Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (44 page)

Taking a step back, Hines gazed at her, smiling. “Much better.”

Morbid curiosity prompted her to turn her head in the direction where she figured Marshall’s bloody, bullet-riddled body would be. Unexpectedly, her heart fluttered at the sight of the empty corridor.

Motioning with his hand to the location in the hall where Jewels had escaped Marshall’s grasp, “Let’s take a look,” Hines said, pressing his flat palm against Jewels’ bare back.

Reactively, she shuddered at his touch. Crossing her arms over her chest, she rubbed her hands over her biceps, as if to warm up, “Where’d he go?” she asked, her voice revealing pleasant surprise he was not dead.

“Don’t know,” the heavy-set FBI agent responded.

Hines grinned triumphantly, pointing to the floor a few feet in front of him. “See that? Blood,” he said. “We got him.”

Eyes wide, “Oh,” Jewels said, disappointment obvious in her tone.

Hines crawled out of his FBI jacket, straightened his suit coat, then draped it across Jewels’ shoulders.

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping it tightly around her body.

“He was right about one thing. Our first priority is to get you out of here. We’ll get him later.”

“Yes, please. That would be great,” Jewels returned, enthusiastically nodding her head.

Hines kept his hand plastered against Jewels’ back as they walked toward the staircase ... the staircase she knew led to the great outdoors and freedom.

“Where’s the rest of your team?” Jewels quizzed.

“Just the two of us,” he said, nodding at the other FBI agent.

“Only two?” Jewels’ eyes pancaked. How was that even believable, let alone possible, that a mere two FBI agents took down the madmen of SPOF?

“By the way,” Hines said, halting progression toward the stairs. “I don’t think you two have been officially introduced. This is my partner, Agent Wingate.”

“Heard a lot about you and I’m pleased to meet you,” he said with a smile extending his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Agent Wingate,” Jewels replied, shaking his hand. “By the way, how’d you find me?” she asked, curiosity washing her face.

Flashing a crafty smile, Hines scooped up her hand, towing her toward the stairway.

HOLDING HIS CHEST
IN MISERY
, Marshall Watters staggered down the hall toward Cooman’s office. Life’s crimson sap oozed from the muscular bulge in his right arm.

The corridor was littered with bloody bodies; eyes frozen in shock.

Navigating around the corpses like they were nothing more than odd pieces of furniture obstructing his path, he labored to breathe, gulping air. The pain was exquisite. His body was ready to collapse, but his will wouldn’t let him succumb to the temptation. “Get to the radio,” he said, edging himself on.

Finally, he reached Cooman’s office. Wrestling the door open he saw Cooman behind the desk, dead. His bloody body splayed against the back of his chair.

Marshall forced his legs to carry him toward Cooman. Upon reaching him, he pushed the dead general in his chair to the side, exposing the desk’s underside.

Cooman’s body slowly slid off the chair, landing on the rock floor with an eerie thud.

With the backside of Cooman’s desk directly in front of him, Marshall pressed his back against the wall, allowing his body to slowly drip down the rough stones until his butt hit the hard floor.

After a few moments, he peeled off his T-shirt. Every twist and wiggle caused him to grit his teeth and growl in pain. Once the shirt was off, he tossed it aside then looked down at his chest, vigorously running his hands up, down and across in search of seeping blood.

Both hands came up clean and dry, but his fingers landed on a small chunk of metal in the middle of his chest. Prying it out of the material with his finger, he gazed at the deformed bullet. A Cheshire cat smile instantly ate away the agony on his face. “Thank God for Kevlar,” he said, patting the custom-manufactured concealable soft body armor covering his torso.

Though the projectile hadn’t penetrated the ballistic vest, the energy of the bullet had been dissipated over the entire surface of the densely-woven material. Unlike many Hollywood depictions, bulletproof vests don’t make the wearer invincible. Intense pain, severe bruising, and fractured ribs are almost guaranteed and internal bleeding is not uncommon. Marshall Watters wasn’t out of the woods yet.

