Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series)

by Spain, Shirley

  Jewels recoiled in horror. Clitoridectomy! Sometime ago her paper had printed an exposé on the so-called tradition of female genital mutilation still practiced by many African tribes; even in the U.S. with immigrants from those tribes. In addition to the obvious side effects of this brutal custom including loss of sexual pleasure, hemorrhaging, infertility, and continuous pain, mental disturbances and even death can occur.

  “I’ll bet by tomorrow this time, you’ll be an it,”

  Cooman taunted.

  “No,” Jewels mumbled, shaking her head.

  Cooman laughed.

  Exploding out of the chair, Jewels grabbed the pistol from Cooman’s belt. Holding it in front of her with a two-handed grip and training the front-sight on Cooman, she aimed it at his chest, just as her defensive handgunning classes had taught.

  The gun was a big heavy semiautomatic. A Colt. Judging from what Jewels could see of the diameter of the barrel, it was probably a .40 caliber.

  Hands automatically flying up, Cooman stood paralyzed.

  Marshall and the four guards covering the door inched toward her.

  Eyeing Marshall and the guards, “You guys freeze. Don’t move or I’ll shoot him,” Jewels ordered.

  Everyone froze. The room was as still and silent as a virgin’s bed.

  “Come on, Julia, you don’t want to shoot the general,” Marshall said, his hands out to his sides in a gesture of peace.

  Cocking the hammer, “Now this is a single-action hair trigger, guys. I said don’t move, or as Almighty God as my witness, I promise, I will shoot your boss.”

  Taking a baby step toward her, clearly Marshall hadn’t bought her threat.

  Jewels swung the sights to Marshall’s chest. “I said, don’t move.”

  “All right. All right,” Marshall said, freezing in his steps, his hands still out to the side of his body, palms toward her.

  Easing back, the general took on a comfortable sitting position on top of his desk.

  Swinging the gun back around, she aimed the front sight at Cooman’s chest again. “I said, don’t move.” Her voice cracked.

  Marshall took another baby step toward her.

  Swinging the muzzle back to Marshall’s chest and taking a cautious step backward, “Don’t move,” she again demanded.

  Marshall edged another step toward her.

  The guards flanking Marshall, inched toward her, too.

  Taking a few clumsy steps backward, Jewels rapidly switched the gun sights from Cooman to Marshall; Marshall to the guards; the guards back to Marshall; Marshall back to Cooman. “I said freeze!”

  Folding his arms in flagrant defiance at her order to freeze, Cooman shifted his weight and cocked his head, “What are you going do, shoot us all?”

  “Stay back,” Jewels warned, thrusting the gun toward the men as if trying to keep a tiger at bay with a fiery torch. It was a ridiculous move, making her look like a novice gun handler, which she wasn’t. Still, maybe the outrageousness of the stunt would prove useful. Maybe the sight of a loaded gun in the hands of a woman, who didn’t seem to know which end of the tube the round came out, would frighten the men. Frighten them into obeying her demand to stay put long enough she could make a mad dash into the hall to escape.

  “You might get lucky. Hit one or two of us, but

  Julia, I guarantee, we will get you for sure,” Cooman taunted. Extracting a cigar from a wooden box on his desk, he nipped the end and casually lit it, taking several hard puffs and blowing the smoke toward her. “The Commander’s gonna have a fucking heydey with you.” Sneering, “You know he’s brilliant, but a little off kilter when it comes to sex. I understand he’s a master of torture and prolonging pain.”

  Marshall glared at Cooman for a brief moment before switching his focus back to Jewels. “Come on, Julia. This is silly. You don’t want to shoot anybody,” he said resuming his turtle-pace toward her, the guards moving with him at his side in a V-formation.

  “Don’t tell me what I want or don’t want to do,” Jewels snarled, continuing to back up to maintain the gap between Marshall and her at a good six feet. Suddenly her back hit the side wall of Cooman’s office.

  Marshall and the guards maintained their snail-footed pace toward her.

  Cornered, she had nowhere to retreat. Gliding her back along the wall, she pushed a few folding chairs parked near the wall between her and the men closing in.

