A fiendish grin ate Zip’s face. “You can bet your fuckin’ black ass on it!”
Snickering, Tank strolled out of the locker area.
Zip shadowed him, closing the vintage fir door. “Hey, how about when you get back we use this bitch to teach you some of the finer points of bondage fucking?”
“Tempted. But not an option. She’s already reserved at the highest level.”
“Really? Maybe just a little sample would be okay,” Zip pressed, with a dirty grin, strolling shoulder to shoulder with Tank down the stone-encased hallway, their casual footsteps amplifying to sound like an army marching in sync.
Vigorously shaking his head in disagreement, Tank replied, “Forget it. Like I said, not an option.”
About to cross the intersection, Tank halted, raised a finger, wagged it as he turned to face Zip. “Hey, one more thing. You got some sort of hood or something I can put over her head? Don’t want the bitch to see where I’m takin’ her and once we get here, I don’t want her to see the inside of the compound.”
Zip’s features compressed. Thought about it for a moment. Motioned for Tank to follow him back to the locker area.
Once inside the room, Zip opened another locker he had claimed for himself, dug round for a few moments then extracted a wrinkled ball of material. “How about a laundry sack?” he asked, shaking it out.
“Good enough,” Tank replied, snatching the cloth bag out of Zip’s hand and proceeding to fold and roll it like a mini sleeping bag before stuffing it another pocket. “See ya in three, four hours,” he said, rapidly striding down the hall toward the intersection, his jacket pockets bulging.
Zip hung back. “Remember, have fun,” he called out, envy in his voice, as Tank was about to disappear into an adjoining hall.
Abruptly Tank halted and spun around, jogging back to Zip. “Oh, another thing. I need someone to drive my truck back. General says I need to bring back one of her vehicles.”
“Sure. Yeah. Love to.” Zip’s cesspool eyes lit up with excitement. “Hey, I could even help you get—”
“No!”
Zip’s eyes widened, his hands waved a surrender signal. “Calm down, man. It was just a thought.”
The men walked briskly down the hall. Tank stopped, his face drenched with concern. “Seriously, you think Watters is better looking than me?”
Zip burst out laughing, “You got a Cinderella complex? Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”
“I think you’re mixing up fairy tales....” Tank’s voice trailed off.
“Sorry, didn’t mean—”
“Forget it,” Tank snorted.
Zip grabbed his shoulder. “I was just fucking with ya,” he said, tone serious. “Watters ain’t got nothing on you, except maybe more hair.”
Tank laughed.
Zip slapped him on the back, gestured toward the stairway. “Maybe we could have a lineup. Let the bitch pick the fairest of them all.”
“Fine. You’ve had your fun,” Tank snickered, walking briskly down the hall. Turning serious, “Focus. Game face on. Gotta package to wrap up and deliver ... and her name is Julia Andrasy.”
Chapter Eleven
10:42 P.M. Jewels gazed blankly at the TV, her attention still focused on the events of the day. Boo-Boo slept curled up next to her on the hunter green and gold striped sofa in the family room. Letterman’s monologue conjured up a burst of laughter. The momentary rise in television noise caused Jewels’ eyes to flicker, breaking her fixated stare.
It had been an emotionally challenging Thursday. First Sharon’s call. Then her murder. Then the mystery of her dying words and the map. Ending in the fiasco with FBI Agents Hines and Folsum. Jewels sighed. “And let’s not forget being tailed by the fancy green Dodge,” she said to Boo-Boo, gently stroking the silky hair on the dog’s back. “Or the attack of the eight-legged terrorist,” she added forcing a little chuckle in an attempt to deflate the swelling of negativity on the verge of exploding her innards.
Mentally and physically drained, she hadn’t even changed into her nightshirt yet. But the thought of sleeping in her T-shirt and familiar blue jeans—“cowgirl jeans” as Robert used to call her preferred Rocky Mountain brand—didn’t particularly bother her, especially since the couch remained a viable alternative to making the trek upstairs to bed.
Boo-Boo’s head abruptly perked up, her ears forward. A slow, deep, throaty growl signaled danger.
