Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (39 page)

Winking at him, “Just high on life.” Of course, what he didn’t know, and what she certainly wouldn’t tell him, was Sheriff Jodie Clarkston was on her way to rescue her. It wouldn’t be much longer until she was saved and the entire bunch of SPOF lunatics would be locked in real prison cells never to see the light of day ... perhaps with the exception of Marshall Watters.

Two armed guards stood at each side of the doorway to Cooman’s office. One nodded at Marshall as he passed by.

Upon entering Cooman’s office, Jewels instantly felt the heavy air sagging with bad news. Suddenly on high alert, she stood tall. Her inner smile fizzled.

The room was less than inviting. Stacks of ammunition leaned against the one wall, while a semicircle of eight or ten folding chairs were set-up on the other side of the room. The general’s desk was positioned opposite the door. A single chair covered in green cracked vinyl was parked in front of his desk.

Marshall guided her to the beat-up chair facing the general’s desk and motioned for her to sit down.

Rhett Cooman looked turbulent. Scowling at Jewels, the muscles in his jaw twitched. “Who else did you send an overnight letter to besides the FBI?”

Shaking her head in denial, she was on the verge of verbalizing she hadn’t sent one to anybody else, but Cooman slammed his fist on the desk and wagged an angry finger at her.

“And don’t even fuckin’ think about lying to me.”

Jewels glanced down at her watch: 12:24. If Jodie was going to get the envelope, she would have received it over two hours ago. And if Cooman was this upset, she
must
have received it. So what was the harm in telling him what he already knew?

Gulping dryly, she cleared her throat and fidgeted in the chair. The brittle vinyl pinched her ass, felt like she was sitting on course steel wool. “Yes. I did send one to someone else.”

Cooman glowered. “Who? I want a name. I want an address.”

Licking her dry lips, “A friend. Her name is Jodie Clarkston. She’s the Sheriff of Westmoreland County. I don’t know her address.”

“Who else?” Cooman probed.

“That’s all. Just two letters. One to FBI Agent Hines, the other to Sheriff Clarkston.”

He shot her an evil eye.

“No one else. Honest. And I’ll swear to it on a Holy Bible,” she said, raising her right hand as if giving sworn testimony.

“Really? Then how do you explain the involvement of the MTAF early this morning?”

“MTAF?” Jewels echoed, eyes wide, mouth gaping, an expression of genuine clueless on her face.

Studying her, Cooman set his jaw. “I wonder if your answer would be the same after a few strokes from
the cat
,” he contemplated aloud, his tone threatening.

Swallowing dryly, “The cat?” she echoed.

Smirking, he eagerly enlightened her. “Short for ‘cat o’ nine tails.’
The cat
is a barbed flogger that sometimes results in death with as few as fifteen strokes.”

Shuddering Jewels silently concluded:
Hence the purpose of the whipping post in the corner of the disciplinary room.

Marshall spoke up, “Sir, I don’t think she knows anything about the MTAF or has any contacts with them.” “What makes you think so?”

“I’ve had a little experience with some of those MTAF pricks and they’re a bunch of closed-mouth, covert operators who don’t make friends or allow acquaintances in from the outside. They abhor reporters and never issue press releases.”

“Hmm. You seem to know a lot about them,” Cooman said suspiciously.

Marshall pushed up his sleeve, pointed at a wicked-looking long scar on his left triceps muscle, “MTAF experience,” he said with a bragging laugh.

Jewels was getting an earful ... and eyeful. Quietly she sat, wondering about the extent of Marshall Watters’ criminal career, concluding maybe some things
are
better kept secret.

“Nice,” Cooman said, nodding his head at Marshall’s defaced muscle. “Very well, then,” he said, turning his attention back to Jewels and rising from his chair.

Watching Cooman’s smooth military gait as he walked around his desk toward her, she noticed how the big handgun rode safely in the slide holster on his belt. It remained virtually motionless as he walked.

