Once his entire body was inside the bathroom, she cautiously lowered his legs onto the floor. Didn’t want to just drop them. Might cause him to stir. Scrambling to grab his arms, she glanced at his face, did a double take. Did his eyes flicker? Was he waking up? Or was she just seeing things?
Regardless, her sense of urgency escalated. With as much physical strength as she could muster, she rapidly dragged his hulking body to the first toilet stall. “This is never going to work,” she mumbled to herself, gazing at Marshall’s broad shoulders and the narrow width of the stall. Exhaling forcefully through pursed lips, she picked up the blow dryer she had earlier planted on the floor next to the toilet, slung it around her neck then scooped up the tube of toothpaste and the black T-shirt she had been wearing and placed them on Marshall’s chest.
Resuming the dragging of his body, she toted him to the end of the bathroom to the wider handicapped stall. Once inside, she hiked up the skirt of her gown, squatted down and extended his arms above his head. Grasping his wrists, she pulled with the entire weight of her body to inch him closer to the toilet. His wrists had to touch together if she was to bind them around the toilet base. In the process of getting his wrists to come together, she had unintentionally bashed the top of his head into the toilet with her last vigorous yank. “Sorry,” she whispered, pulling the blow dryer from around her neck to bind his hands together with the cord.
Next, she wadded the tube of toothpaste into a ball, pried open his mouth, and shoved it in as a makeshift gag. Taking her impromptu gag-making lesson from Tank, she folded the black T-shirt, wrapped the ends behind his head, then tied the shirt together over his mouth to prevent him from spitting out the toothpaste tube. For a brief moment, she gazed at his handsome face. Stroked his chiseled jaw with the back of her hand. Lightly waltzed her fingers through his thick hair. “I really thought you’d help me,” she whispered, kissing him on the forehead, as he had done to her twice before.
Dashing out of the handicapped stall over to the counter, she opened the tube of mascara, poured perfume on the tip and held it in her left hand. That would be her stabbing weapon. The perfume would burn an open wound, intensifying the pain in the victim, perhaps buying her more time.
Under her arm she tucked the bottle of hair spray, her makeshift mace. In her right hand, she scooped up the hot curling iron ... a wand capable of sizzling flesh. Over the years she had sizzled herself a few times. Accidentally, of course. She glanced over at Marshall. Whether genuinely conked out or merely faking it, he lie motionless.
Purposely leaving behind the pointed toe high heels, which would only slow her down, she jogged toward the bathroom exit. Passing by the mirror, she noticed her reflection and rolled her eyes at the sight of her weapons. Creative, granted. Pathetic, nonetheless. Still, she figured MacGyver would be proud.
Peeking out of the bathroom, Bondage Master—still wearing the leather mask—was seated in the adjoining waiting room next to the door leading to the hall. Just moments ago, that seat had been vacant. “Wonder where you’ve been,” she muttered to herself as she watched him thumb through a magazine. A dirty one she assumed.
Doc Callahan wasn’t in sight, but with all the doors closed, he could be in the exam room, his office, or personal quarters.
Extending her head farther around the corner of the bathroom doorway, while keeping her body concealed behind the wall, “Excuse me,” she called out, acting shy. “Uh. I can’t get this zipper up. Will you please help me?”
Bondage Master looked up at her, then around the empty room as if in confirmation she was talking to him. “Sure,” he enthusiastically replied, dumping the magazine on the chair next to him to eagerly scamper toward her.
Retracting into the bathroom, she flattened her body against the wall. Waited.
Bondage Master turned the corner, entered the bathroom.
Jewels thrust her arm forward, pumped his eyes full of hair spray.
“Awwwwhh,” he gasped, recoiling in surprise and covering his eyes with his hands.
Wasting no time, Jewels darted out of the bathroom, ran toward the door leading into the hallway. Crossing the FLOWER POWER etched in the floor, she tossed the bottle of hair spray toward one of the cots lined up against the opposite wall.