  But the gap between them was continuing to shrink. Desperation devoured her. Never would she let herself fall into the hands of some maniac who intended to torture her. Mutilate her. Never. Abruptly, she turned the pistol on herself, pushing the muzzle against her temple.

  As if Medusa had turned the men to stone, Marshall and the guards froze. Even Cooman quit puffing on the cigar.

  “Julia, come on. This is crazy. You don’t really want to kill yourself. Come on now, give me the gun,” Marshall begged, cautiously extending his hand for the gun.

  With eyes locked on Marshall, jaw set in determination, she sucked in a deep breath, exhaling through flared nostrils. In the space of twenty minutes she had ridden the emotional roller coaster from the heaven of optimistic bliss to the hell of despair. It was time to stop.

  “You’re right, I really don’t want to kill myself....” Jewels slowly lowered the gun away from her head.

  Marshall let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Now give me the gun,” he said, taking a step toward her.

  “But I don’t want to live if my destiny is with your deranged Commander,” Jewels said, returning the muzzle to her temple.

  Marshall stopped, eyes bulging, mouth gaping in stunned silence.

  Willing to die rather than endure the endless torture of a psycho, lifting her eyes to the heavens, “God have mercy on my soul,” she said, pulling the trigger.

  The hammer dropped. CLICK!

  “No!” Marshall screamed, diving toward her, crashing over the folding chairs that redirected the aim of his outreached arms. He missed Jewels’ body by a good foot.

  Confused momentarily, Jewels knew when the trigger was pressed, the gun was supposed to go bang, not click. The drills she had practiced over and over in the handgun self-defense training courses she had taken, cleared the mud of thought in her mind. She knew exactly what to do. The standard tap, rack, fire malfunction drill; the one she had mastered and could perform in less than two seconds. With lightening speed she went through the drill.

  TAP: the palm of her hand hit the bottom of the magazine, making sure it was fully seated in the magazine well.

  RACK: her non-firing hand reached over the top of the barrel and pulled the slide back, ejecting the cartridge before letting go of the slide. Another cartridge automatically loaded in the chamber.

  FIRE: sight up on target—at her temple again—finger pressed the trigger. CLICK!

  “No, Julia, no!” Marshall hollered, scrambling through the tangled mess of toppled folding chairs.

  Now really confused, Jewels started the drill again, TAP. RACK. Looked down the barrel of the gun then, pressed the trigger. CLICK! Still no bang.

  Three times Jewels had pressed the gun to her head, pulled the trigger, and three times the gun failed to bang. What had she done wrong?

  So caught up in the amazement of why the gun wasn’t firing, she hadn’t paid attention to Marshall moving in for the capture.

  Leaping toward her, he swallowed her body in his arms, tumbled to the rough stone floor.

  Jewels shrieked. Held onto the gun. Landed on top of Marshall.

  “Give me that,” Marshall demanded, ripping the gun from her hand.

  Humiliated, she surrendered without physical or verbal argument, resting her head on his chest.

  Joining the scene, “Gimme the gun,” Cooman said extending his hand.

  Rolling Jewels’ body off his and onto the floor next to him, Marshall sat up. Handed the pistol to the general.

  Tucking the Colt back into the slide holster, “Get her up.”

  A
fter thrusting himself to his feet and helping Jewels to hers, Marshall immediately shed his gentlemanly behavior in exchange for a controlling prison guard. Grasping her arms above her elbows from behind, he wrenched her body in front of his to face the general.

  Jewels glanced back at him, eyes begging for an explanation of his roughness. He responded by powerfully jerking her body rearward, slamming her back against his chest. An obvious preview of his intended domination. Jekyll and Hyde again? What happened to her hero? Choking back tears, she hung her head, feeling sorry for herself.

  “One gutsy, bitch,” Cooman said, a tone of admiration in his voice. “Nearly shocked the shit out of me when you pulled the trigger. And not once. Not twice. But three times.”

  Not believing it herself, she actually had tried to kill herself three times. Sniffling, Jewels attempted to dab the trickle of tears from her face with the bottom of her T-shirt, but Marshall’s fierce hold prevented her hand from reaching her face. Not contesting his grasp, she let her arm drop to her side and shook her head in dismay, “Why didn’t the gun work? Isn’t it real? Are the cartridges dummy rounds?”

