Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (12 page)

Cracking a smile, “Ludicrous,” she blurted aloud, regarding the notion of dialing nine-one-one. It was a fact she had no facts. No tangible proof of any foul play, except the green Dodge pickup that tailed her temporarily. And since the truck didn’t
do
anything except follow her, she really didn’t even have that, especially not without a license plate number. Right now, her only option was send the
feed Gomer
e-mail message and hope, just this once, her vibes would be wrong.

If by a one-in-a-million chance her vibes had misled her and nothing dreadful transpired tonight, Jewels would simply go to work early tomorrow morning and delete the
feed Gomer
message from Belinda’s e-mail, right after she gathered the two envelopes addressed to Special Agent Hines and Sheriff Clarkston.

She punched the send key. 7:55 MESSAGE SENT.

Suddenly a black spider, launching a sneak attack from the back of the computer, zoomed down the top of the screen hellbent toward Jewels.

Screaming bloody murder, she engaged the full force of her arms and legs to propel her chair backward with such strength it bulldozed her faithful dog, who had sometime earlier relocated herself from under the table to behind Jewels’ seat. The chair toppled backwards. Boo-Boo yelped, scrambling for cover.

On impact, the chair swiveled, slamming Jewels onto her right side. Carpet fibers grated her soft cheek, but the mild rug burn didn’t slow her down. Madly clawing to her feet, she barreled into the entry seeking cover behind the ornately carved cafe doors leading to the kitchen.

Cautiously she peered over the swinging door. Eyes wide. Breaths fast and hard. Hands tightly clutched over her chest for protection from the eight-legged terror the size of her fist ... or at least a nickel.

She hated spiders. Petrified of them. Didn’t mind rats, bats, snakes or ants. But spiders could send the fear of God into her faster than just about anything ... at least anything she had encountered in her life so far.

Nervously, she nibbled the flesh at the side of her left thumb for a moment before glimpsing down at Boo-Boo who was sitting near her feet. The dog’s big brown eyes gazed up at Jewels searching for a clue: should she seek cover or jump up and plant a consoling juicy dog kiss on her?

“Oh, Boo-Boo!” she said, bending over to wrap loving arms around her four-legged baby, “Thanks for putting up with me.” The dog responded with a sloppy swipe of her warm tongue across Jewels’ cheek.

Laughing, Jewels wiped the dog slobber off the side of her face with a quick rub of her cheek against the shoulder of her shirt. “Time to declare war on the pesky critter,” she said with determination. “A fly swatter should do the trick.”

By the time Jewels had calmed herself, found the fly swatter and returned to the dining room, the sneaky little guerilla had vanished. But where did it go? Her muscles instantly tensed. Shoulders scrunched tightly up toward her ears and white knuckles glowed as she rigidly wrapped both hands around the end of the fly swatter and pressed it close to her chest.

Gulping hard multiple times, Jewels visually scanned her work area. The creepy crawly could be anywhere. On her chair. In a drawer. Under the table. The possibilities for another ambush were endless. “Get a grip,”

Jewels barked out, followed by a deep sigh. Relaxing her shoulders and the death grip on the fly swatter, she rubbed her forehead in exasperation. Was the miniature terrorist another omen of evil to come, or simply the icing on a lousy day?

2034 HOURS.
The green Dodge effortlessly chewed its way up the dark four-wheel-drive road, spitting out a trail of dust behind. Its headlights were off. The faint illumination of the night’s slivered moon was all the light the driver needed.

He knew the rugged road as if it were his own backyard. And in a way, the treacherous road was his front yard. Living at the secret compound for more than two years had afforded him the opportunity to explore the vast surrounding forest. Considering himself a modern day Davy Crockett, he had became an expert on the terrain, paying special attention to the whereabouts of caves and old shacks that could be useful, should the need ever arise for a private hideout.

Employed as the ruthless strong-arm of the secretive militia group, SPOF—Sovereign Patriots Of Freedom—he did whatever
dirty
work needed to be done. The dirtier the work, the more he liked it and the better he was at it. Whatever was necessary to further the growth of his bank account was his personal philosophy.