Base fear shot up Jewels with a mega dose of adrenaline. Suddenly she was wide awake. On high alert. Would the next few moments unveil the terrible danger her vibes had forewarned? Jewels spent little precious time wondering. If she were to survive whatever this impending danger was, she had to push fear aside, hold panic at bay. Think clearly. Sanely. Defensively.
Thrusting her hand between the sofa arm and cushion, Jewels drew the forty-five she had earlier taken from her office and stuffed down at her side, just in case. From practiced habit, she did a quick press check, pushing the front of the slide back one half inch with the tip of her finger to visually inspect the chamber. The sight of the shiny hollow point cartridge reassured her the gun was loaded. Ready to fire.
After confirming her weapon’s readiness, securing a communication line was her next priority. The cell phone in her handbag, which she earlier had dumped on the kitchen island, would fill that requirement, but she had to fetch it first. After that, all she had to do was hustle to her safe room, where it was stocked well enough to hold off a small army for hours, maybe even days, if necessary.
The upstairs master bedroom, designed to double as a safe room, was inventoried with items the home security and self-defense experts had recommended. A metal door with security barricade bar. Flashlight. Escape ladder. First aid kit. Metal window shields that, with a push of a button, automatically rolled down over the glass. A gun safe with ample firepower, including a Mossberg 12- gauge shotgun and a Colt AR-15 rifle. And plenty of preloaded magazines along with ammo cans full of loose cartridges. But the one critical element missing in the safe room set up was a permanent cell phone, simply a result of failed followed through. Neither Robert nor Jewels had remembered to buy one.
Letting Letterman blare, Jewels cautiously rose from the sofa. The cell phone was just across the room and through the cafe doors. All she had to do was retrieve it.
Warily, she advanced toward the kitchen, the muzzle of the gun pointed in front of her, the grip tucked close against her small waist. One foot in front of the other. Slowly. Carefully. Boo-Boo slinking along her side. The rumble deep in the dog’s throat continuing to swell, eyes fixed toward the inky kitchen.
Jewels’ heart rapped. Mouth dried. Breaths escalated into mild gasps. An icy hand constricted a white-knuckled fist in her gut. Tighter. And tighter. Fear rapidly seeped in. Had to stop it. Had to center on the task at hand. On securing the cell phone. On survival.
Realizing she was losing the battle to suppress fear, Jewels paused to focus. Gather her composure.
Boo-Boo froze, too.
Sucking in a deep breath through flared nostrils, she forcefully exhaled through circled lips. “Come on, Jewels. You can do it,” she whispered to herself. “Get the phone, then go the bedroom.”
Another deep breath. Another step. “Keep going, Jewels. Get the phone, then go to the bedroom.”
One more deep breath, one more step. “You’re doing fantastic. Just get the phone, then go to the bedroom.”
Daring another step, she continued this motivational cheerleading mantra and deep breathing exercise until she reached the cafe doors. Nervously peered over the top.
The kitchen was black as a raven’s wing and though the big bay window welcomed twilight illumination, the sliver moon was stingy, sharing little. Hesitantly, Jewels stuffed her hand between the swinging doors, extending it toward the wall to flip on the light switch.
Dozens of recessed halogen lights awakened, instantly bathing the expansive kitchen in brightness.
&nbs
p; Jewels’ head swiveled, scanning the room. Everything in the kitchen appeared unmolested. Her platinum-trimmed Gucci handbag sat in a heap near the edge of an island of cabinets, right where she had left it, just fifteen feet ahead.
Hesitantly, she pushed open the swinging doors. Boo-Boo stealthily prowled in behind her, shadowing Jewels’ every step.
Without warning, that frigid fist grabbed Jewels’ innards again. She’d come too far to chicken out now. Couldn’t let fear win. Jewels reined in her anxiety with a quick psych job, sucking in a few quick, short breaths like a woman panting in labor. Then: “One. Two. Three.” On three she bolted toward the island, the Glock in her right hand. Left extended, ready to snatch the purse.
“Got it,” she whispered victoriously, the thrill of accomplishment boosting her with another dose of adrenaline. Whirling around, she readied to dart back through the cafe doors but slammed on the brakes.