Focused on escape, she encircled her hand around the thick metal door knob and was just about to fling it open when suddenly there was a rush of footsteps outside the door. Jewels froze.
From the bathroom: “Get her!”
Cringing, “Marshall sounds really pissed,” she whispered, recognizing his voice.
Stuck between an irate Marshall Watters flying out of the bathroom and whoever was lingering on the other side of the door in the hallway, she had to do something. “Quick Jewels! Think,” she frantically demanded of herself.
The doorknob jiggled. Somebody was coming in! Turning and bolting she retreated, running over FLOWER POWER and through the room’s archway into the dead end hallway. Beelining it for the end of the corridor, “Exam room,” she mumbled, thinking it would be her makeshift safe room. Locking herself inside, maybe she could hold off the crazed militiamen with the abundance of edged weapons at her disposal until the MTAF arrived.
Running as fast but as softly as possible, she passed Callahan’s closed office door and living quarters. Still armed with the hot curling iron and mascara brush, she zoomed by the bathroom door, glanced inside, saw Bondage Master working on untying Marshall’s hands.
Marshall caught a glimpse of her, did a double take.
Jewels iced up. Felt doomed. Waited for him to sound a call of alarm.
Nothing happened.
Briefly, she watched in delighted puzzlement as Marshall shifted his gaze to the ceiling, like she was invisible to him. Was he going to help her after all?
Taking advantage of the break, she hurriedly proceeded to the exam room, grabbed the knob, turned it. The door was locked.
Heart pounding, she stole past the bathroom where Bondage Master was still working on untying Marshall’s hands. Once again Marshall caught sight of her but said nothing.
Dashing to the next closed door, she grabbed the knob, turned it. The door opened. Quietly she slithered inside closing the door and locking it. Running her hand against the wall along the side of the door, she felt for the light switch. Found it. Flipped it on. A double one-hundred watt bulb ceiling light fixture illuminated the small room.
Callahan’s office was clean and neat but void of warmth. The stone walls were solid, no windows or doors, and naked. No university degree plaques or pictures. The furniture was plain. A simple metal desk in the middle of the room was flanked by two brown office chairs that looked like the Salvation Army had deemed them unfit. Against the far wall two beige filing cabinets, the five-drawer type. In the corner on the opposite wall, a free standing coat rack. A blue sweater and one white lab coat dangled from the rack’s crooked wooden fingers.
Releasing air through puffed cheeks, “And I thought doctors lived the good life,” she whispered.
Suddenly a ruckus outside. Voices.
“She got away,” someone yelled, a tone stricken with panic.
A bustle of footsteps, moving farther away.
A door slammed.
Silence.
Pressing her ear against the office door, she listened for someone lurking in the hallway.
Nothing.
Hurrying to Callahan’s desk, she abandoned the curling iron and mascara brush on the top, yanked open the desk drawer, scanned the contents. Paper clips, pens, pencils, a bottle of Elmer’s glue, two blue stick-it pads, and a five-by-seven framed photograph of a young girl in her late teens. Probably Callahan’s daughter, the one Tank or SPOF or whoever threatened to kill if the good Doc didn’t toe the mark and walk the line. But no weapon. With a swing of her hip, she nudged the drawer closed.
Flinging open the right hand drawer, she patted the papers.
Nothing. Shut it.
Jerked the bottom drawer. Locked
. Snatched a paper clip from the pencil drawer, straightened it, picked the lock.
Scored! A Ruger .357 magnum revolver. She checked the chamber: loaded, six rounds. Closing the cylinder, she sprinted to the door, revolver in hand.
The room filled with the faint patter of her thigh-high stocking-covered feet whisking across the cold rock and her gown’s brush train lightly sweeping the floor’s surface. Other than the sound of her own heart beating, silence. Cautiously, she pressed her ear to the door. Held her breath. Listened.
Nothing.
Unlocking the door, Jewels opened it slowly, observing the stillness. With a two-handed grip on the revolver in the high-ready position—muzzle toward ceiling, barrel parallel to her face—she slinked through the cracked door. Creeping toward the arched doorway leading to the adjoining waiting room, her back close to hugging the wall, she warily advanced. Easing her head around the wall, firearm presented in front of her, she cautiously scanned the room employing the classic cut-the-pie method often used by law enforcement.
