Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (43 page)

In one smooth motion Jewels wheeled around, planted her legs shoulder width apart, thrust the gun straight out in front of her and leveled the front sight on his chest. “Whatever you say,” she responded without emotion, pressing the trigger.

Fire belched from the muzzle. The force from the recoil of the gun momentarily rocketed Jewels’ hands upward a few inches, but she expected it. Recovered. Instantly brought the front sight back down to his chest.

Amplified by the stone and mortar, the noise from the gunshot reverberated throughout the infirmary. But her senses were dulled, just as she had learned they would be from police officers who had been involved in shootings. As for Bondage Master and the entire rest of the compound, she knew it would sound like a bomb exploded.

From beneath the cover of the leather demon mask, Bondage Master’s eyes bulged wide and white. He stood motionless. Speechless.

Jewels wondered if she had missed, then remembered her training: when people were shot they did not explode in a shower of sparks as portrayed in movies and television. Typically they’d run away, or would just keep doing what they were doing before they were shot.

Assuming Bondage Master would resume his attack on her, she fired again.

Bondage Master gazed down at his chest, clutching it with both hands.

Figuring he wouldn’t be bothering her anymore, she saved the remaining four shots and jogged toward the metal door leading into the hallway.

RATA-TAT-TAT! RATA-TAT-TAT!
A blaze of gunfire.

The rhythmic short bursts could only mean one thing: automatic gunfire. A battle was unfolding within the compound. The MTAF had arrived to rescue her!

Opening the door, she quickly peeked into the hall.

Though void human of life, it was full of gray smoke and the smell of burnt gunpowder.

Another blast of automatic gunfire.

Loud. Pretty close.

Cautiously entering the hall, the revolver held in the low ready position—muzzle pointed at a forty-five degree angle at the floor—she crept by several closed doors. A mere seventy feet ahead and she’d reach the staircase where freedom awaited at the top.

Nearing an intersection of four hallways, she treated it like a four-way stop, looking both directions before running across it. After traveling about a half dozen steps, thick arms suddenly attacked from behind, wrapping around her waist and pinning her arms to her sides like potent tentacles.

The revolver plunged to the floor.

“Where do you think you’re going?” an icy voice cracked, hot breath blasting across her bare shoulders and down her neckline. It was Marshall Watters.

“No! Let me—”

His powerful hand clamped over her mouth, dousing her plea.

Wildly contorting her body and kicking her feet, she combated his hold.

Tightening his grip and squeezing harder, he held on.

After wearing herself out and breathing heavily, she finally surrendered, allowing her body to fall limp in his grasp.

“Shut up and do what I say,” he whispered.

Bobbing her head, she agreed.

Maintaining a secure hold around her waist with her back pressed tightly against his chest, he removed his hand from her mouth.

The second her mouth was free, she engaged his hold again with flurried fists, crazily swinging to the side and behind her body in hopes of connecting with anything and screamed, “Help! Somebody hel—”

Almost instantly his hand locked over her mouth again, his grip tightened, regaining complete control. “Stop it! Listen to me. The Commander’s here. You gotta trust me, Julia,” he said, his tone serious, not threatening.

Trust him? Really? Why should she? Because at this moment she didn’t have a choice. Nodding in reluctant agreement to trust him, her body remained tense, ready to engage his dominance.

Keeping his hand firmly planted over her mouth, he whispered, “Stop fighting me, Julia. And you mustn’t scream. I don’t want to, but I’ll gag you and slap you in handcuffs if you even utter a word or try to fight me.”

Positive he would do exactly as he said, once again she surrendered, relaxing her muscles.

Continuing to maintain control of her, “Can I trust you to be quiet?”

Jewels quickly shook her head yes.

Cautiously he removed his hand.

Looking back at him, “What are you—” she began to whisper, but he quickly clamped his hand over her mouth.

“Shut up. Not a word.” Slowly he removed his hand from her mouth. “I’m going get you out of here,” he said with conviction, trading the hold around her body for a firm grasp on her left wrist.

Could it be true? Was he really going to save her from the clutches of the demented Commander ... whoever he was?

Scooping up the revolver, he stuffed it in his waist over his left hip for cross draw access, then motioned with his head they were going back down the hallway.

Wincing and letting out a little moan of discomfort at Marshall’s arresting grip, she hoped he would ease up a bit, but he didn’t.

His steps were stealthy. Pace fast.

To keep up Jewels had to trot. Upon reaching the midpoint of the corridor leading them deeper into the compound rather than away, she glanced back at the staircase. Furrowing her forehead, she tapped him on the shoulder, whispered, “Excuse me, but aren’t we going the wrong way? Isn’t the exit up those stairs back there?” she asked, pointing in the opposite direction.

“Trust me,” he said.

They approached a branch in the hall.

A surge of gunfire erupted at the opposite end.

As quickly as the gunfire started, it stopped.

Coffin silent.

Cautious yet determined footsteps echoed from the branched hall.

Crouching low, eyes at thigh level, Marshall peered around the corner. Almost instantly he withdrew, angrily mouthing a soundless curse. Shit, she thought he said.

Curious, she wanted to know what was going on. Leaning toward him, she whispered, “Wha—”

Instantly he clamped his hand over her mouth. Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, he ran his hand across his mouth like a zipper.

Raising her eyebrows and widening her eyes, she nodded indicating she understood to shut up, not even ask a question.

The footsteps drew closer.

Marshall stood up. Turned around. Backtracked down the hall. Slid into the sunken entry of a locked door that created a nook about five feet deep and four feet wide ... perfect to conceal a couple of bodies compressed against one another.