Standing not two feet in front of her with lips snarled, teeth bared, Boo-Boo’s hackles raised. Leaning her entire body forward, the dog balanced on the tips of her toes, poised for imminent attack and seemed to be looking right through Jewels.
Voicing an intense growling bark, Boo-Boo charged.
Jewels spun around.
A man was standing in her kitchen!
The invader wasn’t intimidated by the dog. Held his ground while drawing a huge knife from his side. Bending over slightly, he baited the animal to tear into his left forearm.
Jewels gasped, raised the forty-five, aimed the muzzle in the direction of the masked man, but couldn’t get a good sight picture. Might hit her dog.
Boo-Boo predictably lunged with obvious intent to rip his arm to shreds.
But that was exactly what the man wanted. The moment Boo-Boo clamped her jaws around his arm, with one mighty thrust, he slammed the attacking dog onto her side. Jamming his forearm under her chin to lengthen the dog’s neck and stabbing his knee into her side to control her body, he swiftly swung his right arm high above his head, then powered the blade downward to skillfully hack through the flesh and bone of the dog’s throat.
The slaughter was over before Boo-Boo had a chance to yelp. The blade had penetrated with such force and speed the animal had practically been decapitated.
The ghastly scene had unfolded in a nanosecond and Jewels hadn’t even gotten off a shot.
With numbed horror she watched her precious Boo-Boo radically twitching at the feet of the adept slayer. The dog’s nerves were rapid-firing, creating involuntary muscle spasms. Boo-Boo wasn’t suffering. Clearly the dog was already dead.
The killer was a giant of a man. Six four, three-hundred-twenty-five pounds, cloaked in black from head to toe including a full-face black leather mask. Disposable off-white latex gloves covered his hands. Crimson fluid dripped from the edge of the fixed-blade black knife he held.
Eyes pancaking, Jewels’ mouth formed a mute O. Standing dazed, her hands fading to her sides. The big Gucci handbag slipped from her grasp, making a soft thud as it hit the travertine floor. The muzzle of her forty-five, no longer pointed at the killer’s body, now aimed about two feet in front of her right foot.
To Jewels, the terror unfolded in slow motion. The preceding mere tenths of a second lasted several long drawn-out minutes in her mind.
Finally her horror de-escalated to fear. Fear evolved to anger. Anger to rage. She knew what she had to do. Aim at the center of mass—the killer’s hulking chest—then press the trigger.
During those milliseconds when her mind seemed to be suspended in time, the masked intruder had closed in, the big black knife ready to mangle. Was Jewels’ throat next?
“You bastard,” Jewels yelled, quickly elevating the gun to fire at his chest.
Now within arms reach of Jewels, the killer swiftly responded to the threat of the gun with a blistering strike of his massive fist against her wrist.
The force knocked Jewels off balance. She shrieked. Jerked the trigger. The gun catapulted from her grasp, skidding across the travertine floor like a hockey puck on ice.
“Ahhh...,” the intruder wailed, dropping the big knife to reactively grab his arm.
Winged him! The killer’s surprised reaction offered Jewels enough time to regain her balance and refocus her attention. Needed a weapon. Another gun. Had to get to the bedroom, her safe room. If she could reach the bedroom and lock the door, she’d retrieve the pump action twelve-gauge. No way she would miss with that. And this time she wouldn’t allow herself to become dazed in horror.
Bursting through the swinging doors, she flung them open so hard one was ripped off its hinges. Images of programs on the Discovery Channel where a gazelle is sprinting for its life from the deadly jaws of a hungry lion flashed through her mind. Now she knew what the hunted must feel like. She was the hunted.
With bare feet hammering the marble like frenzied rubber mallets, she bolted out of the kitchen, into the hall and toward the winding staircase.
At the bottom of the steps she latched her hand around the massive cherry rail, harnessing her momentum to sling herself around the corner and up the stairs.
Rapidly up the stairs, two at a time, she leaped. Almost to the top. At the top. Through the inky darkness the outline of the white colonial door frame, illuminated by a night light in the bedroom, was in sight. Straight ahead another thirty feet and she’d be safe.
Her legs pistoned.
The bedroom door drew closer.
Suddenly plush carpet filled her mouth. Her feet were gone from under her. Boo-Boo’s murderer had clipped her from behind.
