Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (34 page)

Kirk wagged his head negatively. “It’s not your fault, Babe.” Kissing the top of her head, he rested his head on hers.

“Oh, Kirk,” she sobbed, wrapping her arms around his waist, her body engulfing his.

Abruptly he raised his head, pitching his body forward to shove her away from him.

Staggering back, Jewels gazed at him. Lips quivering, hurt decimating her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know Sharon and you—”

Glaring, “You always were a no-good trouble-making wench,” he interrupted with a snarl.

Blinking wildly, Jewels didn’t believe her ears. Shaking her head, “You don’t mean tha—”

“Get this fucking tart away from me,” he barked to the guards, who instantly snatched Jewels by the arms, roughly toting her across the room, back to Marshall.

Everyone but Jewels realized Kirk was actually trying to protect her. By distancing himself, he hoped they could not use him as leverage to coerce her into agreeing to do God-only-knows-what.

Back under the control of Marshall’s firm grasp above her right elbow, she buried her face in her hands and softly sobbed.

“Secure him,” Cooman ordered, nodding toward the prisoner.

The guard jerked the pulley rope, forcing Kirk’s arms upward. In reactive response to the pain, he bent his body forward so his torso was parallel with the floor. Groans of suppressed misery escaped between his ground teeth.

The guard watched Cooman, who nodded for him to proceed to the next level. The guard yanked on the rope.

“Aaawwwwh, God,” Kirk moaned in torturous pain, raising up on his tiptoes.

“No! Please stop, Rhett,” Jewels begged.

Cooman nodded at the guard to tie-off the pulley, leaving Kirk in the painful position, but not yet to the point of dislocating his shoulders. Turning to Jewels, “Who is this guy to you anyway?” he asked, curiosity in his voice.

“She’s just a fucking wench. Nothing. A bimbo from high school,” Kirk barked out, a blend of anger and misery in his voice.

Lips quivering, Jewels’ head drooped, eyes focusing on the floor. “He was my boyfriend,” she quietly confessed. Unable to endure watching Kirk be tortured, she raised her head to gaze at Cooman, “Please, don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt him, please,” she said, knowing full well she could never really gouge out Tank’s eyes as Cooman said she must, but perhaps her concession would buy time to save Kirk ... and escape together.

A broad smile parted Cooman’s creviced face. “Very well, Sweet Cheeks. But we’ll see, won’t we?”

Gazing over at Kirk, her eyes locked on his. Jewels silently mouthed,
hang in there
... an unintentional pun. A slight smile momentarily parted his tortured face.

“Bring Tank in,” Cooman said. Eyeing Marshall, he gestured with his head for him to usher Jewels to the
witness chairs
lined up along the wall.

“Let’s have a seat,” Marshall said to Jewels, motioning with his hand toward the folding chairs.

Creating a ruckus, Tank violently combatted the guards dragging him into the disciplinary room. Despite his vigorous resistance, his efforts were pointless and he remained subdued. Jewels relished the sight: her kidnapper was a getting taste of his own medicine.
How does it feel, asshole?
she wanted to yell, but wisely kept the comment to herself.

Continuing to fight the guards and yell beneath the gag, Tank was slammed on his back onto the thick wooden table, his arms and legs chained spread-eagle.

Terror inched up the back of Jewels’ throat, the blood drained from her face. Was she going to be forced to gouge out his eyes with a hot poker? What would become of Kirk if she refused? Needless to say, what would become of
her
if she refused?

Doc Callahan entered, sat next to Jewels. The rest of the compound members filed in one at time, filling the seats. The last three men to enter leaned against the wall next to the door. All the seats had been taken. Cooman’s arms were folded over his chest as he remained standing near the edge of the punishment table.

The two guards standing on either side of Kirk

kept their rifles trained on Tank’s chest. The guard who had bound Kirk, strolled over to the fire bowl, stirred the rocks with the poker then raised it up, showing the general the glowing red tip.

Cooman nodded.

The guard set the poker back in the fire bowl and returned to Kirk’s side.

Tensing her body, Jewels shuddered erratically.