  Cooman smirked. “Oh, yeah. Everything’s real, for sure.”

  Jewels’ eyes probed questioningly for him to continue to explain why the gun didn’t go bang.

  “Smart gun,” he said.

  “Smart gun?” Jewels was puzzled.

  “Yeah, latest in high-tech wizardry. This is a one-of-a-kind prototype, compliments of Uncle Sam,” he said, grinning as he patted the grip of the gun with his hand.

  Cooman extended his right hand and pointed to the gold band on his middle finger. “There’s a tiny transponder in here. The gun won’t allow the firing pin to drop unless it reads the transponder’s signal. This particular prototype was rejected by the Feds because of the hassle of customizing a ring to fit every agent’s finger. Apparently if the ring doesn’t fit perfectly, the transponder won’t prevent the firing pin from dropping.”

  Gazing at the gun and twisting the gold band on his finger, his eyebrows arched. “Huh. Worked well for me.” Gnawing on his cigar for a moment, then, “To tell you the truth, I was a little nervous when you first grabbed it. Since you were within eighteen inches of the transponder the gun would have discharged the moment you pulled the trigger. You could have shot me, anyone in the room, or hell, yourself for that fact, because you were within range of the safety remote. But as soon as you started walking away from me, I knew the gun had been tamed to the lethal worthiness of a pancake turner.”

  Marshall and the guards shot puzzled glances at Cooman.

  Jewels asked the question they were all thinking. “Why did you let me go on? If you knew the gun wouldn’t work, why didn’t you say something?”

  Watters and the four guards nodded in unison, their faces painted with a yeah-why-didn’t-you-tell-us look.

  Cooman snorted a laugh. “Hell, I was curious. Wanted to see what you’d do. Now I know.”

  How could she have known he would have such a device? Jewels felt stupid. Humiliated. “Smart gun,” she muttered, shaking her head.

  “Your little stunt proved one thing I suspected since the first time I heard about you...,” Cooman’s voice trailed off. Smiling fondly, he reminisced. “I remember hearing Tank was challenged bringing you in. You shot him and tried to rake his eyes out. Didn’t think much of it. Figured most women would balk at being kidnapped. Then I was told you busted Doc’s balls, diced Tank’s face and brachial artery, escaped to your vehicle, nearly got away and sliced up a couple men during the recapture.” Pausing, he smiled. “I must admit, that really got my attention. I was curious as hell about you. Couldn’t imagine what kind of woman was capable of such destruction.

  “And when I met you, the first thing I saw was you beating the shit out of Watters’ face with your cuffed hands and calling him a jack-booted Neanderthal.” Slapping his leg, he exploded in belly laughter, his shoulders jiggling up and down like they were moved by puppet strings.

  Marshall’s face flushed red.

  Wagging his finger, “And you even threatened me with a red hot poker,” he added with a hint of admiration. “You’re one wild and feisty bitch, and I admit, I appreciate your fight and spunk,” Cooman continued. “Don’t know if you’re real gutsy or just crazy. Do know this though,” his smile disappeared, face turned serious, “from here on out you’re gonna have to be kept under constant restraint.”

  Jewels let out a startled gasp.

  Cooman to Watters: “Things are getting close, can’t risk unnecessary chances with her anymore. Take her to Doc. Have him give her something to calm her down and tell him to treat her like she’s precious cargo. Precious insane cargo.”

  Watters responded to Cooman’s order with a tug on Jewels’ arms, a prompt for her to start walking toward the door.

  “No!” Jewels shrieked, violently twisted her shoulders to shake his grip.

  “Julia, settle down,” Marshall ordered, intensifying his hold. Softening his tone, “Just gonna let Doc take care of you.”

  Craning her head back, she glared murderously. “Take care of me! Is that what you call it when someone is drugged up and tied down against her will?”

  Shaking his head in disgust, Cooman parked his hands on his hips, barked at Jewels. “For chrissake, woman! Are you gonna try to give us more trouble? Why don’t you just accept the fact that we own you and there’s nothing you can do about it?”

  A what-a-stupid-question look grew on Jewels’ face, her jaw set in determination, eyes blazed with defiance.

