Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (21 page)

Once again the sound of army boots hurriedly thumping against rock swelled within the corridor. Then silence. Call it dumb luck, the hand of God, her fairy godmother, or just plain incompetence on the part of the searchers, but not one of them had bothered to inspect the closet right behind them.

Despite her momentary good fortune, Jewels’ teeth chattered from the awestruck terror shredding her innards like a demon blender. How was she going to elude capture? Of course reaching the top of the stairs would be a good start, though her kidnapper told his men
he
was going outside.

Still, kidnapper lurking outside or not, maybe once free of the dungeon and outside, she’d find her Humvee and ... “Be gone like a bat out of hell,” Jewels whispered to herself.

After calmness filled the corridor for several minutes, though still jittery on the inside and out, she eased the storage door open wide enough to peek her head around the corner.

Empty hallway.

Scurrying on all fours out of the cubby space, she lunged to her feet. As a precaution, she vigorously dusted off her arms and legs then shook her head, swatting at the strands of hair just in case one of the giant spider’s relatives wanted to hitch a ride.

Just then, behind her down the hall, pandemonium was unleashed. Men shouting to one another. Doors ripping open and slamming closed. Sporadic shuffling and thudding of heavy steps hammering against the rock floor. An echoing symphony of chaos. A prelude to unavoidable capture ... unless she got out of there. Fast!

Advancing in
DEFCON Two
defensive mode—ready for war—surgical scissors in one hand and the scalpel in the other, Jewels surreptitiously traversed the dungeon-like corridor toward the stairs. The door was ajar. Brilliant rays of sunshine illuminated the way. “Light at the end of the tunnel,” Jewels whispered with a slight smile, a surge of hope for freedom instantly yanking the plug on the demon blender that had been pureeing her innards.

At the bottom of the stairwell, she paused for a moment, mustering courage. Blowing air threw puffed cheeks, “You’re operating in the
red
now,” she whispered, reminding herself that
DEFCON Two
mode was the equivalent of Jeff Cooper’s
red
in the color codes of awareness for escalating self-defense. Only one color, black, or one level,
DEFCON One
remained: active fighting in a no-holds-barred war. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to engage in battle.

Bounding up the rock stairs toward the light, she halted at the top. On the other side of the door, daylight. Freedom.

Still grasping her improvised weapons, one in each hand, she extended her foot out to hook her big toe around the bottom of the metal door. Exerting a bit of force with her leg, she edged the door open with her foot, keeping herself hidden behind the weighty slab.

The hinges ground out a long, lazy whine as they rotated. Jewels cringed and gritted her teeth, hoping the sound wouldn’t blow her escape.

With her foot lodged as a doorstop and shielding her face with her forearm from the sunshine, she snooped around the corner. Immediately spied her Hummer. It was parked under a massive free standing awning. Fifteen or twenty other four-wheel-drive vehicles were neatly lined up in rows four deep. Her H1 was parked not more than fifty feet in front of her, in the end spot closest to the door she was hiding behind. A viable means of escape was right in front of her. The prospect of freedom electrified her body.

Taking stock of her surroundings, her attention was drawn to the road in front of her. The dirt and gravel four-wheel-drive trail leisurely wound through a meadow, the length of about two city blocks. The grassy flatland was bordered by towering pines interspersed with quaking aspen. The well-traveled road seemed to vanish into the dense thicket at the end of the meadow, instantly reminding her of Sharon’s crude map. Would this route lead to the main road or near the lake Sharon had sketched and, more importantly, would either be populated enough to summon help from others? Or would the road direct her to the cabin ... the one Sharon had underlined and traced over multiple times for emphasis? Maybe that cabin wasn’t a cabin at all, but a Ranger’s station with a radio and staffed with armed rangers and ...?

A half dozen men were walking away from her at the far perimeter of the meadow, presumably searching for her. All were dressed in woodland green camouflage, identical to the flowing T-shirt Doc had given her.