ONCE INSIDE THE BLACK
Cadillac Escalade, Jewels leaned over the console and reached her arms around Hines’ neck, pecking a light kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Agent Hines,” she whispered, holding back tears of gratitude.

Smoothly sliding his hands under his FBI jacket she was wearing onto her bare shoulders and down her exposed back, he pulled her in close, returning her hug.

What the hell?
Why were hands inside the jacket and on her bare skin?
Startled by his brazen move, she tensed, automatically attempted to withdraw her body.

Squeezing harder, he didn’t release her.

Sure, his hands were warm. Strong. But she didn’t find them comforting. Instead, almost distressing.

“No need to thank me, but...,” drawing her in even closer and squashing her breasts against his chest, “I
do
appreciate the hug,” he said, a hint of raunchiness in his tone.

Feeling uneasy in his arms, she pushed herself away, impulsively wrapping his FBI jacket tightly across her chest to cover up. Forcing a pleasant look on her face, she gazed into his eyes, “So, you’re my hero.” Her voice faltered, didn’t sound sincere, almost blended into a question. Smiling widely, “How am I ever going to repay you?” she asked, a blatant overcompensation for the
hero
comment she had nervously blurted out.

A fanatical gleam germinated on his face. “I’m sure I can think of
something
.”

Overacting, “Oh, Agent Hines,” she said, tilting her head back in laughter, assuming the dinner date he had been bugging her for over the last several months was what he had in mind.

Memories of the debacle with the FBI agents at her home Thursday infused her mind. Agent Hines’ temper was revealed that evening when he stomped out of her house. A few moments ago he proved to be the touchy-feely sort. But so what. Regardless of his roaming hands and whatever transpired the other day, he
did
save her from the crazy militiamen and their commander. Feeling guilty for her harsh judgement of him, she cleared her throat, “I owe you an apology for the other night.”

“What, for throwing me out of your house, or not returning my phone call?”

“I guess both, but, actually, I
was
dialing your number when I was interrupted by Sharon’s call...,” shrugging, “and, well, you know the rest of the story.”

“You must be hungry and thirsty,” he said, reaching behind the seat to rummage in a small duffle bag.

Sighing and rubbing her throat, “Yes, parched.”

“It’s not a chocolate donut and Diet Coke...,” nodding at the items in his hand, “but trail mix and a bottle of water will do wonders for you,” he said with a wink, handing them to her.

Eagerly scooping them out of his hand, she immediately opened the water, gulped it.

Watching her, he grinned, reached over, tapped her hand. “Hey, slow down. After everything you’ve been through, I’d hate to see you drown yourself.”

Bobbing her head and smiling, “Thank you, this was just what I needed,” she said a little breathless from guzzling the water nonstop. Dabbing the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand, she twisted the cap onto the nearly empty water bottle, closed her eyes and collapsed her body back into the seat, mentally and physically drained.

Starting the engine, he revved it.

Opening her eyes, Jewels’ attention was drawn to the glowing green clock: 7:43. It had been a long and hellish day. Couldn’t wait to get home.

“Before we get going, I thought you might want these,” he said, reaching behind her seat and handing her the white pointed toe spike heels she used to knock out Marshall in the bathroom.

“When did you have time to find these?”

Grinning slyly, “You have to remember, Jewels, I
am
the FBI.”

Laughing, she gathered the shoes from him. “I must confess, I have kind of wide feet. This style of shoe typically squashes my toes. So I’d just as soon not put them on ... if you don’t mind, of course.”

“Won’t bother me,” Hines said, dropping the Escalade into gear. The power locks automatically anchored the doors shut. “Buckle up. This road’s rough.”