  “Give Watters a hand,” Cooman instructed two of the guards, who immediately converged on Jewels like hyenas on a carcass.

  Jewels fought. Insanely jerked her arms. Madly twisted her body. Wildly kicked.

  The big combat boots flew off her feet.

  “Aawwwwwh,” one of the guards bellowed as a flying boot hit him in the groin.

  Though an intense battle, it was short. Three against one. Marshall readjusted his hold from her upper arms to her wrists and each guard latched onto to a leg.

  The skin around her wrists and ankles was already sore and bruised from Tank’s ropes. Now bonds of flesh inflicted more pain. And then there was the shoulder Tank had crushed. More pain.

  With the guards holding her legs walking backwards, her three captors toted her out of Cooman’s office like a trophy lion hung by its limbs from a pole. Her head dangled near the floor, long blonde hair dragging between Marshall’s feet behind like a veil. Occasionally her spine skimmed the rock floor.

  Misery consumed her face. “Marshall, please stop. You’re hurting me,” she whined, gazing up at him.

  As if he didn’t hear her, he simply looked forward. Kept marching. Didn’t even break stride.

  Desperately: “Please, Marshall, help me. Don’t let them do this to me,” she implored with a surge of pitiful, and pointless, crazy body contortions.

  Marshall continued to focus straight ahead and maintain absolute control as he and the guards proceeded down hallways and around corners into the medical wing.

  Leo Callahan was tinkering with the crash cart when the men burst through the door.

  “Now what’s going on?” Callahan asked, his voice thick with irritation.

  “General says you need to sedate her, treat her like she’s precious but crazy,” the guard holding her right ankle explained.

  “He wants her in restraints, constantly,” the other guard added.

  Callahan sighed. “Take her back to the exam table.”

  “No. Please don’t put me in those psycho straps,” Jewels cried, launching another assault, frantically wiggling, twisting and turning her body and limbs.

  Undaunted by her physical protests, the brutes hoisted her up onto the cold metal table, slammed her back down hard on it. Still grasping her wrists, Marshall forced her arms across her chest, firmly pressed down, effectively restraining her entire upper body.

  Violently thrashing her body about and tossing
her head back and forth, “No! Don’t! Please,” she gasped, her voice high pitched.

  “Come on, Doc, get her strapped down,” the guard contending with her right leg demanded.

  “We’ll sedate her first,” Callahan replied, preparing the injection.

  “No. Please, don’t,” she continued to plead, still squirming, yet much less aggressively. Breathing hard, she had nearly worn herself out.

  “Straighten her arm and hold it steady,” Doc said.Marshall forced her right arm straight. Pulled it out to the side slightly, closer to Callahan, then rotated it to expose the underside of her elbow.

  Making a fist and tensing her arm, she twisted and jerked, but there was no escaping Marshall’s hold.

  “Settled down, Julia,” Doc said, rapidly tapping her vein with his finger. “This will hurt much less if you just relax,” Doc advised, his voice calm.

  Relax? Was he joking? How the hell was she supposed to relax in this dreadful situation? Jewels didn’t even try.

  Marshall steadied her rigid arm, nodded for Callahan to insert the needle.

  “Awwwh,” she cried, as Doc stabbed the needle in her arm and plunged the contents of the syringe into her vein.

  Staring up at Marshall, eyes tear-filled, “How could you help them do this to me...,” her voice trailed off as the drug took effect.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  SATURDAY, 1:08 P.M. “Thank you, ladies,” he said with a wave of his hand as he bailed out of Belinda’s Subaru and slammed the door. The meeting in the parking lot of Kate’s Diner had been brief, but enlightening. Lilly recounted the incredible and detailed information Jewels had sent to Sheriff Jodie Clarkston.

  Climbing into his Porsche, he thought about the tape and map. “Jewels why didn’t you talk to me about this?” Howard wondered aloud, hurt in his voice. Of course he knew the answer: Jewels had no reason to ask him for help because she didn’t know his background, which he had purposely kept secret. Playing the role of a bored multi-millionaire who just happened to have a passion for journalism, was all he allowed Jewels to know. He had enemies. Well connected, exceedingly wealthy enemies who wanted him dead. The fewer people who knew his history, the better. Still, he should have told Jewels. If he had then....