Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (36 page)

As the head of SPOF security, Marshall was ordered by the general to lead the search for Jewels. “Remember everyone,” Marshall said, “if Tank’s still in the building, a stealthy approach could mean the difference between life and death for Miz Andrasy. I’ll take the interior. The rest of you head outside, stealth mode. I’ll join you should I come up empty-handed. Unless you’ve got a strong lead, I want you back here at,” pausing to glance at his watch, “thirteen-hundred hours. We’ll meet in the cafeteria. Good luck, gentlemen,” he said, slipping through the door, the men following close behind.

As usual the hallway was dark, damp and smelled like an old cellar. Gut instinct told him Jewels was still in the compound. Stopping, he waved the rest of the militia past him.

When the corridor was silent, Marshall jogged toward the intersection. After traveling only a few feet, he realized his boots made too much noise. Quickly stripping them off, he pushed them up against the wall, resuming his jog in stocking feet.

At the corner of the first branch in the hallway he hastily glimpsed around it. Noticed about halfway down the corridor, something on the floor. Was it Jewels? A sudden stab of anxiety pained his gut.

Sliding the AR off his back, he held it in the low-ready position, aiming the muzzle about two-feet in front of his toes, and indexing his finger outside the trigger guard.

Inhaling a deep breath, he snaked around the corner. Inching down the corridor, he watched for any sign of life from the little heap on the floor. Or of Tank from the shadows.

The closer he got to the mass, the more it became apparent it wasn’t Jewels. It was a pair of boots. Every few seconds he glanced down both ends of the corridor watching for Tank as he examined the boots.

Too small to be Tank’s. Must be Jewels. The icy coolness of the rock floor penetrating his socks reminded him of his own lack of footwear. Wiggling his toes, he grinned, realizing she had the same idea.
Smart girl!
A feeling of hope warmed his innards. Maybe she was still alive.

Abandoning the boots in the middle of the hall just as he had found them, he proceeded down the passage. Before crossing each doorway, he checked if the door was locked. If it was, he moved on, figuring Tank probably wouldn’t have taken the time to shuffle through the keys. If the door was not locked, he cleared the room before moving on.

Another hall. The prison cell area.

After an instantaneous look-see around the corner and finding it empty, he gazed down the length of the corridor. The cell door where Jewels had been kept was closed.

Shutting his eyes to think, clearly, he remembered leaving the door unlocked and wide open when he escorted Jewels to the trial. Now it was closed.
Bastard’s taken her back to finish what he started!

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stirred as he imagined the worst: Jewels’ limbs ruthlessly bound to the corners of the bed. Naked body beaten and bruised. Brutally tortured. Raped. Butchered. Dead.

Tightening his grip on the AR, he sucked in a deep breath, scooting around the corner and slinking his way toward Jewels’ cell door.

Closer inspection of the cell door indicated it was definitely locked. Parking at the side of the door, he plastered his back against the stone wall. Thinking. Tank wouldn’t—couldn’t—lock himself inside. Must have left Jewels in there.

Swinging the AR on his back, he dug the cell key out of his pocket, shoved it in the lock and readied to unlock the door. Suddenly he stopped.
What if, maybe, just maybe, Jewels somehow locked Tank inside?

Sliding the AR forward and jamming the stock into his shoulder, entry would be hot ... he’d be ready to shoot. Slowly and quietly, he unlocked the door. Eased it open. Peered inside.

His eyes were drawn to the bed. What he didn’t see showered him in relief. Jewels wasn’t tied down! Instead, she appeared to be sleeping on her side, curled in a ball, with a blanket covering her entire body up to her chin.

Slipping the AR back around his shoulder, he crept into the cell. Lying so still and quiet, he momentarily feared she might be dead, but the sight of the blanket pumping rhythmically up and down assured him she was at least breathing.

As happy as he was to find her alive, he was curious as to how it happened. Last he knew, Tank was going to rip her head off. What could have happened in the space of fifteen minutes? Kneeling next to the bed, he touched her right shoulder, shook her gently. “Jewels?”

