Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (16 page)

“You fuckin’ cunt, you tried to rip out my eyes! Temporarily blinded me. Made me see double,” he snorted, as if in direct response to her thoughts.

Flipping Jewels onto her back, he pitched her like a footlocker onto the elegantly dressed bed, continuing his tirade. “And you fucked up my mask!”

Gazing in stunned horror at her captor, her eyes required a moment to focus. Part of the man’s face was distinguishable. Sure enough, the mask had been demolished; the eye holes had been torn down almost to the zipper mouth. The slimy
something
she felt on her numb fingertips was sweat-soaked leather. Nothing more.

The destroyed mask afforded her the opportunity to glean two details from the face at her attacker: one, the desire to murder in his eyes; and two, he was a black man she had never seen before. Was he going to rape her? Torture her? Kill her? All of the above? Her body pulsated with fear.

Like hot car exhaust, his voice seared her face. “Let’s get this over with, Bitch. I told you. I fuckin’ warned you. Hard way, easy way. Didn’t matter to me. You were gonna wear this shit!”

Bedlam ravaged her mind, prompting an impulsive escape attempt. Rolling her body toward the edge of the bed, when she hit the floor, she would...?

The answer didn’t matter. Pouncing on her the instant she lurched to her side, he cast her on her back again, straddling her chest between his knees. The bones of her bound arms dug into her spine. Vertebrae cracked and popped like knuckles. Wildly contorting her body for relief, she moaned in despair. “What do you want with—”

The barbarian didn’t let her finish, wedging the egg-shaped gag in her open mouth.

“No! No!” Jewels violently shook her head back and forth, hoping to dislodge the awful solid blob cruelly jammed in her mouth. Resistance proved worthless once again.

“Over the head and tighter,” he said, jerking hard on the adjustment strap positioned around the back of her head.

Wailing, she pinched her eyes shut in misery. The teardrop protrusion tormented the back of her throat. She wanted to puke. Needed to puke. But resisted the urge, knowing if she gave in, she would probably drown in her own vomit.

Helplessly she watched the brute revel in victory as he knelt towering over her. Tears of frustration and fright rained down her cheeks. Just when she thought her predicament couldn’t possibly get any worse, he slammed a dingy cloth laundry bag over her head, drawing the string tautly around the base of her neck. The bag smelled like ripe tennis shoes. Again she harnessed the urge to puke.

Seconds later the killer yanked her off the bed, pitching her body over his broad shoulder.

Madly wiggling her torso and kicking her bound legs, she shrieked pitiful, unintelligible noises. Suddenly,
WHACK!
His open hand swatted her buttocks.

“Stop it or the next time I’ll use my belt,” he threatened.

Not wanting to add being beaten with a belt to her dilemma, she quit squirming, but couldn’t subdue the tears, wondering—dreading—where the hell he was taking her. Mentally she tracked her whereabouts as he carried her down the carpeted stairs, across the travertine entry and through the single swinging door that softly whined as her bound feet tapped it.

After several steps, he paused, squatted. Stood up, seconds later a mild
thud
; a padded object had been dumped on the counter. An instant later, the familiar sound of items in her purse being rummaged through, then the clang of a bundle of keys. The creep had ransacked her purse, stolen her keys and who knows what else.

Without further delay, they were on the move again. Around a corner, into the mud room. The door leading to the garage growled slightly as he opened it.

The kidnapper’s boots pounded out a tune of determined strides as he descended the cement steps into the garage, followed by a half dozen strides across the decorative epoxy-coated floor.

Keys clinking. Vehicle door opening. The Hummer. The bastard was kidnapping her and using her own vehicle to do it! A few more steps. Tailgate opening.

Tossed with great force into the rear compartment of the H1, Jewels landed hard on her side, letting out a muffled moan in anguish.

Twisting her over onto her stomach, he hoisted her tethered legs up to meet her bound hands, cinching them together.

Hogtied, Jewels whimpered in misery. Fear blitzed her thinking. Why had Sharon’s confessed murderer kidnapped her? Where was he taking her? What was he going to do? Kill her, too? If so, why not just murder her now? And why was any of this happening? Because of that stupid map?