Dropping his arms to his side and straightening his body, Cooman addressed the witnesses, “Gentlemen, Lady, we have two deeds of justice about to be executed. First, Gerald, Tank, Whitlock, for the sexual crimes committed against Julia Andrasy is sentenced to have his sight taken by means of a hot poker jabbed in his eyes by his victim, Julia Andrasy. And second, Kirk, Grease Monkey, Kirkland, has been sentenced to the strappado until death for treason.”

“No,” Jewels yelled, leaping to her feet, her hands balled into white-knuckled fists at her side. “You said you wouldn’t hurt—”

“Watters contain her,” Cooman ordered.

“Settle down and sit down, Julia,” Marshall said, rising to his feet and latching onto her left forearm.

Whirling around, her fist plastered Marshall on the side of his face, just below his ear, distracting him long enough for her to break free. Bolting to the fire bowl, she grabbed the red hot poker, waved it in front of Cooman’s face, “Cut him down,” she barked, her eyes wide, wild and hate-filled.

Recoiling from the glowing heat of the fire stoker, Cooman automatically fanned his hands out to his side in surrender. “Whoa, Sweet Cheeks.”

“Now!” she demanded, inching the burning tip closer to his face.

“Cut him loose,” Cooman said, squinting at her like a really pissed off Clint Eastwood character in one of his famous Spaghetti Westerns.

All of a sudden, the two armed guards with the ARs pointed at Tank’s chest, marched to the table. “Hands up, everyone,” the one guard said, scanning the barrel of the rifle around the room, while the other guard liberated Tank from the chains binding him to the torture table.

Jewels’ mouth gaped.
What the hell?

Everyone froze, except Tank, who sat up, removed the ball gag and rolled off the torture table toward Jewels. “These things really suck,” he said, tossing the ball gag to the floor near her feet and rotating his jaw as if to stretch out the muscles.

“No shit, Sherlock,” she sassed with a snarl, feeling confident she was untouchable behind the glowing rod.

Tank snickered, sinisterly eyeing her. “Next time, I’ll strap that thing on so tight...,” he said, motioning a quick, violent thrust with his fist, “that I’ll make sure it strangles you.”

Jewels swallowed hard, the red hot poker wobbled in her tremoring hand.
Shit!
Why did she have to open her trap and really piss him off? Clearly, she wasn’t helping herself.

“Sir,” one of his liberating guards said, shoving a Beretta model 92 in Tank’s hand. “It’s loaded.”

Nodding at the guard, Tank stuffed the semi-auto in the front of his pants. A predatory expression ripened on his face. His big white teeth glistened like hungry fangs under a smile of malicious delight. Eyes shifting back and forth, he surveyed the room, apparently analyzing the situation. His plotting gaze rested on Jewels.

Cautiously backing up toward the door, Jewels waved the poker at Tank. The glow of the tip waning.

Scowling at Tank and thrusting his hands on his hips, “What the hell’s going on?” Cooman asked, his tone edged with demand.

“She was the last straw,” Tank said, motioning toward Jewels. “The oath’s been broken. I’m leaving and so are they,” he said, nodding to the three men who had been guarding Grease Monkey. Eyeing Marshall, “Why don’t you join us, Watters? I know you’ve got issues with this place.”

Staring back at him, Marshall stood in front of the chairs, legs planted wide, arms folded over his chest. Didn’t reply.

“Well, don’t say I didn’t offer,” Tank said with a chuckle.

Inching ever closer to the door, the hot poker in front of her, she eyed Kirk.

Relieved of his bonds he stood erect, rubbing his wrists from the brutal ropes. His face was stony,
kill
was written all over it, but when his eyes met hers, his features softened. “Thanks, Babe,” he whispered, winking at her.

Tank turned his attention to Jewels, who was about to disappear into the hallway. Stomping toward her, “And where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asked, his eyes icy. Jaw set. The diamond solitaire in his ear glistening like a search light seeking a target to destroy.

Spinning on her heel, she leaped into the hallway.