Groaning, her face distorted, revealing she was experiencing pain.

“Jewels,” his voice raised an octave, shaking her a little harder.

Fluttering open, her big blue eyes focused on his face. Instantly she screamed. Terror consumed her features. Back peddling as fast as she could, she plastered her body against the stone walls. Holding her breath, eyes wide with alarm, she clenched her fists against her chest, just under her chin.

Latching onto her upper arms, he pressed her shoulders against the wall. “Julia, relax,” he said, calmly.

Her bunched fists flew at his face, legs pumping fiercely under the blanket. “Go away! Leave me alone!”

Snaring her wrists, “Jewels, it’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you. It’s me. Marshall. Marshall Watters.”

Ceasing to battle, she blinked rapidly. Confusion smeared her face.

“It’s okay, Jewels. It’s me, Marshall Watters.”

Narrowing her eyes with suspicion, her body remained tense, ready to explode into fight mode at any moment.

Marshall wondered what Tank had done to her to make her so afraid of him. “Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t you recognize me?” Having heard his own words, he immediately realized the problem: his face. The paint on his face!

Releasing her wrists, he hastily wiped his face with his shirt. “It’s paint, Jewels. Camo paint.”

Her eyes widened. Sparkled. “Marshall,” she shrieked, throwing her arms around his neck.

Returning her hug, “Sorry I scared you. I forgot about the paint.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m okay now that you’re here,” she said, nuzzling her cheek in his shoulder as they embraced.

“I’m really sorry about Kirk,” he said with regret, soothingly rubbing her back.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Blankly staring at the wall in front of him, “I think he was actually a pretty good guy and don’t know what attracted him to joining SPOF.”

Tightening her grip around his neck as if for added comfort, “He
was
a good guy,” she confirmed, her voice cracking.

The sound of running footsteps rapidly approaching echoed in the hall.

Marshall hungered for her. Wanted to kiss her. Caress her. Make love to her. And he was certain she felt the same about him, but it was neither the time nor the place for the expression of rapture. Acting upon such desires could get them both killed. His soul ached like a phantom limb as he pushed her away and stood up.

Raising her brows, Jewels widened her eyes and gaped her mouth, clearly confused by his abruptness. Sniffling, she settled back on the bed to lean against the wall, crossing her legs and draping the blanket around her shoulders.

The approaching footsteps stopped. The sound of a half dozen men breathing hard from running flooded the room.

“She’s okay,” Marshall called out. “What are you doing back here?”

“We came back for the GPS to track Tank’s truck and heard her scream,” one of the men replied.

“Not a bad idea, but I’ll bet he’s disabled it. Regardless, go for it, ” Marshall said with authority.

“Yes, Sir,” the men replied in unison.

The pounding footsteps resumed, quickly distancing themselves from Jewels’ cell.

Once the men were gone, Marshall turned back to Jewels, planting his hands on his hips. “So, where’s Tank?” he asked, his tone detached. Businesslike.

“I guess he left,” she said with a flick of her shoulder then letting out a little gasp from pain.

Marshall picked up on it, knelt next to the bed. “Are you hurt?” he quizzed, his face overcome with worry.

“Not too bad,” she replied, glancing over at her shoulder, gently rubbing it.

Arching a brow, he slanted his head in disbelief. “Jewels, tell me what happened to your shoulder.” His tone empathetic but demanding. “Tell me what happened after Tank dragged you into the hall and shut the door,” he said, sliding his hand onto her knee, lightly patting it to comfort and reassure her.

Sucking a long breath through flared nostrils and exhaling through puffed cheeks, she expanded her eyes. “Not much really
happened
. When the door shut, Tank threw me down. I got up and started running. A couple minutes later he caught up with me, tackled me...,” nodding at her right shoulder, “that’s how I got this.”

“Go on,” Watters prodded, tapping her knee.

“Uh, then he brought me back here, told me he was impressed with how I stood up to Cooman using the hot poker and asked if I would have really gouged out his eyes.”

“And you said...?”

