Despite the brilliant interior lighting and the peaceful mountain setting, the cabin reeked of darkness. Shuddering, goosebumps blossomed on her arms. Looking over her shoulder at Hines who stood a foot or so behind her, his arms folded, “How very quaint,” she said, forcing a smile. Of course, that was a lie. Creepy, was her honest opinion.
“Go ahead,” Hines said, pointing at the bed with his chin. “Relax. Make yourself at home.”
Said the spider to the fly, Jewels thought, unable to shake the feeling she was being held against her will once again. “Uh, okay,” she said, her voice thick with reluctance. Padding over to the bed, she cautiously sat on the very edge near the footboard as if not wanting to wake a sleeping ax murderer, her arms tightly folded over her chest, legs squeezed together.
Laughing, “Come on, Sweet Cheeks. You don’t look very comfortable. Relax,” he said, casually standing in the center of the doorway, arms spanned against the door frame as if holding it up.
Planting her arms at her side and pressing her hands into the mattress, she wagged her head, “I’m trying, I just want to go home.” Her voice cracked.
“I said, relax,” he barked, his face compressed, shooting daggers at her.
Blinking wildly, her face distorted with worry, “You’re scaring me,” Jewels said, squirming to appear to be relaxing to appease him.
Grinning, “See you in a bit,” he said, jerking the thick wooden door shut behind him and locking it.
“Wait! Don’t leave me!” Jewels leaped to her feet, gathered the skirt of the gown in her hands and sprinted to the door, like a frantic bride dashing after the fleeing groom leaving her at the alter.
Wrapping both hands inside the six-inch horizontal wooden door handle, she wildly tugged, but the door didn’t budge. Pitching her entire body backward for added leverage, she desperately yanked on the door handle multiple times with all her might. Still, the massive wooden door wouldn’t budge. Pounding on the door with flat palms, she screamed, “Theodore, wait! Please don’t leave me!”
Seconds later the growl of the Escalade’s engine faded to utter stillness.
Alone, Jewels was hurt and angry that the FBI agent had imprisoned her in the eerie cabin. Sighing through puffed cheeks and turning her back to the door, she plastered her shoulders against it in frustration. “From one prison cell into another,” she muttered, lightly tapping the back of her head against the door. Images of the moments before the accident suddenly peppered her mind. Hines is the Commander!
Gasping like she had just been slapped across the face with a cold wet towel, she relived the sight of the fiendish grin on Hines’ face. Felt the grip of his hand locked on her arm. Heard the sound of her fingers clawing at the Escalade’s door handle....
Her mind searched for a rope ladder, a way to escape the reality of her nightmarish recollection. Marshall Watters materialized.
“How could I have been so stupid,” Jewels cried, pushing her bangs up her forehead in exasperation. “Marshall knew Hines was the Commander. He really was trying to help me.”
Feeling like a pipe bomb had just exploded in her stomach, shrapnel shredded her heart. Oh, the consequences of mistaken trust. Bursting into tears, “I should have believed Marshall, not Theodore,” she wailed, deflating into a sobbing heap on the dirty cabin floor.
Consumed by self-pity and guilt, she wasn’t thinking clearly. The thought of escaping from the cabin or searching its interior for a defensive weapon had yet to enter her mind.
Chapter Forty-Five
LIBERATING COOMAN’S woodland green BDU jacket from behind his chair, Marshall slipped it on gingerly. A snug fit, he couldn’t quite close it. The gap in the jacket left his bruised bare chest partially exposed.
After getting a second wind, Marshall plowed into the hall. Prying an AR out of the hands of a dead man lying just outside of Cooman’s office, he checked the magazine to make sure it was loaded. It was.
Rushing down the corridor, he stopped at each body he passed, searched it for a full magazine of .223 ammo. When he came across one, he stuffed the extra magazine in the pocket of Cooman’s jacket.
With a loaded rifle slung across his back, Cooman’s jacket pockets full of reloads, he jogged down the hall, up the stairs and outside, the jacket flowing behind him like clipped wings.