Jewels flipped herself over. Sitting on her butt she furiously kicked at the masked predator. A few blows connected because he moaned in pain, momentarily releasing his death grip on her ankle.
The second he let go, she rolled on her side, fiercely pumped her legs. Her fingers, curved like rakes, churned wildly into the sandalwood carpet, like a rock climber frantically clawing at a sheer cliff to keep from falling.
Almost immediately a vise of a hand recaptured her right ankle reeling her in.
Jewels screamed relentlessly. Kicked viciously. And scratched like a wounded feral cat fending off the snapping jaws of a rottweiler.
But she was no match for the Bunyanesque attacker, a skilled and agile ex-Marine, who easily overpowered her. Pinning her arms above her head with a massive palm engulfing each of her wrists, he straddled her chest between his knees.
Jewels’ eyes honed in on the weapon her attacker used to kill Boo-Boo. It was attached to his belt by a black nylon slide sheath in a readily accessible position, easy for him to grab.
Still, Jewels fought. Madly kicking her legs. Arching her back. Frantically twisting her body. Jerking her arms. Anything to break free. But he was in complete control and she was near exhaustion, like the film of the gazelle squalling and wiggling, the one who was about to have its throat crushed between the powerful jaws of the big cat. Helpless. Hopeless. Pitifully struggling.
Panting hard and groaning, she strained to breathe. The weight of his body compressed her torso, restricting her lung capacity like a brutal corset. The smell of the slasher’s sweat-soaked leather mask primed her to puke. The urge to vomit escalated as beads of perspiration seeped from under his mask and dripped onto her cheek, as if from a slow leaking faucet. Methodically. Constantly. Maddeningly. Like Chinese water torture.
Blood coursed down the killer’s right arm from the gunshot wound, forming a sticky puddle in the palm of her left hand. And he, too, was breathing heavily. His biggest air tunnel, his mouth, was blocked by the closed zipper of the demon mask.
Changing the grip on her hands pinned above her head, he repositioned her arms down at her sides and stuffed her hands under his knees, applying enough pressure from his body weight on her wrists to keep her arms in check.
A trail of blood dotted the plush sandalwood carpet as the attackers’s pooling blood drizzled out of her left hand.
Striations of pain rocketed up and down her arm
s like electrical shocks. Jewels whimpered, flexing her arm muscles to twist and tug her limbs, desperately struggling to worm her way from under the restraint of the huge man’s knees. But her efforts proved fruitless.
With his hands free, the killer unzipped the mouth of the mask. “Goddammit Bitch! Don’t you know when you’ve lost?” he huffed, his leather-covered nose a mere two inches from hers.
His lips were cruel and dark. Eyes black and piercing. Jewels wondered if her assailant was an African-American. But her attempted analysis of his features was interrupted by a blast of hot breath on her face. It stunk like regurgitated meatloaf. Jewels reactively wrinkled her nose, crimped her eyes shut and turned her head away, saying nothing while continuing to squirm to no avail.
He stared at her. His first live capture. Her continued and vigorous resistance excited him. The overwhelming sense of power and control invigorated him. He’d never seen a woman so determined. So full of life. So enchanting?
Zip’s parting words interrupted his mind like a television commercial spliced into the middle of a nail-biting movie. Fun. Have fun, Zip said.
A maniacal grin grew under the mask. “Fun? Fuckin’ fun,” he mumbled. He was going to have a tit twistin’ blast. He’d rape the bitch, right here. Right now. And deal with the aftermath of the general’s orders later.
Jewels sensed her attacker was going to violate her and was about to make a move, which could open up an opportunity for her to fight back. Scouring her mind for a solution, a way to defend herself against this beast who was monumentally bigger and stronger, the obvious fix was a gun. Not an option at the moment. Since her great equalizer was gone she had no chance. Or did she?
Then, like the glimmer of hope the sight of a trail marker gives one lost deep in the woods, Jewels’ mind-search made a hit: Remember what G. Gordon Liddy said. Once while Jewels was radio surfing, the G-man’s show caught her attention. The topic was self-defense and the actions a woman could take if she was under attack but had no weapon ... her current situation.
Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) Page 10