The road vanished into a dense thicket, swallowing the fancy green Dodge under a cleverly disguised parking area concealed not only by natural flora, but by massive woodland-colored camouflaging. These military grade nets were lined with Red-Out, a foil-like material that inhibits detection from even the most high-tech of infrared scanners mounted on aircraft. Nestled beneath the hidden parking spots lay a maze of tunnels and underground rooms serving as the headquarters of SPOF.

Several dozen vehicles, belonging to SPOF members, were already parked in the hidden area. His elevated status at SPOF earned him the prized designated spot closest to the door.

The driver of the fancy green Dodge bounded out of the truck, slammed the door and hurriedly approached a berm resembling a ten-foot tall ant hill. The man-made stone enclosure, cloaked in live greenery native to the area, surrounded a thick metal door. The man doubled his massive fist, vigorously pounded on the door. “It’s Tank,” he announced. Moments later the door groaned as if in agony as it lazily swung open. A robust man with a protruding gut and a tight-fitting black leather mask greeted him.

“General’s waitin’ for ya, Tank,” the doorman said.

“Thanks, Zip,” he replied with a nod, brushing his broad body passed the oddly dressed guard, to canter down the steep stairs. Nearly everyone at SPOF had a nickname. And he was no exception. No one at the compound called him by his given name, Gerald Whitlock. No, he was Tank. The moniker appropriately described his hulking size and overpowering personality. Some dweeb in juvy DT started it, and since he liked it, the name Tank hung with him for the past twenty-five years.

Zip was short for Douglas “The Zipper Face Man” Gohn. He was heavy into bondage sex, with a preference for the forced rape scene. And he loved his black leather mask with the zipper mouth. Before SPOF, he had frequently sported the mask in public during broad daylight. In grocery stores. At malls. Said he did it because he liked to see the fear in the eyes of women, the respect and envy in men. Even sometimes at SPOF, when a kinky mood hit him, he would wear the zipper-mouth mask. Apparently it was one of those kinky mood evenings.

One seriously fucked up dude, Tank thought on his descent into the compound, his cafe noir skin melting into the blackness of the corridor.

The stone and mortar walls of the bunker possessed a dungeon-like quality. Dank in most people’s opinion. But Tank found the gloomy atmosphere invigorating. He thrived on the darkness and the darker side of life.

Tank’s pounding footsteps echoed down the long hall like a sound effect in a scary B movie. He easily navigated his way through the nonsensical layout of the roller skating rink sized compound. To anyone not familiar with it, the compound would appear to be a ginormous basement divided into a mind-blowing maze of hallways, doors and stairs often leading nowhere. But once understanding
who
the original architects were, its madness was easily explained.

Though painstaking modifications were made by SPOF members to upgrade the compound with running water, electricity, and security measures before setting up headquarters, much of it remained as it was originally built in the 1960’s ... a free spirit hippie commune whereby the sexual revolution, psychedelic rock, and altered states of consciousness could be embraced in serenity. Keeping that in mind, the outlandish creation made perfect sense ... at least to someone tripping on hallucinogenic mushrooms or LSD. Ironically, the original
make-love-not-war
underground building now housed America’s most feared and deadly militia.

The rusty hinges creaked under the weight of the steel door as Tank muscled it open, popping his head around the corner. “General Cooman?”

The medium framed, forty-six year old man sitting behind the army green metal desk relinquished the hold on the pen he was using and rose to his feet. “Tank. Please, come in,” he said with a strong Alabama accent, waving his hand, gesturing for Tank to enter.

The general’s face was tan and leathery, like he stood in the sun and squinted for a living. His seaweed green eyes almost glowed. Two-day stubble dotted his face. And like nearly everyone at the compound, he was dressed in a green camouflage T-shirt and matching camouflage cargo pants. His black lace-up army boots shined like the top of a Steinway.