Cooman stopped in front of Jewels. Leaning back on top of the desk, taking up a half-sitting, half-standing position, he folded his arms across his chest. Bending at the waist, he poked his neck forward, his nose less than a foot away from hers. “Your sheriff friend is dead.”

Bolting upright from the chair, “Dead?” she echoed, her voice shrill with horror.

Cooman hammered a crooked finger on her sternum. “You killed her.”

“No!” Jewels screamed, hurling clenched fists at his face. One punch connected, crunching his nose. Instantly he replied with a swift, powerful backhand across her mouth.

Falling backward into the chair, she tumbled off it onto the floor.

Springing to his feet, Cooman meanly kicked the side of Jewels’ thigh. “Get up,” he thundered.

Looking up, Jewels saw Marshall rushing to her aid, also saw Cooman stop him with a hand gesture.

Forcing herself up to a sitting position on the floor, she cradled the throbbing spot on her face with her hand.

Cooman kicked her thigh again. “I said get up!”

Gazing up at him, her eyes blazed murderously. A trickle of blood meandered out of Cooman’s left nostril. A satisfying sight, it bolstered her energy and willpower to drive herself to her feet.

Once Jewels was on her feet, Cooman thrust his palms against her shoulders, giving her a hard shove. Clumsily she landed in the chair.

“You bitches are all alike,” Cooman said, his voice cold as death. “Users. Liars. Deceivers. And, one way or another, thanks to you, the Feds are probably narrowing their search for this compound. That means we’ll have to relocate.” Gazing up at the ceiling and around the room, then eyeing her, “Do you have any idea how long it took us to find this place and revamp it to meet our needs?”

Jewels shrugged.

“Do you have any fucking idea what it’s going to take to find another hideout?” The veins in Cooman’s neck pulsated wildly, swelling dangerously. “But you won’t have to worry about that, will you?” he asked rhetorically.

Like r
ound iced sugar cookies, Jewels’ eyes widened.

Leaning back on the desk again, he glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall behind him. “In about seven hours the Commander will be coming to take you away. Do you know what he plans to do to you?”

With facial muscles twitching nervously, Jewels sat, innocently blinking at him.

A condescending grin ripened on Cooman’s face. “He calls it
cleansing
. The world calls it mutilation. Female circumcision.”

Jewels recoiled in horror. Clitoridectomy! Sometime ago her paper had printed an exposé on the so-called
tradition
of
female genital mutilation
still practiced by many African tribes; even in the U.S. with immigrants from those tribes. In addition to the obvious side effects of this brutal custom including loss of sexual pleasure, hemorrhaging, infertility, and continuous pain, mental disturbances and even death can occur.

“I’ll bet by tomorrow this time, you’ll be an
it
,”

Cooman taunted.

“No,” Jewels mumbled, shaking her head.

Cooman laughed.

Exploding out of the chair, Jewels grabbed the pistol from Cooman’s belt. Holding it in front of her with a two-handed grip and training the front-sight on Cooman, she aimed it at his chest, just as her defensive handgunning classes had taught.

The gun was a big heavy semiautomatic. A Colt. Judging from what Jewels could see of the diameter of the barrel, it was probably a .40 caliber.

Hands automatically flying up, Cooman stood paralyzed.

Marshall and the four guards covering the door inched toward her.

Eyeing Marshall and the guards, “You guys freeze. Don’t move or I’ll shoot him,” Jewels ordered.

Everyone froze. The room was as still and silent as a virgin’s bed.

“Come on, Julia, you don’t want to shoot the general,” Marshall said, his hands out to his sides in a gesture of peace.

Cocking the hammer, “Now this is a single-action hair trigger, guys. I said don’t move, or as Almighty God as my witness, I promise, I
will
shoot your boss.”

Taking a baby step toward her, clearly Marshall hadn’t bought her threat.

Jewels swung the sights to Marshall’s chest. “I said, don’t move.”

“All right. All right,” Marshall said, freezing in his steps, his hands still out to the side of his body, palms toward her.

Easing back, the general took on a comfortable sitting position on top of his desk.

