Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (30 page)

“Leave right now, Tank, or I’ll scream,” she threatened, thrusting her hands on her hips.

Shrugging, his beady black eyes compressed, fixing a frigid stare on her. “Go ahead. Scream all you want. Nobody’ll hear you.”

“Marshall, will.” Gulping hard, she stepped backward, her face playing snitch to the gut-curdling fear she had been desperately struggling to conceal.

“Don’t think so,” he said licking his white teeth with his big pink tongue. “Watters has been called away. A special meeting off site. So it’s just you and me.”

“What do you want?” Jewels asked nervously, inching toward the sink, her back firmly plastered against the stone wall.

“Thought you’d never ask.” Spawning a dirty smile, he retrieved a three foot length of rope from his hip pocket, slowly wrapped the ends of the rope around his hands and jerked them wide, plainly for added psychological effect.

It worked.

Primal fear invaded. Was he going to strangle her? Jewels reacted by manifesting the classic physical signs: crossing her arms over her chest and rounding her shoulders. Flaring nostrils. Eyes dancing about wildly scanning the floor. Teeth chattering.

“How about we start with a little T and A?” he taunted, continuing to menacingly toy with the rope.

“T and A?” Jewels naively echoed, edging closer to the sink.

Tank’s face sprouted a nasty smirk. “Tits and ass ... yours.”

“General Cooman said you guys weren’t supposed to hurt me. You can’t do this,” she protested, raising her voice and standing a little taller to shed some of the base fear devouring her inside and out.

“Fuck Cooman,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Besides, you owe me, Bitch,” he snarled, rubbing the stitches on his face while stuffing the rope back in his rear pocket.

“Help! Marshall! Help,” Jewels screamed to the top of her lungs, her voice raw with terror as her eyes darted back and forth in search of something—anything—that could be used as a self-defense weapon.

Nothing.

Rushing her, Tank smashed her back into the stone wall with a powerful blow of his shoulder into hers.

The impact knocked the air out of her. Gasping for breath, her weakened body descended the wall like an unstoppable mudslide.

Bending over, he grabbed a healthy handful of Jewels’ long hair, yanked her face close to his. “Ain’t gonna shoot me, cut me, or try to rip my eyes out this time, Bitch,” he roared, dragging her on her knees toward the cot by her hair.

“Ooooouw!” Jewels shrieked, her face distorting in agony as she wildly scratched at Tank’s bandaged arm while unsuccessfully scrambling for footing.

He released her hair.

Toppling backward, her legs buckled under her butt.

“You are a fiery bitch,” he snorted, winding up to deliver a nasty smack from the back of his open hand across her cheek.

Pitched to the ground by the brunt of the wallop, her face plowed into the cold cement floor. She gasped. Tiny bits of gritty dirt imbedded in her cheek like shrapnel.

Clamping his enormous hands around her ankles, he swiftly towed her to the bed.

The uneven surface of the rock floor battered her arms, butt, back, and head, unleashing an instant monstrous headache.

Latching onto her right arm and leg, he heaved her onto the bed like an old suitcase, the springs creaking from the force of her body being savagely hurled onto it.

Sucking in a deep breath, she yelled at the top of her lungs: “Marshall! Hellllp! Hellll—”

Tank belly flopped on top of Jewels’ body smothering her screams with a thick hand over her mouth.

Once again, Tank had managed to thrust the air of out her lungs, still she launched a kicking and punching attack against his mountainous body, focusing her fist pounding efforts on his bandaged arm. Maybe she could burst the brachial artery and....

Her fierce assault forced him to remove his hand from her mouth to block her frenzied slugs with his forearms.

Just that fast, Jewels lunged her head upward, sank her teeth into his muscular arm, biting down hard like an epileptic grinding on a rubber mouthpiece during a seizure.

“Aaaaahhhhhh,” he growled in pain.

His flesh felt clammy. Tasted salty. Smelled sweaty. The urge to puke tickled the back of her throat. She coughed. Eyes watered. Still hung on. His warm blood oozed down the side of her cheek and trickled into her mouth. Reactively her stomach convulsed into a dry heave.

