 
Mistaken Trust

Copyright 2013 Shirley Spain

5th Edition ©2013, 2014, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2020

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

**This book is a work of fiction**. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
Dedication

For my awesome husband, Curtis. The most supportive guy a gal could ever dream of ... thank you for the countless times you vacuumed the house, went solo on shopping trips to the grocery store and Sam's Club, prepared meals, and washed laundry just so I could fulfil my dream to write and publish novels.

And Peggy Beach. My amazing (and exceedingly patient) editor. Creative writing 101 teacher. And most of all, the best cheerleading, kick-me-in-the-pants when I need it, friend imaginable. Without you, Peggy, I would have never had the confidence or courage to publish this novel ... and I'm proud of it, thanks to you!
Acknowledgements

**Suzanne Sphar** for reminding me, "If it is to be, it is up to me," which motivated me to pursue the world of e-publishing. _USA Today_ and Amazon Bestselling author, **Heather Horrock** s, for mentoring me through the process of indie publishing. And good friends, **Cheryl Pixley, Noray Turney** and **Heather McElreath,** who were the first brave souls to read my novels "raw" and despite the plethora of "goofs" applauded my efforts and encouraged me to keep going.
A Note From the Author

**THIS IS THE FIFTH EDITION** of _Mistaken Trust_ , my 2013 debut novel in the Jewels Trust M.U.R.D.E.R series. Though I've tweaked the wording here and there, the biggest revision from the first edition remains the division of the Prologue into three shorter sections. Readers informed me the Prologue was _off the charts_ too intense, so I broke it up. In this edition, I gave the cover a new look.

As a newcomer on the indie publishing scene, I would like to take a moment to introduce myself. More accurately, what you can expect reading my novels. (I share personal information in "About the Author" at the end of this novel.)

My goal is to entertain, perhaps even educate. My story-telling style is one in which I endeavor to achieve a sense of "plausible realism." Therefore, I invest much time in research, including interviews with law enforcement and defensive tactics experts. And I often role play fight scenes with friends.

I strive to thrust the reader into the moment. Cause a gasp, wrinkle of the nose, or a heebie-jeebies shiver via graphic depictions, particularly during intense scenes when the antagonist is perpetrating a heinous crime. I also delve into the psyche of the criminal's mind with flashbacks of dastardly deeds done to him, which are never pleasant.

Thus, like many books on the market, my suspense novels are not for everyone, especially those faint of heart or easily offended. My antagonists spout foul language and perform cringe-worthy deeds, as criminals do in real life.

Having said that, the vast majority of the contents within my novels focus on the intestinal fortitude of my protagonists, so hang in there if you reach a scene that is too graphic for your taste. I love celebrating the indomitable spirit of humans. Courage. Sacrifice. Honor. Loyalty. Love. The passion to survive, regardless of the daunting circumstance. And the hope for good to triumph over evil.

Ultimately, through my works of fiction, I seek to instill a message of personal empowerment by showcasing the resilience of the human spirit that flourishes despite the depths of hell endured. Emphasizing the survivor can actually learn, thrive, and become a better person from whatever dreadful ordeal life hurls her direction, if she so chooses.

As you read _Mistaken Trust_ , I hope you find yourself cheering for—perhaps even identifying with—Jewels as she is forced into grave circumstances forcing her to invoke her charm, creativity, and determination to bravely confront her captors to survive. And in the end, maybe even admit that you have garnered something from this fictional character to further boost the strength, character, and determination within yourself.

I hope you experience as much pleasure reading _Mistaken Trust_ as I did writing it.

ENJOY this killer-good thriller!

—Shirley
Please visit my website to request your FREE ebook copy of the stand-alone novel, _Forever Breathless_ from my "Killer Among Us" collection of psychological thrillers.

http://www.shirleyaspain.com

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Cover

Dedication

Acknowledgements

A Note From The Author

Prologue — Part One

One

Two

Prologue — Part Two

Three

Prologue — Part Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Thank You!

About the Author

Book Club Discussion Prompts

### Prologue — _Part One_

" _When I see a pretty woman ... one side of me says,_

I'd like to talk to her, date her. The other side of me says,

I wonder what her head would look like on a stick?"

—Edmund Kemper, The Co-ed Killer

**HEFTING HER LIMP BODY** off his shoulder, he dumped his latest _lab rat_ on the specially prepared queen-sized bed.

The impact snapped her head back, fanning her chin-length auburn hair across the crisp, white sheet. A soft moan floated from her quivering lips.

"Good," he muttered with a crooked grin, knowing from experience soon she would be conscious.

Digging his arms under her shoulder blades, he hoisted her body toward the center of the mattress, positioning her arms toward the edge of the headboard where the open jaws of thick leather restraints waited to, once again, consume unwilling flesh.

Her eyes fluttered. Brows crimped. Arm muscles sparked a hint of life.