A round silver and black clock marking military time was the only object hanging on any of the stone walls of the room designated as Cooman’s office. It read: 2037, 8:37 p.m. civilian time. The fourteen-by-eighteen foot space was illuminated by one double-tube florescent shop light fixture. The corners of the room remained shrouded in darkness, hiding a brass coat tree to the left of Cooman’s desk and a putty colored four-drawer filing cabinet to the right. Crates of .223 ammunition stacked three deep and piled to the ceiling filled the two opposite corners.

Tank stepped in, closed the door, saluted.

“At ease, Tank. Pull up a chair,” Cooman said settling back behind the desk.

“Thanks, General.” Three badly worn army-green metal and vinyl chairs lined the wall next to the door. Tank dragged over the one with the least amount of torn vinyl on the seat.

Rocking back in his chair, Cooman perched his elbows on the armrest, steepling his fingers. “So. Did you take care of the bitch?”

Tank squirmed in the chair, not only because the badly broken brittle vinyl was pinching his ass right through his cargo pants, but because he was extremely uneasy about what he had to report. “Yeah, but not before she met with a reporter.”

“Shit!” Cooman leaned forward, intensifying his interest, seaweed eyes glowing. “Reporter dead?”

“Well, that’s the problem, Sir. The reporter is Andrasy. Julia Andrasy.”

Bolting to his feet, Cooman slammed a white-knuckled fist on the desk. “Fuck! I knew we should have never permitted a woman in the compound. No matter how clever she is with bombs, cunts simply can’t be trusted.”

“Think Grease Monkey will be a problem now that his squeeze has been polished off?” Tank asked.

“Shit! You’re right. I’ll have Watters lock him up until I find out what the Commander wants to do with him.”

Tank nodded, readjusting his butt in the chair. “So what do you want me to do about Andrasy?”

Turning on his heel to pace, Cooman stared at the uneven stone floor. Thinking. After a few minutes, “There’s only one thing we can do.” Nervously he raked his fingers through his cocoa-colored crew cut hair, a telltale sign he was not totally comfortable with what he was about to direct. Sighing, he finally ordered, “Bring her here. Tonight.”

Tank stood up. “Yes, Sir.” Turned to leave.

The general reached over the desk, latched his hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Tank, be careful with her. Remember who she is. Who she belongs to. You can’t hurt her ... at least not very much.”

“I know.” Tank proceeded to take a step.

Cooman held on, tightened his grasp, stopped him. “One more thing....”

Annoyed, Tank eyed Cooman’s hand on his shoulder, then looked over at him. “Yeah, General?”

“We need one of her vehicles for Phase Two. So while you’re there grab the Hummer.”

“Got ya.”

“Make it so,” Cooman said, with a dismissing tap of his hand on Tank’s shoulder.

• • •

With determined strides Tank maneuvered the dimly lit halls, passing the hood of a 1963 Ford pickup a tripping hippie had years ago bolted to the wall then spray painted with numerous peace-signs in a variety of bright colors. Scowling, “Art,” Tank murmured. As far as he was concerned, that piece of shit scrap metal should have been torn down or painted over before they moved in, but the general wouldn’t hear of it. Liked it. Said it added “zest” to the place.

The hood
had become an unintentional but significant landmark, directing SPOF occupants toward the main exit located at the next left past
the hood
, about twenty feet ahead where an intersection of four hallways came together at a crossroads.

Tank made the left turn. The stairway leading outside to the vehicles came into view. The beer-bellied man with an AR-15 rifle slung across his back still stood at the top of the steep stone stairs as entry guard. The bondage mask was a dead giveaway as to his identity. No one else in the compound would be caught dead wearing the zipper head hood ... at least not while serving as sentry. “Zip, I need your help,” Tank called out from down the hall as he continued his trek toward the door.

“You name it, Tank. Anything,” he responded, scrambling down the stairs.

“General’s got me runnin’ an assignment that’s not in my area of expertise. Can’t kill the target.” He paused, grinned. That was his stab at humor. Zip didn’t get it. “The target’s a woman,” Tank continued. “She lives alone and I gotta nab her at her house. How about some pointers.”