Pulling Jewels in front of him, he wrapped his left arm around her body, securely pinning her arms to her sides, and firmly covered her mouth with his right hand. “Be very quiet. Very still,” he said, pressing their bodies as far to the back and corner of the nook as possible.

Would someone planning to help her escape hold her like he was? Though unable to shake the feeling of being controlled like a hostage, Jewels nodded in consent.

The footfall of shoes slapping against the cold rock floor rapidly approached.

Voices. Faint. Indistinguishable.

Marshall tensed, tightening his clutch on her.

Jewels tensed, too. Breathing shallow. Heart thumping. Though she couldn’t see the men, they were close. Two distinguishable voices talking about “stooges” and “awards” ... topics making absolutely no sense to her. As she listened, one voice rang familiar. Cooman’s? No, didn’t seem right.

An odoriferous wave of Polo cologne invaded the nook. Moments later two men prowled past the doorway where Jewels and Marshall were hiding, oblivious to their presence. The dim and sporadic lighting that was the norm for the gloomy hallways helped conceal Jewels and Marshall, but also prevented identification of the facial features of the two men engaged in conversation as they rapidly walked by.

Marshall had purposely positioned their bodies at the far opposite corner, out of the line of casual sight from the men passing by in the hall. Unless they happened to look back or were intentionally clearing the nooks, they would never see the couple. Not even Jewels’ white gown.

Since the men were looking at each as they spoke, the back of one man’s head essentially blocked the front of the other, creating little more than silhouettes. As they briskly tramped by, one thing became clear: both men were sporting jackets with the letters F-B-I emblazoned in big yellow letters on the back. Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns dangled from their shoulders. The gunfire she heard earlier must have been from the FBI, not the MTAF as she had assumed.

An epiphany hit Jewels. The familiar voice. Scent of Polo cologne. FBI jacket. It was none other than FBI Special Agent In Charge Theodore Hines ... he had come to save her! But he and his partner were walking away. Her chance to be rescued was dwindling as fast as their strides. Being this close to freedom, she wasn’t going to let it literally, or figuratively,
walk away
.

Undeterred by Marshall’s hand firmly pressed over her mouth, she forced a scream for help. It was muffled, but enough to gain the attention of the men who wheeled around, stared in the direction of the dark nook they had passed some thirty feet back. “Identify yourself.”

It was Agent Hines.
Her
FBI man. The man with the brilliant crime-solving mind who had relentlessly pursued her for a date for months and who she had rebuffed time and again.
Please don’t give up on me now,
Jewels thought. Fueled with the desire to be free, despite his hand effectively sealing her mouth, Jewels relentlessly screamed Agent Hines’ name while vigorously thrashing her body about to break Marshall’s superior hold.

Without warning, Marshall removed his hand from her mouth.

An unexpected break. “Theodore! Help me! It’s me, Julia Andrasy,” she called out, gasping for air while violently wiggling to escape Marshall’s viselike hold around her waist and arms.

His muscular arm remained dominate.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw why Marshall had removed his hand. “Gun. He’s got a gun,” Jewels shrieked. It wasn’t the revolver he had picked up in the hall. This appeared to be 1911-style semi-automatic ... and all this time she thought Marshall didn’t pack.

“Dammit, Woman, you’re not helping,” Marshall snarled. Planting his wrist on Jewels’ hip, he pointed the muzzle of the .45 toward the two FBI agents standing a good thirty feet or more away and pushed her out into the hallway, using her body like a shield. “It’s over Hines,” Marshall said, authority in his voice.

How did he know Hines’ name? Jewels wondered.

Hines poked his head forward, straining his eyes in the dreary hall lighting to determine who was talking to him. “Who the hell are you?”

“The guy who’s gonna write the ending to your reign of terror,” Marshall sniped.

“Really?” Hines replied, voice oozing intrigue.

“That’s right, but first things first,” Marshall said, walking backwards, keeping Jewels in front of him, the gun still trained in Hines’ direction. “Gonna take her out of here, then I’ll be back for
you
.”

Jewels’ mind was a jumble. Something in Marshall’s tone wanted to make her trust him over Hines, an FBI agent! Did she really dislike Theodore that much? Or ... no, it wasn’t that at all. It was probably that cursed Stockholm Syndrome!

Determined she was not going to fall prey to that psychological defense mechanism, she exploded into a burst of fierce fighting against Marshall’s restraint. Legs insanely pumping, she strained to escape the heavy load of his arm.

Taken by surprise, Marshall lost command of her.

Jewels tore down the dreary hallway toward Hines, the long skirt wrapping around her legs as if she were in a windstorm.

“Get down!” Hines yelled.

Like an elegant swan making an emergency crash landing, she dived toward Hines’ feet, the sexy white gown flowing spectacularly behind her.

RATA-TAT-TAT! RATA-TAT-TAT!
The hallway was blistered in fiery explosions as the MP-5s furiously spit three-round bursts.
RATA-TAT-TAT! RATA-TAT-TAT!

Covering her ears, she squeezed her eyes shut and curled into a ball. Like fallout from the wrath of an angry firepower god, hot spent cartridges peppered her body and the surrounding floor.

Spray and pray
, Jewels thought regarding the FBI agent’s wild pattern of shooting.
Spray
bullets randomly in the general direction of the target and
pray
that a few of them hit.

F
inally the last spent cartridge landed next to her head.

“Julia, are you okay?” Hines asked, bending down to help her to her feet.

“I think so,” she said, getting up slowly, brushing off the gritty dust particles stuck to her bare arms.

“You got your dress dirty,” Hines noted, eyeing the dark smudges on the bodice and the front of the skirt.

“Oh,” Jewels said, an odd look on her face.

“Allow me,” Hines said, taking the liberty to rub the smudges, which wiped off surprisingly easily.

Jewels didn’t protest.