Tossing the heels onto the floor in the back, she buckled her seat belt and gazed out the window. The towering pines and surrounding dense forest forged a tunnel of eerie shadows, all but blocking out the evening sun. An uneasy feeling poured over Jewels’ body, as if her
vibes
were signaling a warning. But what about?
Touchy-feely
Hines? Nah, that was over and done with. At this point, she was clueless. Chalking up her bad vibes alert to nothing more than the aftermath of a calamitous day, she sighed and silently thanked the Lord for His mercy and for Agent Hines rescuing her.

Settling back into the seat, she closed her eyes. Marshall Watters roamed her mind. A Jekyll and Hyde character for sure. One minute sweet, kind, caring; the next a rough-handed jerk. Her thoughts lurched forward to the last moments with Marshall Watters, replaying his words: “It’s over, Hines.” The fact Marshall knew Theodore, called him by his name, troubled her, launched her reporter instincts into overdrive.

Had Marshall been arrested by Agent Hines sometime in the past? After all, it seemed logical a criminal would remember the law man who had brought him to justice. And, no doubt, the perp would harbor a lot of resentment, an emotion that had plenty of time to fester within the confines of a tiny barred cell.

How much time
had
Marshall Watters spent in prison? What had he done to get there? When she returned to the Press, she’d launch a research campaign into Marshall Watters’ surely checkered past ... to satisfy her own curiosity if nothing else.

FBI Special Agent Theodore Hines drove the Escalade hard. The mountain road was steep and rough, jostling the vehicle to and fro. Loose rocks bombarded the undercarriage like an assault from hell.

Splaying white-knuckled fingers onto the arm rests, Jewels hung on for added stability during the bouncy ride. The sleeves of Hines’ navy blue FBI jacket rode up her arms, exposing wide bands of bruised tissue around her wrists; evidence she had resisted some sort of restraint recently. “So, Agent Hines—”

“Call me Theo,” he interrupted.

“Uh, okay. Theo, how does Marshall know you?” Jewels asked, her voice just below the shouting level.

Contorting his face, “Who?”

“Marshall. Marshall Watters. You know, the militia guy you just rescued me from?”

“I
don’t
know him,” he briskly replied.

Jewels’ journalistic sense told her there was more of a story there than he was letting on. She pressed. “That’s funny. I distinctly remember him calling you by name. He said, ‘It’s over, Hines.’”

Tightening his grip around the steering wheel, he ground his teeth and shot a glance brimming with annoyance at her.

Undaunted, she continued, “He also said he was going to write the ending to your book of life, or—”

“Like I said, I don’t know him,” he spit out through snarled lips, his face pinched with suppressed fury.

Tilting her head in disbelief, “Well, he
sure
seemed to know you.”

Frowning, “Just drop it, Julia.”

“Fine.” But her innate ability to root out a story within a story
wouldn’t
let
her drop it. Theo was hiding something, she knew it. Twisting her body at a three-quarter angle to set herself up in a better position to interpret his body language, she continued, “I just find his comments curious, like you two had history or—”

“Wish I could’ve picked you up before Tank tied you up and battered you around,” he interrupted, momentarily taking his eyes off the road to burn them into hers. “You’re lucky you got away with just black and blue rings on your wrists and ankles.”

Instinctively Jewels’ body recoiled as she gasped, her left hand shooting to her right wrist, unconsciously massaging it. Taken by surprise, not only by Theo’s rapid change of subject and the fact he knew about Tank’s assault on her, but particularly his odd choice of words. Jewels’ face painted in an abstract smearing of confusion, bewilderment and horror. Why would he say
picked you up
instead of
rescued you
?

Taking in her reaction, his saved-only-for-special-occasions
alligator grin
surfaced.

Like the robot’s catchphrase from the “Lost In Space” TV series warned, “Danger, Will Robinson,” Jewels’ vibes were screaming,
Danger, Julia Andrasy!
Body tense, breaths short, “What?” she asked, her voice soft and apprehensive.

“You’re also fortunate he didn’t kill you when he took you hostage after escaping the disciplinary room,” he replied with nonchalance.