Grabbing a handful of her hair by the roots, he violently jerked her head back.

Intense pain caused the automatic release of the pit bull bite she had on his arm.

Dismissing the grip on her hair, he let her fall onto her back, head on the pillow, plastering an open hand across her left cheek.

Jewels shrieked. The blood on her mouth from Tank’s arm splattered the rock wall.

Smiling with pleasure, he wound up to hit her again, this time from the right side, but she blocked the rap with her forearms folded in front of her face. “I like a bitch with some fight,” he said, chuckling fiendishly as he pinned her arms above her head with his left hand.

Wildly contorting her body, Jewels yanked her arms, futilely struggling to break his hold.

A second smack delivered to her cheek ratcheted down her fight.

Jewels moaned.

Again, Tank spawned an evil smile of satisfaction. Delivering one swat at a time, he continued to slap her. Left cheek. Right cheek. Left cheek. Right cheek. Left cheek. Her head rolled back and forth like a Slinky on a seesaw.

Teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, her eyes fluttered shut. Resistance faded to zilch.

“Oh, no you don’t, Bitch. You’re not gonna faint on me now,” he said, halting the methodical slapping to rapidly flick his middle finger on her cheek, drawing her back to consciousness.

Gasping, her eyes floated open.

He released her arms.

Conscious, but exhausted, her head felt like it had been turned into kneaded bread dough. Cheeks stung like they had been seared on a hot grill. Realizing now, just as before when Tank abducted her from her home, any physical efforts she expended in self-defense were simply no match for his overpowering strength.

Feelings of hopelessness and doom threatened to kill the few shreds of courage and resolve she had left. Yet she battled the urge to succumb to defeat. The fight instinct, though dim, still sparked within. “No,” she mumbled in a voice barely audible to the human ear, her head wavering slowly from side to side.

Watching intently, his body hovered over hers. Knees straddled her waist. Palms of his hands pressed deeply in the mattress at the side of her shoulders.

“Leave me alone,” she said, the volume in her voice increasing to a whisper while firmly pushing her flat palms against his solid chest.

Amusement landed on Tank’s face as he stared down at her, allowing her to paw him.

“Get off me,” Jewels demanded, her voice just below the conversation level while exerting more force against his body.

“Gooooood,” Tank said, leaning back to rest his butt on his heels, continuing to visually scour her face.

Like energy to a rechargeable battery, Jewels’ mental determination to fight, along with her physical strength, was slowly returning.

Pulling one of the four pieces of rope from his hip pocket, he tugged on the ends to straighten it, intentionally doing so in front of her face

Terror gobbled her up inside and out. “No, please....”

Latching onto her right arm, he circled the rope around her wrist, jerking it tight and knotting it.

The quick, painful pinch sent a sudden surge of panic—and energy—through her body. “No,” Jewels screamed exploding into an upright position, wrenching her arm free of his hold. With her fingers forged into talons, she churned her hands in midair, desperately raking at the stitches on Tank’s face.

The mixer beater motion of her hands turned the dangling end of the rope tied around her wrist into a whip. A few lashes landed across Tank’s forehead and his Mike Tyson nose.

“Awwwwwh,” he snarled, capturing her two fleshy claws in a single giant hand. “So you wanna play rough,” he growled, swiftly belting her hard across the face in a retaliation.

Breathing hard, like she had just finished an hour-long advanced kick boxing class, Jewels’ head melted back to the pillow. Once again, Tank had successfully sapped her physical strength. Dominated her. Lactic acid buildup in her muscles from her frenzied attack caused her arms to feel bulky and heavy. Her face burned from the harsh slapping, like a styptic pencil on a shaving cut. Powerless to resist, Tank fastened the loose end of the rope tied around her right wrist to the leg of the bed. Desperately, “Marshall! Marshall,” Jewels screamed.

Tank grunted in annoyance.

Holding her breath, she listened. Hoping. Praying the sound of rushing footsteps would flood her ears. Nothing. Only an occasional creak of the bed springs and Tank’s rhythmic heavy breathing.

