimbo from high school,” Kirk barked out, a blend of anger and misery in his voice.
Lips quivering, Jewels’ head drooped, eyes focusing on the floor. “He was my boyfriend,” she quietly confessed. Unable to endure watching Kirk be tortured, she raised her head to gaze at Cooman, “Please, don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt him, please,” she said, knowing full well she could never really gouge out Tank’s eyes as Cooman said she must, but perhaps her concession would buy time to save Kirk ... and escape together.
A broad smile parted Cooman’s creviced face. “Very well, Sweet Cheeks. But we’ll see, won’t we?”
Gazing over at Kirk, her eyes locked on his. Jewels silently mouthed, hang in there ... an unintentional pun. A slight smile momentarily parted his tortured face.
“Bring Tank in,” Cooman said. Eyeing Marshall, he gestured with his head for him to usher Jewels to the witness chairs lined up along the wall.
“Let’s have a seat,” Marshall said to Jewels, motioning with his hand toward the folding chairs.
Creating a ruckus, Tank violently combatted the guards dragging him into the disciplinary room. Despite his vigorous resistance, his efforts were pointless and he remained subdued. Jewels relished the sight: her kidnapper was a getting taste of his own medicine. How does it feel, asshole? she wanted to yell, but wisely kept the comment to herself.
Continuing to fight the guards and yell beneath the gag, Tank was slammed on his back onto the thick wooden table, his arms and legs chained spread-eagle.
Terror inched up the back of Jewels’ throat, the blood drained from her face. Was she going to be forced to gouge out his eyes with a hot poker? What would become of Kirk if she refused? Needless to say, what would become of her if she refused?
Doc Callahan entered, sat next to Jewels. The rest of the compound members filed in one at time, filling the seats. The last three men to enter leaned against the wall next to the door. All the seats had been taken. Cooman’s arms were folded over his chest as he remained standing near the edge of the punishment table.
The two guards standing on either side of Kirk
kept their rifles trained on Tank’s chest. The guard who had bound Kirk, strolled over to the fire bowl, stirred the rocks with the poker then raised it up, showing the general the glowing red tip.
Cooman nodded.
The guard set the poker back in the fire bowl and returned to Kirk’s side.
Tensing her body, Jewels shuddered erratically.
Dropping his arms to his side and straightening his body, Cooman addressed the witnesses, “Gentlemen, Lady, we have two deeds of justice about to be executed. First, Gerald, Tank, Whitlock, for the sexual crimes committed against Julia Andrasy is sentenced to have his sight taken by means of a hot poker jabbed in his eyes by his victim, Julia Andrasy. And second, Kirk, Grease Monkey, Kirkland, has been sentenced to the strappado until death for treason.”
“No,” Jewels yelled, leaping to her feet, her hands balled into white-knuckled fists at her side. “You said you wouldn’t hurt—”
“Watters contain her,” Cooman ordered.
“Settle down and sit down, Julia,” Marshall said, rising to his feet and latching onto her left forearm.
Whirling around, her fist plastered Marshall on the side of his face, just below his ear, distracting him long enough for her to break free. Bolting to the fire bowl, she grabbed the red hot poker, waved it in front of Cooman’s face, “Cut him down,” she barked, her eyes wide, wild and hate-filled.
Recoiling from the glowing heat of the fire stoker, Cooman automatically fanned his hands out to his side in surrender. “Whoa, Sweet Cheeks.”
“Now!” she demanded, inching the burning tip closer to his face.
“Cut him loose,” Cooman said, squinting at her like a really pissed off Clint Eastwood character in one of his famous Spaghetti Westerns.
All of a sudden, the two armed guards with the ARs pointed at Tank’s chest, marched to the table. “Hands up, everyone,” the one guard said, scanning the barrel of the rifle around the room, while the other guard liberated Tank from the chains binding him to the torture table.
Jewels’ mouth gaped. What the hell?
Everyone froze, except Tank, who sat up, removed the ball gag and rolled off the torture table toward Jewels. “These things really suck,” he said, tossing the ball gag to the floor near her feet and rotating his jaw as if to stretch out the muscles.
“No shit, Sherlock,” she sassed with a snarl, feeling confident she was untouchable behind the glowing rod.
Tank snickered, sinisterly eyeing her. “Next time, I’ll strap that thing on so tight...,” he said, motioning a quick, violent thrust with his fist, “that I’ll make sure it strangles you.”
Jewels swallowed hard, the red hot poker wobbled in her tremoring hand. Shit! Why did she have to open her trap and really piss him off? Clearly, she wasn’t helping herself.
“Sir,” one of his liberating guards said, shoving a Beretta model 92 in Tank’s hand. “It’s loaded.”
Nodding at the guard, Tank stuffed the semi-auto in the front of his pants. A predatory expression ripened on his face. His big white teeth glistened like hungry fangs under a smile of malicious delight. Eyes shifting back and forth, he surveyed the room, apparently analyzing the situation. His plotting gaze rested on Jewels.
Cautiously backing up toward the door, Jewels waved the poker at Tank. The glow of the tip waning.