Clear.
Scurrying into the room, she hurried toward the metal door she knew opened into the hallway.
“Gotchya,” a voice boomed from behind.
Freezing with her feet planted in the middle of the FLOWER POWER etching on the floor, she glanced over her shoulder. Bondage Master!
“Come on, Baby, show me what you got,” he said with malicious delight as he crouched low, arms ready to grab like a demon character stalking his good-guy opponent in a World Wrestling Federation arena.
In one smooth motion Jewels wheeled around, planted her legs shoulder width apart, thrust the gun straight out in front of her and leveled the front sight on his chest. “Whatever you say,” she responded without emotion, pressing the trigger.
Fire belched from the muzzle. The force from the recoil of the gun momentarily rocketed Jewels’ hands upward a few inches, but she expected it. Recovered. Instantly brought the front sight back down to his chest.
Amplified by the stone and mortar, the noise from the gunshot reverberated throughout the infirmary. But her senses were dulled, just as she had learned they would be from police officers who had been involved in shootings. As for Bondage Master and the entire rest of the compound, she knew it would sound like a bomb exploded.
From beneath the cover of the leather demon mask, Bondage Master’s eyes bulged wide and white. He stood motionless. Speechless.
Jewels wondered if she had missed, then remembered her training: when people were shot they did not explode in a shower of sparks as portrayed in movies and television. Typically they’d run away, or would just keep doing what they were doing before they were shot.
Assuming Bondage Master would resume his attack on her, she fired again.
Bondage Master gazed down at his chest, clutching it with both hands.
Figuring he wouldn’t be bothering her anymore, she saved the remaining four shots and jogged toward the metal door leading into the hallway.
RATA-TAT-TAT! RATA-TAT-TAT! A blaze of gunfire.
The rhythmic short bursts could only mean one thing: automatic gunfire. A battle was unfolding within the compound. The MTAF had arrived to rescue her!
Opening the door, she quickly peeked into the hall.
Though void human of life, it was full of gray smoke and the smell of burnt gunpowder.
Another blast of automatic gunfire.
Loud. Pretty close.
Cautiously entering the hall, the revolver held in the low ready position—muzzle pointed at a forty-five degree angle at the floor—she crept by several closed doors. A mere seventy feet ahead and she’d reach the staircase where freedom awaited at the top.
Nearing an intersection of four hallways, she treated it like a four-way stop, looking both directions before running across it. After traveling about a half dozen steps, thick arms suddenly attacked from behind, wrapping around her waist and pinning her arms to her sides like potent tentacles.
The revolver plunged to the floor.
“Where do you think you’re going?” an icy voice cracked, hot breath blasting across her bare shoulders and down her neckline. It was Marshall Watters.
“No! Let me—”
His powerful hand clamped over her mouth, dousing her plea.
Wildly contorting her body and kicking her feet, she combated his hold.
Tightening his grip and squeezing harder, he held on.
After wearing herself out and breathing heavily, she finally surrendered, allowing her body to fall limp in his grasp.
“Shut up and do what I say,” he whispered.
Bobbing her head, she agreed.
Maintaining a secure hold around her waist with her back pressed tightly against his chest, he removed his hand from her mouth.
The second her mouth was free, she engaged his hold again with flurried fists, crazily swinging to the side and behind her body in hopes of connecting with anything and screamed, “Help! Somebody hel—”
Almost instantly his hand locked over her mouth again, his grip tightened, regaining complete control. “Stop it! Listen to me. The Commander’s here. You gotta trust me, Julia,” he said, his tone serious, not threatening.
Trust him? Really? Why should she? Because at this moment she didn’t have a choice. Nodding in reluctant agreement to trust him, her body remained tense, ready to engage his dominance.