Coiling the second piece of rope around her left wrist, he knotted it firmly. Wincing in pain, she mustered no more resistance than a feeble old woman. Jewels’ mind swam in a bog of frustration.
God will get you!
she remembered the crotchety nun warning. Maybe the Sister was right. God’s wrath was being bestowed by way of a satanic mortal beast. Surely not. God wasn’t to blame, yet He sure could help. But thoughts of divine intervention were overshadowed with hope of rescue by the earthly Marshall Watters.

Entertained, Tank watched Jewels as her tears of torment rained down her cheeks, around her ears and puddled on her hair. After a moment, he stood up, wrenched her left arm out to the side and above her head, preparing to bind it to the other post of the bed.

“Help! Somebody! Marshall!”

Smirking at her pitiful and pointless cries, Tank wound the end of the rope around the post.

Closing her eyes, she prayed silently. For strength. For the ability to endure whatever this maniac had planned for her. And most all, for help. A surge of tears spilled from her closed eyes upon conceding help probably wasn’t coming. It was Gehenna for her mortal being. Hell in real time. But her visions of perdition were abruptly interrupted by the real world sound of flesh walloping flesh. Her eyes flew open.

Tank wavered at the side of the bed like he was standing in a dinghy on choppy water. Once his stance solidified, he rubbed his jaw and neck. Turning around to face his attacker, “Watters,” he snarled.

More tears. This time tears of relief. “Thank you,” she whispered to God.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Marshall demanded, hands parked high on his hips, eyes full of concern as he glanced over at Jewels lying on her back, wrists bound to the edges of the headboard.

“Marshall, please help me,” she begged, lightly tugging on the ropes.

Sneering, Tank extended his hands to his side as a gesture of peace. “Awh, come on, Watters. Don’t be greedy. Why not share the pretty little bitch with a fellow patriot?”

Glaring, “Don’t even think about it,” he warned.

Tank responded with a fast knuckle sandwich in his face.

Marshall staggered backward, quickly reclaimed his footing, planted his legs in a combat stance, fists high, ready for war.

Tank grinned. Though he outweighed Marshall by about one-hundred pounds, he knew the former U.S. Navy SEAL would put up one helluva good fight. Mirroring Marshall’s stance, he taunted, “Watters, we can do this the easy way, you turn around and leave, or the hard way...,” he paused, narrowing his dark eyes and rolling his fists in front of his chest in a slow speed bag motion indicating hand-to-hand combat would be forthcoming. “Either way,” he shrugged, “that bitch is gonna get a lesson from me she’ll never forget.”

Meanwhile, Jewels had gained renewed strength. Balling her hands into tight fists, she contested the ropes with all her might. After only a few hard pulls, the one binding her left arm relinquished its hold to the bed. Tank hadn’t finished securing it! With her left hand free, she pushed herself to a sitting position, immediately focusing on liberating her right hand, but taking a moment to glance over at the raging battle.

Marshall was hunkered down as if ready to tackle. Tank charged. Plowed his forearms into Marshall’s chest, driving him rearward into the cell door, his head snapping back. The whiplash of his skull colliding with the metal door generated a terrible-sounding thud.

Jewels worried. Marshall could be losing. As soon as she was free, she would help him fight by kicking Tank in the kidneys, biting him on the leg, jumping on his back to choke him, scratching is eyes out....

Of course her ability to help Marshall win the battle against Tank hinged on one thing: freedom from the rope. Abandoning thoughts of assisting Marshall, she concentrated on picking the knots in the rope around her right wrist. After shattering two acrylic fingernails, and deciding the knots were too tight to pick, she opted for attempting to loosen the other end of the rope; the one binding her to the bed.

Vigorously, she dug at the knot like a squirrel prying open a walnut shell. Broke another nail. Made zero progress. Even tried to pick the knots with her teeth. Nada. “Come on,” she growled to herself. Mounting frustration was unexpectedly eclipsed by an idea: “Simply slide the rope down the leg to the bottom and lift the bed to freedom,” Jewels enthusiastically whispered.