One last time she surveyed the scene. No sign of her kidnapper. Appeared clear. “On the count of three,” she whispered. “One ... two ... three.” Bolting from behind the metal door, she exploded into a dead run toward her Hummer. The sharp edges of crushed rock—inexpensive man-made gravel—clawed and chewed the tender soles of her feet, but she clenched her teeth and endured the pain. In another twenty feet she’d be there.

“Gotcha!” he barked from behind her, followed by the distinctive sound of a cartridge being chambered in a long gun.

Jewels knew that voice. It was her kidnapper’s. Skidding to a halt, goosebumps sprouted. Heart flip-flopped. Where the hell did he come from? Seemed to appear out of nowhere, just like he had in her kitchen.

No way would she give up without a fight.
DEFCON One!
With white knuckles constricted around the makeshift defensive tools, she drew her elbows in close to her chest to assume a modified boxer’s guard position, concealing the scissors and scalpel as best she could. Possessing hidden weapons afforded her the advantage of the element of surprise in the counterattack. Would it be enough to prevail against a commanding barbarian wielding an assault rifle?

The sound of dried leaves and gravel crunching forewarned his determined strides were rapidly approaching. Rotating her head and body in opposite directions to keep her weapons from his sight, she peered over her shoulder. No more than a yardstick away he stood.

A mammoth of a man. Six four, three-hundred-twenty-five pounds. Solid muscle. Perfect chestnut complexion. Bullethead, shaved and shiny. Eyes beady, black, and piercing, hovering above a large flat nose like Mike Tyson’s. A perfectly trimmed Fu Manchu mustache framed a cruel mouth. Sparkling in his left ear lobe, a diamond solitaire. A woodland green camo T-shirt spanned his massive chest, revealing vascular bloated biceps.

It was the first time she had seen her kidnapper without the leather mask disguising most of his face and black clothes covering his body from chin to ankles. No doubt, he was more intimidating and bone-chilling
without
the mask.

“You’re a real smart one,” he said, aiming the front sight at her head.

Remaining unruffled, she waited, head still craned over her shoulder toward him. Scissors and scalpel still clutched to her chest.

Snickering, yet in a tone that noted he was impressed with her cunning, “Fooled poor Doc Callahan. From the looks of him you musta really busted his nuts.”

Swallowing dryly, she held her ground, maintaining composure.

“Okay, tough-girl. Play time’s over. Drop whatever shit you got in your hands and hit the gravel,” he ordered, inching the barrel closer toward her ear.

Wait. Timing is everything,
she told herself.

Jewels didn’t waiver. Kept an eye on him. Her ace in the hole was the fact he
couldn’t
kill her. Wasn’t even supposed to hurt her because she was the Commander’s, whoever he was.

Still, the AR in her face was a problem. Whether or not he was
supposed
to keep her from harm, accidents happened, especially with guns. Accidents with firearms were at higher odds of occurring especially in tense situations. Jewels had reported too many stories about people mistakenly tapping a trigger that resulted in wounding or killing a person they had no intention of harming. That sobering fact alone was cause enough to reconsider the option of surrendering. But she refused, figuring eventually he’d have to lower the barrel and point the muzzle at the ground. And when he did:
DEFCON One
.

“Are you fuckin’ deaf?” he snarled.

Obviously a rhetorical question. She didn’t respond or flinch.

“GRRRRR,” he growled. “What is it with you?” Unmistakably boiling with impatience over Jewels’ failure to succumb to his intimidation tactic, he slung the AR over his back in frustration. “Goddammit!”

This was what she had been waiting for ... the opportunity to strike.

“I said get down in that fuckin’ gravel or I’ll put you down,” he demanded, seizing her slight shoulder in his massive palm and clamping down his fingers.

Code black!
Twirling around, she launched an aggressive counterattack. Like a prize fighter in a brutal bout, her fists pounded a torrid flurry of right and left hooks, the scalpel and scissors slicing and puncturing the flesh of her kidnapper’s face, chest, hands, and arms. If she was lucky, she’d hit a main artery. Kill the bastard.