Should he drive or hoof it? Driving would get him there in minutes, but would warn of his approach miles before he arrived, negating the element of surprise. “Stealth mode wins every time,” he mumbled. Noting the time on his watch, “I’ll be there in less than a half hour, Jewels,” he said, taking off on a fast trot on a path that offered a shortcut to the steep mountain road leading to Hines’ cabin.
Upon reaching the road, he heard the engine roar of an oncoming vehicle. An instant later a single light appeared on the horizon.
Hurrying for concealment, he scrambled off the road into a thicket of brush and lay flat on his stomach, waiting for the vehicle to pass.
Seconds later a black Cadillac Escalade blew by, Hines at the wheel. Like the long train of a wedding dress, dust followed the speeding SUV, preventing Marshall from getting a second look at whether or not Jewels was in the passenger seat.
Analyzing the situation, he shrugged. Even if the front passenger seat was empty, Hines could have her tied up, lying on the back seat. Marshall’s mind ricocheted: should he turn around and follow Hines back to the compound or should he press forward to the cabin?
If Hines did have Jewels and was taking her back to the compound, the rest of his team would be arriving momentarily. Hines would be caught. Jewels rescued. End of story. On the other hand, if he didn’t have Jewels with him, Hines would still be caught, leaving Jewels where? Obviously in need of rescuing from confinement in Hines’ cabin. If that were the case, he shuddered imagining her possible physical and mental condition.
“Go to the cabin,” he said to himself. Pushing to his feet, he brushed off the pine needles, dried leaves, and granules of dirt stuck to his bare chest and clothes, to resume jogging up the steep road, the AR-15 riding on his back.
Chapter Forty-Six
NEAR THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS, INSIDE THE DREARY COMPOUND.
“Heroes again,” FBI Agent Markus Wingate hooted, his hand in the high-five position.
Theodore slapped it. “These stooges didn’t see it coming.”
Laughing: “They never do,” Wingate replied. “This is a big bust. I feel another commendation coming, Partner.”
“Me, too,” Hines responded with nonchalance.
Wingate picked up on his partner’s preoccupation. “What’s bothering you?”
Face pinching with concern, “That wild card who had Julia ... the guy dressed in black. Did you find him? Is he dead?” Hines asked, his tone edged with worry.
Negatively shaking his head, beefy jowls jiggling like Jell-O, he replied slowly, thinking as he spoke, “Now that you mention it, no. Don’t remember seeing a body dressed in black. Searched the compound top to bottom, all those damned nooks and hallways. No. Everyone was wearing camos, except for the doc. As for the man in black, got bubkiss...,” nibbling on his lip, “must’ve gotten away,” he confessed.
“Fuck!”
“Who is this guy, anyway?” Wingate asked.
Scowling, “Some fuckin’ do-gooder by the name of Marshall Watters.” Shaking his head in regret, he reflected upon the conversation he had with Cooman. “When the general told me women went goo-goo for the guy who was charged with watching Sweet Cheeks, my gut ached with a bad feeling. I shook it off as jealously, but now...,” his voice trailed off as he blankly stared at the rock floor.
“He acted like he knew you. Do you two have history?” Wingate quizzed.
Rolling his eyes, “God. Not you, too.”
“What? I heard him, he called you by name and—”
“Stop! I don’t know the fucker,” Hines snorted.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.” Sighing, “So what do you wanna do about this Marsh
all Watters character who knows you, but you don’t know him?”
Gnawing on the inside of his cheek for a moment, then: “Nothing, for now.” Changing the subject, he tilted his head toward the corpse lined corridor, “Wait till morning, 0700 or so, to call this in. That should give you plenty of time to clean up.” Flashing a devious grin, “And when you start the paperwork, mention Watters. Say he blind-sided me and took me hostage for a while. You rescued me.”
Wingate’s eyebrows raised with delight. “Thanks, Boss.”
Hines nodded a you’re-welcome. “Make sure you write this up so we get a shoot-to-kill-on-sight order issued on this Watters dude.”
“You got it,” Wingate said. Turning on his heel, he marched toward the intersection of hallways.
“Hey, Wingate,” Hines called. “Do a double-check. Make certain everyone’s dead.”