Keeping his hand firmly planted over her mouth, he whispered, “Stop fighting me, Julia. And you mustn’t scream. I don’t want to, but I’ll gag you and slap you in handcuffs if you even utter a word or try to fight me.”
Positive he would do exactly as he said, once again she surrendered, relaxing her muscles.
Continuing to maintain control of her, “Can I trust you to be quiet?”
Jewels quickly shook her head yes.
Cautiously he removed his hand.
Looking back at him, “What are you—” she began to whisper, but he quickly clamped his hand over her mouth.
“Shut up. Not a word.” Slowly he removed his hand from her mouth. “I’m going get you out of here,” he said with conviction, trading the hold around her body for a firm grasp on her left wrist.
Could it be true? Was he really going to save her from the clutches of the demented Commander ... whoever he was?
Scooping up the revolver, he stuffed it in his waist over his left hip for cross draw access, then motioned with his head they were going back down the hallway.
Wincing and letting out a little moan of discomfort at Marshall’s arresting grip, she hoped he would ease up a bit, but he didn’t.
His steps were stealthy. Pace fast.
To keep up Jewels had to trot. Upon reaching the midpoint of the corridor leading them deeper into the compound rather than away, she glanced back at the staircase. Furrowing her forehead, she tapped him on the shoulder, whispered, “Excuse me, but aren’t we going the wrong way? Isn’t the exit up those stairs back there?” she asked, pointing in the opposite direction.
“Trust me,” he said.
They approached a branch in the hall.
A surge of gunfire erupted at the opposite end.
As quickly as the gunfire started, it stopped.
Coffin silent.
Cautious yet determined footsteps echoed from the branched hall.
Crouching low, eyes at thigh level, Marshall peered around the corner. Almost instantly he withdrew, angrily mouthing a soundless curse. Shit, she thought he said.
Curious, she wanted to know what was going on. Leaning toward him, she whispered, “Wha—”
Instantly he clamped his hand over her mouth. Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, he ran his hand across his mouth like a zipper.
Raising her eyebrows and widening her eyes, she nodded indicating she understood to shut up, not even ask a question.
The footsteps drew closer.
Marshall stood up. Turned around. Backtracked down the hall. Slid into the sunken entry of a locked door that created a nook a
bout five feet deep and four feet wide ... perfect to conceal a couple of bodies compressed against one another.
Pulling Jewels in front of him, he wrapped his left arm around her body, securely pinning her arms to her sides, and firmly covered her mouth with his right hand. “Be very quiet. Very still,” he said, pressing their bodies as far to the back and corner of the nook as possible.
Would someone planning to help her escape hold her like he was? Though unable to shake the feeling of being controlled like a hostage, Jewels nodded in consent.
The footfall of shoes slapping against the cold rock floor rapidly approached.
Voices. Faint. Indistinguishable.
Marshall tensed, tightening his clutch on her.
Jewels tensed, too. Breathing shallow. Heart thumping. Though she couldn’t see the men, they were close. Two distinguishable voices talking about “stooges” and “awards” ... topics making absolutely no sense to her. As she listened, one voice rang familiar. Cooman’s? No, didn’t seem right.
An odoriferous wave of Polo cologne invaded the nook. Moments later two men prowled past the doorway where Jewels and Marshall were hiding, oblivious to their presence. The dim and sporadic lighting that was the norm for the gloomy hallways helped conceal Jewels and Marshall, but also prevented identification of the facial features of the two men engaged in conversation as they rapidly walked by.
Marshall had purposely positioned their bodies at the far opposite corner, out of the line of casual sight from the men passing by in the hall. Unless they happened to look back or were intentionally clearing the nooks, they would never see the couple. Not even Jewels’ white gown.
Since the men were looking at each as they spoke, the back of one man’s head essentially blocked the front of the other, creating little more than silhouettes. As they briskly tramped by, one thing became clear: both men were sporting jackets with the letters F-B-I emblazoned in big yellow letters on the back. Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns dangled from their shoulders. The gunfire she heard earlier must have been from the FBI, not the MTAF as she had assumed.
Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) Page 31