Swinging the gun back around, she aimed the front sight at Cooman’s chest again. “I said,
don’t move
.” Her voice cracked.

Marshall took another baby step toward her.

Swinging the muzzle back to Marshall’s chest and taking a cautious step backward, “Don’t move,” she again demanded.

Marshall edged another step toward her.

The guards flanking Marshall, inched toward her, too.

Taking a few clumsy steps backward, Jewels rapidly switched the gun sights from Cooman to Marshall; Marshall to the guards; the guards back to Marshall; Marshall back to Cooman. “I said freeze!”

Folding his arms in flagrant defiance at her order to freeze, Cooman shifted his weight and cocked his head, “What are you going do, shoot us all?”

“Stay back,” Jewels warned, thrusting the gun toward the men as if trying to keep a tiger at bay with a fiery torch. It was a ridiculous move, making her look like a novice gun handler, which she wasn’t. Still, maybe the outrageousness of the stunt would prove useful. Maybe the sight of a loaded gun in the hands of a woman, who didn’t seem to know which end of the tube the round came out, would frighten the men. Frighten them into obeying her demand to stay put long enough she could make a mad dash into the hall to escape.

“You might get lucky. Hit one or two of us, but

Julia, I guarantee, we will get
you
for sure,” Cooman taunted. Extracting a cigar from a wooden box on his desk, he nipped the end and casually lit it, taking several hard puffs and blowing the smoke toward her. “The Commander’s gonna have a fucking heydey with you.” Sneering, “You know he’s brilliant, but a little off kilter when it comes to sex. I understand he’s a master of torture and prolonging pain.”

Marshall glared at Cooman for a brief moment before switching his focus back to Jewels. “Come on, Julia. This is silly. You don’t want to shoot anybody,” he said resuming his turtle-pace toward her, the guards moving with him at his side in a V-formation.

“Don’t tell me what I want or don’t want to do,” Jewels snarled, continuing to back up to maintain the gap between Marshall and her at a good six feet. Suddenly her back hit the side wall of Cooman’s office.

Marshall and the guards maintained their snail-footed pace toward her.

Cornered, she had nowhere to retreat. Gliding her back along the wall, she pushed a few folding chairs parked near the wall between her and the men closing in.

But the gap between them was continuing to shrink. Desperation devoured her. Never would she let herself fall into the hands of some maniac who intended to torture her. Mutilate her. Never. Abruptly, she turned the pistol on herself, pushing the muzzle against her temple.

As if Medusa had turned the men to stone, Marshall and the guards froze. Even Cooman quit puffing on the cigar.

“Julia, come on. This is crazy. You don’t really want to kill yourself. Come on now, give me the gun,” Marshall begged, cautiously extending his hand for the gun.

With eyes locked on Marshall, jaw set in determination, she sucked in a deep breath, exhaling through flared nostrils. In the space of twenty minutes she had ridden the emotional roller coaster from the heaven of optimistic bliss to the hell of despair. It was time to stop.

“You’re right, I really don’t want to kill myself....” Jewels slowly lowered the gun away from her head.

Marshall let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Now give me the gun,” he said, taking a step toward her.

“But I don’t want to live if my destiny is with your deranged
Commander
,” Jewels said, returning the muzzle to her temple.

Marshall stopped, eyes bulging, mouth gaping in stunned silence.

Willing to die rather than endure the endless torture of a psycho, lifting her eyes to the heavens, “God have mercy on my soul,” she said, pulling the trigger.

The hammer dropped.
CLICK!

“No!” Marshall screamed, diving toward her, crashing over the folding chairs that redirected the aim of his outreached arms. He missed Jewels’ body by a good foot.

Confused momentarily, Jewels knew when the trigger was pressed, the gun was supposed to go
bang
, not
click
. The drills she had practiced over and over in the handgun self-defense training courses she had taken, cleared the mud of thought in her mind. She knew exactly what to do. The standard tap, rack, fire malfunction drill; the one she had mastered and could perform in less than two seconds. With lightening speed she went through the drill.