Scowling at Tank and thrusting his hands on his hips, “What the hell’s going on?” Cooman asked, his tone edged with demand.
“She was the last straw,” Tank said, motioning toward Jewels. “The oath’s been broken. I’m leaving and so are they,” he said, nodding to the three men who had been guarding Grease Monkey. Eyeing Marshall, “Why don’t you join us, Watters? I know you’ve got issues with this place.”
Staring back at him, Marshall stood in front of the chairs, legs planted wide, arms folded over his chest. Didn’t reply.
“Well, don’t say I didn’t offer,” Tank said with a chuckle.
Inching ever closer to the door, the hot poker in front of her, she eyed Kirk.
Relieved of his bonds he stood erect, rubbing his wrists from the brutal ropes. His face was stony, kill was written all over it, but when his eyes met hers, his features softened. “Thanks, Babe,” he whispered, winking at her.
Tank turned his attention to Jewels, who was about to disappear into the hallway. Stompin
g toward her, “And where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asked, his eyes icy. Jaw set. The diamond solitaire in his ear glistening like a search light seeking a target to destroy.
Spinning on her heel, she leaped into the hallway.
“Gotchya,” he said, snaring her arm and wrenching her back into the disciplinary room.
“Let me go,” she demanded, launching an all out kicking assault while wildly trying to beat his face and body with the iron poker.
Easily, he subdued her, whipped her around in front of him, her neck locked in the crook of his huge arm, the back of her head pressed firmly against his dense chest. He smashed the barrel of the guard’s Beretta F92 semiautomatic handgun into Jewels’ temple.
Reactively her hands landed on Tank’s substantial forearm, automatically dropping the not-so-hot poker. Forced to stand on tiptoe to keep from strangling, she dug her fingernails deep into his skin, attempting to peel the vise of flesh from around her neck. But her efforts proved useless. His arms were thick and solid like legs, strength crushing like the coil of a man-eating serpent.
Marshall and Kirk bolted toward Tank.
“At ease, boys, or I’ll splatter her brains all over these walls,” he said, halting Marshall and Kirk in their tracks. “You’ve got a couple of heroes,” he said to Jewels, crowing a devious laugh while twisting the barrel of the gun into her right temple.
Moaning in pain, she shuddered in dread. The icy steel barrel felt like the dark finger of death.
“Here’s the deal,” Tank said, inching backward toward the door, Jewels in tow in a strangle hold. “Anybody shoots at me or my team, I kill her. Anybody follows me or my team, I kill her. Anybody fuckin’ moves...,” he paused to tilt his head at Watters then at Grease Monkey, “that means you two heroes, I kill her.”
Shifting her body, she squirmed for a position to breathe more easily. Didn’t find one.
Tank constricted his arm, tightening the noose of flesh around her neck.
Frantically clawing at his arm, “Plleeease...,” she begged, her voice cracking. “I - I can’t breathe.”
Watters took a hurried giant step forward.
Tank responded by cocking the hammer on the Beretta.
Watters froze. “Wait. Settle down, Tank,” he pleaded, holding his hands out in front of him signaling stop.
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me to fuckin’ settle down. I said you move, she dies,” he warned, pressing the gun harder into her temple.
Clamping her eyes shut, she gasped, her face warping in agony.
Watters bit his lip. “You’re strangling her, Tank. She can’t breath. Give her some air, Man. For chrissake, just give her a little air,” he pleaded, his voice soft and calm.
Tank didn’t let up. Dragging Jewels to the doorway, he quick peeked into the hallway. Clear. “Let’s go,” he said to the turncoat guards, who jogged out the door. Kirk took a step toward the door as well.
“Not you,” Tank said, turning the Beretta on him and firing at his chest.
Jewels screamed.
Tank maintained his garrote hold.
Kirk stumbled backward clutching his heart, blood leaking between his fingers.
“Killing that whore of yours was my pleasure, as is taking care of you.” Shrugging, “Consider that bullet a mercy killing, which beats the hell out of the days of torment you were destined to endure.”
Tears flowed as Jewels helplessly watched her high school football player boyfriend collapse into a cadaverous heap.
“Cooman! Throw your keys over here,” Tank demanded. The general had keys to every room in the compound. The disciplinary room was never locked. Nevertheless, it had been fitted with a special heavy-duty deadbolt, should the need ever arise to prevent entry or exit.
General Rhett Cooman didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t say a word. Just stared coldly and defiantly at Tank.
Again Tank jammed the gun hard into Jewels’ temple.
Escalated misery blistered Jewels’ face.
“If you don’t want the bitch’s fuckin’ brains all over this wall, you better throw me those goddamned keys. Now!”
“For godsakes, General, throw him the fucking keys,” Marshall beseeched.
Reluctantly, Cooman lobbed the keys toward Tank. They landed on the floor about two feet in front of his toes.
Looking at Callahan seated on the chair closest to the doorway, “Pick ‘em up real slow, Doc, and drop ‘em nice and easy in my hand,” Tank instructed, nodding toward his hand with the gun in it. Keeping an eye on Callahan, Tank twisted his hand palm up to create a little pocket for the keys, while maintaining the barrel of the gun firmly planted in the side of Jewels’ head.