A slight laugh crept out of her. “I told him the truth. When I thought he was going to kill me I wanted to rip out his eyes, but I wouldn’t have been able to do it with him chained down.” Picking up the corner of the blanket, she nervously twisted it around her finger.

“What else did he say, Julia?”

“Um, he said my answer was fair enough and he would call us
even
right now, but...,” Jewels’ voice trailed off. Biting her lip to keep the tears at bay, she intensified the twisting of the corner of the blanket around her finger.

Marshall’s face pinched with concern. “But what, Jewels?”

Voice quivering, “Uh, he said he would come back sometime in the future to get me for cutting his face.” Bursting into tears, she buried her head in her hands.

Marshall scrutinized her. She looked so alone. So lonely. So afraid and uncertain. So much in need of strong, loving arms to reassure her. Protect her. Appreciate her. Take care of her. So much in need of someone. Someone like
him
.

Unable to resist his heart’s desires any longer, he tenderly wrapped his arms around her body. Cuddled her. Stroked her long hair. “I’ll never let him hurt you, Jewels. Trust me.
Never
,” he promised with a whisper, kissing the top of her forehead.

10:40 AM SATURDAY - WESTMORELAND COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE.
The white Ford Expedition left a thick trail of dust as the big rubber tread chewed through the gravel parking lot of the Westmoreland County Sheriff’s Office. The SUV came to a sliding stop at the front door of the building that looked like a giant tit made of steel. It was one of those portable circular metal buildings often used as overflow classrooms in school districts.

“I’ll be just a minute, Honey. I promise,” the driver said to the pretty redhead in the passenger seat before slamming the door shut and dashing toward the building.

The driver, a forty-two year old woman who practiced the alternative life-style, scurried up the porch steps, her harness boots slapping against the wooden slats as if on a boardwalk in an old western town. She wore a blue, green, and white plaid flannel shirt tucked into a stone-washed pair of 501s.

At five-foot-ten-inches tall, she tipped the scales at nearly one-hundred-eighty pounds. Solid muscle, not fat. Decades of fishing and playing softball in the sun had blazed permanent ruts in her face. Her big hazel eyes looked like moss-covered boulders against her ruddy complexion that resembled a four-wheel-drive trail. Hair, the color of burnt almonds and cut in a no-frills pixie, topped her head like the roof on a grass hut. She possessed a look of masculinity some men could only ever dream of emulating. She burst through the door.

“Sheriff! Thought you had the day off. What are you doin’ here?” the twenty-two year old man in uniform asked, quickly removing his lounging size fourteen feet from the desk top. His hawk-brown eyes glanced nervously down at the floor, his milky white face suddenly ablaze to match the color of his hair: red. The big boss had caught him loafing.

“Scumbags don’t take time off,” she replied with a raspy chuckle, hustling past him toward her office. Not really there to work, she was just stopping by to pick up the purchase order form she had promised to drop off to Sheriff Wadison on her way to the cabin to go fishing. Since her county was small and so was Wadison’s, they often combined supply orders to save money. This one was for road safety flares. Unfortunately, she forgot the paperwork last night when she left. Remembered this morning fifty minutes into the drive. Had to turn around, drive back to grab them.

Her big leathery hands sifted through the pile of yellow, pink, and eggshell sheets that haphazardly formed a mini leaning Tower of Pisa on her well-used metal desk.

The building suddenly groaned. A giveaway someone had come through the front door. “Shit, Lilly can’t be
that
anxious to go fishing,” she muttered to herself.

“Express letter for Clarkston. Sheriff Jodie

Clarkston,” an unfamiliar male voice announced.

Who would be sending her anything urgent enough to be delivered overnight? After all, she was the sheriff in a podunk county. The
mysterious case of the tomato tossers
who had, with blatant premeditation, assaulted dozens of defenseless rural mail boxes across the county, was the last
exciting
crime spree she had solved. “Bored high school kids,” she reminisced. She had caught the perpetrators red-handed, literally with juice and seeds from over-ripe tomatoes leaking between their fingers, all over their clothes and dripping inside the cab of the old pickup.