“Already done. By the way, what do I say about you? Where you are, what you’re doing?”
“Tell ‘em I’ve gone after that prick Watters on foot, into the woods.”
A dirty grin sparked under Wingate’s raised eyebrows. “Truth is, you’ll be cleansing your bride, right?”
“Damn straight!”
Chapter Forty-Seven
WITH AN ETA TO HINES’ CABIN of about ten minutes, Watters heard the engine again. The Escalade was speeding back up the road, toward the cabin.
“Shit that was fast,” Marshall muttered thinking how quickly Hines had done whatever he did at the SPOF compound. Once again he took cover at the roadside.
And once again the black Escalade flew by. A trail of dust in its wake.
“Hold on, Jewels,” Marshall whispered, hopping to his feet and resuming his fast-paced jog up the dusty dirt road.
• • •
The sound of the Escalade’s purring engine being snuffed jolted Jewels into an upright sitting position. Hines was back.
Quickly wiping the tears off her face with the back of her hand, she sniffled, pulled herself up onto the bed and sat on the edge. Poofing her hair and straightening the gown, she crossed her legs ladylike, doing her best to cover up the fact she had been hysterically crying for what seemed days.
The door unlocked. Creaked open.
Hines slid in. Closing the door behind him, he locked it. Slipping the bundle of keys in his pants pocket, he casually leaned his back against the cabin door. Scrutinized Jewels.
Nervously she shifted her body.
After a silent moment: “You’ve been crying,” he frankly stated, hanging the shoulder strap of the MP-5 on a hook next to the door while shedding his suit coat.
“Um, I ... you locked me in here and I got scared.” Which was the truth.
Slinging the MP-5 over his shoulder to vacate the garment hook for his suit coat, he carefully and neatly began rolling up the cuffs of his long sleeved white shirt. Narrowing his eyes, “And?” he quizzed, stepping toward her.
“And, uh, I want to go home ... please,” she said, a plastic smile etched across her stressed features.
Continuing to roll up his sleeves, “So how’s the head?”
Shifting nervously on the edge of the bed, she rapidly wrapped the end of the FBI jacket around the pointer finger of right hand. “Fine.”
Smirking, “That means you got your memory back, right?”
Inhaling deeply, Jewels abandoned her nervous twiddling and sat up tall. “Yes, I’ve got my memory back ... Commander,” she said coolly.
Finishing rolling up his sleeves, “Very good,” he responded without emotion.
“Now I know why Boo-Boo never liked you and why I was always apprehensive about going on a date with you,” she needled.
Grinning, “You are a smart one, but obviously, not smart enough,” he heckled. “Otherwise, you probably wouldn’t have turned on that Marshall Watters character like you did.”
His words sliced her heart as wickedly and effortlessly as she imagined Tank’s knife could.
Ambling over to the fireplace cabinets, he cranked open the door, eyed her. “You know, I really think that Watters dude was going to set you free, and for that, you got him killed.”
“You killed him,” Jewels rebutted, yet in her heart knew damned well Hines spoke the truth. Marshall kept telling her to trust him, but when it came down to it, she turned on him. She was the reason he was dead.
Exhaling a deep breath and rapidly massaging his hands together, “Well, since you know who I am and what I want, let’s just get right down to business.”
Her body recoiled in fear when he said business. That could only mean one thing: female mutilation.
Burying his head in the cabinet and digging around a moment, he extracted a handful of leather restraining devices. Gathering them together, he held them in one hand, and thrust them straight up from his shoulder, like Attila the Hun displaying the head of his latest enemy conquered. “These mark the beginning of my new life,” he declared, as if to an adoring listening world.
Eyes widened and eyebrows raised, she stared at him with fascinated horror. He was insane!
After dangling the pieces of leather in the air for a moment, he pitched them on the bed next to Jewels. “Put on those restraints. Start with your wrists.”
Glancing at the mass of leather, then up at Hines, “Never,” she declared, leaping to her feet and dashing to the opposite side of the bed putting a buffer between them. With fists balled in front of her face, she took on a boxer’s stance, poised to fight.