Callahan did exactly as Tank instructed, placing the keys in Tank’s hand.
“Thanks, Doc.”
Doc turned to sit back down. “Not so fast Callahan,” Tank said, freezing Doc in his tracks. Turning his attention to the militiamen, “Now I’m gonna lock you boys in this playroom,” Tank said. Surveying the door, “It shouldn’t take you more than a couple of hours to beat down this solid steel door,” he said with a snicker.
“Now here’s how we’re gonna do it.” Tilting his head at Callahan, Tank explained, “Doc here is going to slowly close the door as I back into the hall. When the door closes all the way, I’ll lock it. Then my team, the bitch and I will be gone.”
“Whatever you want,” Callahan caustically replied.
With Jewels’ neck securely tucked in the crook of his massive arm, gun ground into her head, Tank stepped backward.
The door followed, Callahan pushing it more toward complete closure with each of Tank’s rearward steps. With just inches to go, Tank stopped, poked his head and shoulders in, purposely dragging Jewels in with him. “Remember, I even see one of you fuckers, the bitch dies.”
Whimpering, her eyes met Marshall’s. “Please, help me,” she pitifully solicited, choking back tears, knowing despite her plea, Marshall really couldn’t help her. No doubt if he tried, Tank would probably kill them both.
Pursing his lips, Marshall stood motionless.
“Boo-hoo,” Tank taunted, mocking a tearful face. Locking his beady eyes onto Marshall, he licked Jewels’ cheek with his sloppy tongue.
Cringing, she jerked her head.
Marshall’s balled fists convulsed with rage.
“Say goodbye to the bitch,” Tank crowed with a wicked laugh, disappearing into the hall.
As planned, his team had already vacated the premises to rendezvous at a designated location out of state at a much later date.
Callahan followed with the door. Snapped it shut.
Tank pitched Jewels across the hall.
Crashing into the wall with her shoulder, she managed to clumsily maintain her footing.
Shoving the key in the doorknob, he turn it allowing the teeth to engage the latch, then with one powerful twist of the head, sheared the shank of the key off in the lock.
The milliseconds Tank had consumed to jam the lock was ample time to grant Jewels a head start, though she had no idea where she was going ... just away from Tank as fast a possible. And, with any luck, maybe even out the door and into the woods toward freedom. Rushing down the hall, the big combat boots echoed an attention-attracting clomp-clomp with every step.
“Get back here, Bitch!” Tank howled, bolting into a full gallop after her down the murky corridor.
Chapter Thirty-One
INSIDE THE DISCIPLINARY ROOM. Amplified by the hollow stone corridors, muted sounds of the unfolding chase permeated the thick walls. The beating of frantic feet. Tank’s screaming fits of rage and frustration. Jewels’ random shrieks; an opera in unadulterated terror.
The fourteen men locked in the room huddled in three small groups, brainstorming solutions. Watters and Cooman stood alone, both near the door.
Rubbing the back of his neck and nibbling on his lip, Watters paced. “Shit! She doesn’t have a chance. We need to help her.”
Grim-fa
ced, Cooman nodded. “You’re right, she doesn’t have a chance. But we need to worry about helping ourselves. I don’t want to imagine what’s going to happen when the Commander gets word we fucked over any and all plans he had with his dream woman.”
A man cleared his throat in an obvious ploy to bring attention to himself. “Excuse me. Excuse me, Sir?”
Cooman shot an annoyed look into the crowd.
A shorter man emerged from the clump of green, black, and tan uniforms sporadically dotting the torture chamber.
Realizing it was the janitor, Cooman’s brows crimped. “What do you want, Briggs?”
“Sir, I just thought you’d like to know I have a spare set of keys to the entire compound, including this very door,” he stated, almost arrogantly, jingling the keys in his pocket.
Chapter Thirty-Two
GALLOPING THROUGH THE DIMLY lit corridor, the harried clip-clop of her feet picking up and putting down the big boots reverberated through the hallway like a homing beacon. This was never going to work.
A branch in the hallway was coming up. Should she keep the course running straight, or turn? Not seeing anything but more inky hallway ahead, she decided to take her chances with the turn and rounded the corner ... another gloomy hallway appeared just like the one she exited.
Time to ditch the speed-draining, noise-making footwear. Not wanting to stop, she slowed her gate enough to whip the boots off one at a time with a forceful heave-ho kick that sent them flying down the hall a good ten feet in front of her. Practically landing on top of one another, the footwear created an eerie pile in the middle of the hall. Though the boot flinging only took a millisecond, she figured that would be all the time Tank would need to run her down. Sure enough. “Bitch,” she heard him yell behind her. Too close behind her.
Ramping up speed, she sprinted down the oppressive stone hall. Arms pumping. Hands slicing air. Bare feet rapidly slapping against the cold stone floor. Legs striding long, powerfully and fast. Before long, an opening came into view, presumably leading into another hallway. Maybe this was the way to the stairs. To the outside. To freedom. She blasted toward it. Around the corner she sped.
Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) Page 25