As she had hoped, and despite his own words of caution regarding her tenacious nature, her counterstrike caught him off guard. Instantly he recoiled, howling in pain, his hands covering the wicked slash gouged across his cheek. Blood streamed between his thick fingers, over his broad chest, and down his well-developed forearms from the numerous wounds. “My face! You fuckin’ bitch! My face!”

His momentary retreat and preoccupation with his gushing injuries presented Jewels with the opportunity to resume her mad dash to the Hummer.

“Jesus, God,” he hollered, deep distress in his voice.

Jewels couldn’t help herself, looked back, watched as he attempted to shoulder the rifle, but instantly dropped it to apply direct pressure with the palm of his left hand on the spurting wound on his upper right arm.

“You fuckin’ bitch,” he wailed in agony.

Faintly smiling with satisfaction, it appeared she may have nicked the brachial artery in his right arm. Immediate medical attention was required if he didn’t want to bleed out or risk losing his arm to amputation. Hopefully he was smart enough to figure that out and would cease his pursuit of her to tend his potentially life-altering wound.

“You fucked up my face! I
will
get you for this!” he roared, scrambling back into the compound.

Victory over her kidnapper surged her adrenaline. Still holding the bloodied scalpel and scissors, Jewels raced toward her Humvee, a mere twenty feet ahead. Nothing or no one could stop her now.

Not surprisingly, the half dozen men who had been scanning the perimeter mere moments earlier were now stampeding toward her, their feet urgently beating against the earth like the thundering hooves of a herd of spooked cattle.

Knowing it would only slow her down, she rebuffed the temptation to visually engage their oncoming assault, instead focusing on escape. On retrieving the hidden key. Robert could have never imagined just how right he was when he used to tell her she’d
never know when a spare key might come in handy
. Thank goodness she at least kept practicing
that
after Robert’s death and didn’t become lax as she had with the security system.

Transferring the scalpel to her left hand to free up her right hand, her fingertips frantically danced under the wheel-well in search of the precious little black box. “Come on, come on ... got it!”

Into the driver seat Jewels scrambled, slamming the door shut and engaging the automatic door locks. Tossing the bloody surgical-tools-turned-defensive-weapons into the console for safe keeping and quick access, she stuffed the key in the ignition.

The roar of the diesel engine coming to life immediately heightened the frenzy of the small army rapidly closing the gap to less than a hundred feet.

Throwing the Hummer in reverse, she gunned it, then jammed it into first and mashed the pedal, wheeling the monster vehicle onto the dirt and rock road. “Woo-hoo!” Jewels howled with a victorious laugh, feeling smart and invincible.

Gravel flew like shrapnel.

The onslaught of militiamen protected their heads with their hands as Jewels blew by. One hooked his hands onto the rear bumper as if to hooky bob.

Ramming the gear into second, she held the gas pedal to the floor. With the speedometer inching toward thirty, the ruts carved in the four-wheel-drive trail violently jostled the giant machine from side to side, requiring a white-knuckled grip to control the steering.

The clinging camo-clad man was bucked off.

Gusts of wind blew the dust stirred up from the churning tires in front of her, creating a vision impairing cloud. Squinting, she leaned forward with her chin hovering over the steering wheel straining to see, but didn’t slow down. Thrust the transmission into third.

Based on observations just moments ago, she estimated the rough road crossed the meadow for about two city blocks before disappearing into the pines. Maybe she had traveled about a block, almost halfway to the forest. So it didn’t matter if her vision was restricted to ten feet in front of her or if she was weaving in and out of the scored road and onto the weed-filled meadow like a drunk. Slowing down simply wasn’t an option. Throwing caution to the wind, she slid the Humvee into fourth gear.

Seconds later she blasted out of the dirt fog, careening across the bumpy green meadow toward a massive clump of trees. The
goal road
leading into the depths of the forest appeared to be completely level with no ruts and constructed more of gravel than dirt.