“You be good now,” he said with a chuckle, slamming the door shut.

Moments later her captor was behind the wheel of her Humvee. The garage door rose. He backed out, closing the garage door behind.

The Humvee sped down the drive, onto the street. Once on the highway, the kidnapper turned on the radio. The Oldies station. Jewels recognized the tune instantly: “Bad Moon Rising.”
What was it with that song?

Just as her vibes had foretold, but far worse than she could have interpreted, Jewels knew she was in trouble. Big trouble. But she could have never anticipated
this
. Gagged. Bound. Blindfolded. Kidnapped by a knife-wielding maniac, who had butchered her dog and admitted to murdering her friend, and for who knows what reason. Ransom? That damned map? Was she about to learn the meaning of
SPOF
? Regardless, the possibilities were endless and shuddersome. Jewels’ tears intensified to unabashed crying.

The escalated sobbing clogged her nose, stifling her ability to breath. The intrusive gag eliminated the option of breathing through her mouth. Overcome by the sensation of suffocating, she coughed and choked. Desperately, she snorted oxygen, but only sucked in the thick stale air recirculated within the confines of the hood tied over head. If she didn’t want to smother, she had to gain her captor’s attention.

Frantically, she screamed for help. For relief. For his attention. But, of course, the gag prevented distinguishable words while the blasting music masked her muffled coughing and choking.

Next, she pitched her body back and forth and slammed it against the back seat, hoping her violent movement would rock the truck, get her kidnapper’s attention and cause him to pull over to take a look.

No response.

Was she going to die, right here, in the storage compartment of her Humvee? At least death would come to her in a place she loved. Though she didn’t want to die, she fantasized about a life-after-death reunion with Robert and Boo-Boo. But abruptly her thoughts of a peaceful spiritual rendezvous were eclipsed by the catechism schooling of hellfire and brimstone.

The nuns’ endless lectures about God’s will and His punishments overpowered her confounded mind. Could her horrible plight be God’s will? Punishment for something she had done or failed to do ... those so-called sins of commission and omission? If she relinquished her own desires and instead
let go and let God
, would she be spared? At this point, she had nothing to lose by trying.

It’s said in foxholes there are no atheists. Perhaps the idea of an all-powerful divine being springs a glimmer of hope for the absolute hopeless. Given the bleak circumstances and the fact she was powerless to help herself, Jewels surrendered.
God
would either help her or not. Ceasing to struggle for oxygen, she calmly allowed her eyelids to slide shut.

Moments later the blasting music faded to silence. The striations of pain coursing up her arms and down her legs from the wicked bindings all but dissolved. On the verge of losing her grasp on consciousness, she no longer fought to hold on. If draining consciousness could be rated like a gas gauge needle: full, three-quarters, half, one-quarter, and empty, Jewels’ consciousness was running on fumes.

Spending her last bit of alertness, she mumbled a desperate plea, “Dear God, please help me....”

FRIDAY, 0200 HOURS.
The burgundy Humvee rolled out of sight into the dense thicket, halting under the camo canopy.

Zip, anxious to hear how Tank made out with the
bondage gear, rushed to meet the parked hypermasculine vehicle. Tank bailed from behind the wheel as Zip enthusiastically shouted, “Bitchin’!” A comment directed at Jewels’ tricked-out Humvee.

Flashing a smile in agreement, “You oughta drive it. Fuckin’ charmed!” Tank dropped Jewels’ keys into his pants pocket and flung open the back compartment door, revealing the much-anticipated
package
.

With hungry eyes Zip surveyed the brutally bound woman. “Shit man. Couldn’t have done better myself.” Nothing excited him more than a woman unwillingly tied up. Helpless. “Well? How was she? Did she fight ya?”

A sly smile breached Tank’s tight walnut face. “Like a fuckin’ she-grizzly with cubs.” Pointing to his biceps, he bragged, “Even shot me!”

Raising a brow, “Shot ya, huh? Don’t see no blood,” Zip said with skepticism, scrutinizing Tank’s clothes for gory evidence.

“You asshole, blood doesn’t show on black material. Besides, I plugged the hole with a tampon I found in her purse when I was rummaging for her keys.”