“Gotchya,” he said, snaring her arm and wrenching her back into the disciplinary room.

“Let me go,” she demanded, launching an all out kicking assault while wildly trying to beat his face and body with the iron poker.

Easily, he subdued her, whipped her around in front of him, her neck locked in the crook of his huge arm, the back of her head pressed firmly against his dense chest. He smashed the barrel of the guard’s Beretta F92 semiautomatic handgun into Jewels’ temple.

Reactively her hands landed on Tank’s substantial forearm, automatically dropping the not-so-hot poker. Forced to stand on tiptoe to keep from strangling, she dug her fingernails deep into his skin, attempting to peel the vise of flesh from around her neck. But her efforts proved useless. His arms were thick and solid like legs, strength crushing like the coil of a man-eating serpent.

Marshall and Kirk bolted toward Tank.

“At ease, boys, or I’ll splatter her brains all over these walls,” he said, halting Marshall and Kirk in their tracks. “You’ve got a couple of heroes,” he said to Jewels, crowing a devious laugh while twisting the barrel of the gun into her right temple.

Moaning in pain, she shuddered in dread. The icy steel barrel felt like the dark finger of death.

“Here’s the deal,” Tank said, inching backward toward the door, Jewels in tow in a strangle hold. “Anybody shoots at me or my team, I kill her. Anybody follows me or my team, I kill her. Anybody fuckin’ moves...,” he paused to tilt his head at Watters then at Grease Monkey, “that means you two heroes, I kill her.”

Shifting her body, she squirmed for a position to breathe more easily. Didn’t find one.

Tank constricted his arm, tightening the noose of flesh around her neck.

Frantically clawing at his arm, “Plleeease...,” she begged, her voice cracking. “I - I can’t breathe.”

Watters took a hurried giant step forward.

Tank responded by cocking the hammer on the Beretta.

Watters froze. “Wait. Settle down, Tank,” he pleaded, holding his hands out in front of him signaling stop.

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me to fuckin’ settle down. I said you move, she dies,” he warned, pressing the gun harder into her temple.

Clamping her eyes shut, she gasped, her face warping in agony.

Watters bit his lip. “You’re strangling her, Tank. She can’t breath. Give her some air, Man. For chrissake, just give her a little air,” he pleaded, his voice soft and calm.

Tank didn’t let up. Dragging Jewels to the doorway, he quick peeked into the hallway. Clear. “Let’s go,” he said to the turncoat guards, who jogged out the door. Kirk took a step toward the door as well.

“Not you,” Tank said, turning the Beretta on him and firing at his chest.

Jewels screamed.

Tank maintained his garrote hold.

Kirk stumbled backward clutching his heart, blood leaking between his fingers.

“Killing that whore of yours was my pleasure, as is taking care of you.” Shrugging, “Consider that bullet a mercy killing, which beats the hell out of the days of torment you were destined to endure.”

Tears flowed as Jewels helplessly watched her high school football player boyfriend collapse into a cadaverous heap.

“Cooman! Throw your keys over here,” Tank demanded. The general had keys to every room in the compound. The disciplinary room was never locked. Nevertheless, it had been fitted with a special heavy-duty deadbolt, should the need ever arise to prevent entry
or exit.

General Rhett Cooman didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t say a word. Just stared coldly and defiantly at Tank.

Again Tank jammed the gun hard into Jewels’ temple.

Escalated misery blistered Jewels’ face.

“If you don’t want the bitch’s fuckin’ brains all over this wall, you better throw me those goddamned keys. Now!”

“For godsakes, General, throw him the fucking keys,” Marshall beseeched.

Reluctantly, Cooman lobbed the keys toward Tank. They landed on the floor about two feet in front of his toes.

Looking at Callahan seated on the chair closest to the doorway, “Pick ‘em up real slow, Doc, and drop ‘em nice and easy in my hand,” Tank instructed, nodding toward his hand with the gun in it. Keeping an eye on Callahan, Tank twisted his hand palm up to create a little pocket for the keys, while maintaining the barrel of the gun firmly planted in the side of Jewels’ head.