“Oh-ho! Sweet Cheeks wants to act like a tough girl with me,” he said, his voice breaking into a maniacal cackle. “I’m reeeeeeal scared,” he said, hunching over and waving his hands around his face trembling in a gesture of mock fear.
Waves of terror surged to tsunami proportions in her stomach. Desperation flooded her face. With eyes gaping, she rapidly scanned the sparsely decorated room for something she could use in self-defense ... other than her fists. Mentally kicking herself, she wondered why she hadn’t searched the room for a weapon while Hines was gone. Obviously the accident had jostled her mind. Including her defensive mindset.
CACHINK!
Chambering a round in the MP-5, he waved the muzzle in Jewels’ direction. “I said, put those fuckin’ straps on your wrists ... now!”
Straightening her back and dropping her arms to her side, she held her chin high. “Never,” she snarled defiantly. “You’ll just have to shoot me.”
Raising the MP-5 to eye level, he aimed. Tapped the trigger.
RATA-TAT-TAT!
• • •
The noise was muffled, no louder than the backfire of a car in the distance, but Marshall recognized the sound for what it was: a short burst of automatic gunfire, no doubt coming from the cabin. Was Jewels dead? Had she killed Hines?
Finally, Hines’ cabin was in sight, the black Cadillac Escalade parked under the carport.
Marshall double-timed his jog, threading his way around the tufts of brush and over fallen trees as he stealthily approached the log shanty.
• • •
The rounds from Hines’ MP-5 blistered the log wall behind Jewels, just inches to the left of her hip. Wooden splitters scattered about the room.
Screaming, she dived under the bed for cover.
Angry Florsheims stomped toward her, halting at the edge of the bed less than a foot from her face. “Don’t make me come down there and get you,” he warned.
Like a bankrupt stockbroker, her mind was strangely void of options. She lay breathless. Motionless. Heart trapezing out of control.
The black lace-up wingtips erupted into a flurry of angry kicks at the bed. “Get the fuck out here! Now,” he demanded.
Keeping clear of the raging shoes, Jewels retreated, turning her body around so her feet were closer to Hines than her head.
“Okay, you asked for it,” he yelled, dropping to his knees and lowering his body onto his elbows. Reaching under the bed with his right hand, he grabbed for her ankle.
“No,” she protested as
his fingers clamped around the top of her foot.
“I got you now,” he revelled, repositioning his hand to capture her left ankle.
Initiating a vicious kicking attack, her legs churned, flexed feet hammering his wrist and forearm while she latched onto the bed frame. Vigorously she pulled her body toward the other end of the bed, as if performing a horizontal chin-up, worming closer to the opposite side of the bed.
Forced to grasp her ankle with both hands just to maintain control, “Fuck! You’re getting my shirt and pants dirty,” he ranted, anger boosting his adrenaline and strength. Heaving his entire body backward, he jerked her leg toward him.
Jewels bellowed a high pitched squeal as both she and the entire bed lurched about an inch closer to him. Since her fingers were firmly hooked into the metal chain of the bedsprings, when he yanked on her leg, the heavy log bed slid, too.
“Grrrrrr,” he thundered with a guttural roar, slinging his body backward again, hoisting her and the bed another inch closer.
Despite her intense grip on the bed, he was strong. And relentless. And she was losing her grasp.
Grunting, he yanked her leg again.
The bed moved less, her body more. Jewels moaned. Hung onto the metal loops.
Like a sailor vigorously pulling on a cable, he continued to heave-ho her leg. Inch by inch, drawing her nearer. And nearer. Each of his violent tugs yanking her out from under the bed, little by little.
Misery contorted her face. His brutal clutch on her bruised ankle was almost unbearable. The pads of her fingers felt like she was squeezing box cutters. Didn’t know how much longer she could hold on.
Abruptly he stopped pulling on her leg. Maintained a viselike hold. Sucked air hard and deep.
Hearing his labored breathing, she took advantage of the moment to catch her breath and prepare for the next round. Though her knuckles ached like they were slowly being torn out of their sockets, grimacing, Jewels repositioned her fingers deeper into the metal weave of the bedsprings for a stronger hold.
Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) Page 34