With admiration on his face, Zip bobbed his balding head. “No shit! Good thinking.”

“Glad you approve,” Tank sarcastically returned.

Zip’s eyes cut to Jewels. Vigorously he rubbed his palms together, eyes bulging. A dirty grin sprouted. “Well, let’s see more of her,” he said anxiously. The mere anticipation stoked an obvious full blown erection that looked like a twelve-gauge shotgun shell chambered in his crotch.

Scowling, Tank bulldozed Zip aside with his shoulder. Addressing Jewels: “We’re here,” Tank sinisterly announced, unbuckling the belt binding her feet to her hands. Her body would be easier to sling over his shoulder with her legs straight.

Peering over Tank’s back, Zip stroked his crotch and shifted his weight from side to side, straining for a glimpse.

Once the connecting strap had been removed, Tank instinctively backed away in expectation of a violent thrashing of feet. But nothing happened. Not even a groan of relief. Her legs simply fell like a lifeless mannequin’s. Had the frenzied fight of the she-grizzly been tamed so easily?

Zip sighed with disappointment, the
shotgun shell
instantly retracting.

“So you’re gonna be a
good girl
now, huh?” Tank taunted, grabbing Jewels’ legs and dragging her closer to the opening in preparation for pick up.

“Want some help?”

“Nah, I’ve got her. Just get the doors,” Tank said, hefting her body over his shoulder like a sack of dog chow.

The prized package still wasn’t moving. Wasn’t even groaning.

Worry smeared Tank’s features. Had he been too rough? Had the bindings been too tight? Had she fought the restraints so vigorously she seriously injured herself?

Seeking words of comfort and reassurance that lifelessness was common, Tank turned to Zip. “I guess this tying-up ordeal was kinda traumatic for the bitch. Think I should let Callahan take a look at her?”

Zip, too, had noticed the eerie stillness of the body, though he had refrained from commenting for fear Tank would blame him for her demise. Experience had taught him kidnapped women, especially those severely bound like this one, were so full of fear they were anything but lifeless. Even if exhausted, they’d still feebly contort their bodies in search of freedom. Or relief from pain. At the very least, they’d whimper in dread whenever they were handled. But not this one.

She was silent. Corpse silent.

Furrows of concern gathered on Zip’s wide forehead. “I suppose being tied up
was
fairly traumatic for the bitch.” Pausing, he chawed on the inside of his cheek, thinking, then bobbled his head: “Yeah, Tank, maybe it would be a good idea to let Doc take a look at her before you pass her off to Watters.”

Nodding in agreement, Tank hustled into the depths of the underground compound. Urgently his heavy boots thumped down the stairs, echoing into the ten-foot wide hallways. Dirt granules dusting the stone flooring crunched like peanut shells beneath his feet as he booked it into the
intersection and kept speeding straight down the long hallway.

As they neared the medical area, Zip jogged ahead, flung open the door, hit the light switch.

“Doc! Doc Callahan,” Tank shouted, his tone pressing, as he dashed into the infirmary whose overhead lights were lazily flickering to life.

In spite of the windowless stone walls, the medical wing was one of the few areas within the compound that looked somewhat
normal.
That is, if the words FLOWER POWER—in a psychedelic bell-bottom style of hippie lettering—chiseled deeply into the rock floor and spanning over thirteen feet in length were ignored.

Second only in size to the cafeteria, the infirmary was a two-thousand square foot mini hospital. The twenty-by-forty foot triage area boasted half a dozen army green cots lined up against the right wall like obedient soldiers. On the opposite wall left of the entry, five floor-to-ceiling gray metal cabinets with double doors, like wardrobe closets, were butted together and neatly packed with basic patient care supplies from gauze to nasal cannulas. On the short wall opposite the entry door, a red crash cart, loaded with all the necessities pertinent to treat cardiac arrest—paddled defibrillator, endotracheal intubation equipment, central vein catheters and cardiac drugs—was parked next to a double-wide doorway that accessed the rest of the medical quarters. A half dozen large free-standing oxygen cylinders were nestled next to the crash cart. The compound was prepared for war. And casualties.