Engulfing her right wrist in the three-inch-wide strap, he jerked it hard, buckling it tight, but not so tightly she wouldn't have a little wiggle room. When she awoke, he wanted her to sense a glimmer of _hope_ that she could free herself. Hope would motivate her to struggle in her bonds, even though escape was hopeless.

Agony stumbled across her slowly-waking face. Her right arm flinched in pain.

Fastening her left wrist in an identical restraint on the other side of the bed, he smiled with calculating pleasure. The binding of her legs would come later, when she was fully awake ... when he could gorge on the sights, sounds, and smell of her terror as she fought to escape the inescapable tethers. Fought to escape _him_.

Another experiment was beginning.
One

" **JEWELS, THIS JUST CAME IN.** Another grizzly attack," Belinda announced breathlessly, sliding the fax over the glass covered desk top to her boss.

Belinda sank into one of the two plush wingback chairs opposite Jewels' desk and crossed her legs. A gleam of morbid excitement danced in her eyes as she paraphrased the contents of the fax. "That killer grizzly attacked another hiker this morning. They found the guy down by Mirror Lake without his legs."

On occasion, as a throwback to the fledging days of the Press when she was the sole reporter, Jewels liked to roll up her journalistic sleeves to delve into a hard-hitting or quirky story. Currently she was tracking the random terrorist attacks for which a radical domestic group, calling themselves _Jefferson's Warriors,_ had claimed responsibility. Apparently her secretary thought the grizzly story might capture her personal attention as well, especially since the last known grizzly in Utah was killed in 1923.

However, based on the latest eyewitness accounts and one blurry cell phone picture, the distinctive hump on the bear's back confirmed it was, in fact, a grizzly. How and why the animal ventured into the Uintas seemed to be a mystery to everyone, including bear experts.

Jewels' features melted into a sour face at the gruesome vision conjured up by her mind. "Ohhhh, how awful," she gasped, pushing the fax back across the desk to Belinda. "Thanks for bringing this to my attention, but—"

"I know," Belinda sighed with disappointment. "That sicko militia is the big story because it has everyone on edge. Last month's bombing of the satellite police station next to Home Depot in Las Vegas didn't help."

"I guess the only good news is the bomb went off at two in the morning when no one was around."

"Jewels, don't you think in this day and age that security cameras or satellites or _something_ would have caught the perps in the act?"

"You'd think. But it's like they're invisible ... or so that's what law enforcement is saying. No one seems to know who they are or where they might strike next. And if they do know, they're not saying," she ventured, conspiracy in her tone.

"At least with this one," Belinda nodded at the fax, "you know a grizzly bear is the bad guy and his territory is the Uinta Mountains."

"Pass it along to Howard. Have him take one of the SUVs to the Uintas to get an interview with the Forest Service and see if he can pick up a _vibe_ on the woods in the area. Tell him pictures might be nice, too."

"Consider it done." Belinda sprang from the oversize burgundy chair leaving as quickly as she had arrived, closing her boss's office door behind her.

Jewels leaned back and sighed. Pivoting the chair to face the window, she rested her elbows on the arms and steepled her fingers, thinking about the bear attacks.

This new victim made five dead in as many months. Five people who had been killed by what the Forest Service was describing as a true rarity: a grizzly bear with an acquired a taste for human flesh.

Rocking in her executive desk chair, she stared out the window, mulling over the Forest Service's explanation. There was something about their _acquired taste_ theory that gnawed at her innards. There had to be more to it. But what?

Then it hit her. "Men," she blurted out, sitting straight up, eyes wide. "All of the victims have been male even though three of the five were hiking with female companions. This grizzly isn't interested in women. After all, it is a _man_ -eating bear. There's the slant for the story."

Turning to the computer, she typed feverishly to record her thoughts, then emailed them to Howard.

Jewels spun her chair around again to face the corner windows.

Outside two sparrows nibbled from the wooden A-frame bird feeder as it swung from one of the branches of a shade tree in the parking lot. After watching them for a few moments, a smile blossomed as she concluded the tiny feathered pair were probably lovers.

_TAP-TAP._ "Excuse me, Miz Andrasy?"

Jewels swiveled the chair around.

Howard stood in the doorway.

Her eyes bugged. Nearly fifty years old, the sharp-dressing news reporter didn't look a day over forty and could easily be mistaken for a bigwig attorney. Or a high-priced gigolo. "Wow. Another new suit?" She signaled with a wave of her hand for him to come in.

As if on a fashion runway, he sauntered into the room. Posed. Turned. "A custom tailored Armani."

"You always look like a million bucks."

"You would know."

Pressing a finger to her chin, her face serious. "Hmm. Your boss must pay you a high wage if you can afford a suit like that."

He waved his brows. "Only because she knows I'm worth it."

"By the way, you've worked here for more than two years. When are you going to start calling me _Jewels_?"

Grinning, he shrugged and settled into one of the wingback chairs in front of her desk. "Maybe when you agree to let me treat you to a fountain Diet Coke over at Maverick."

Jewels tossed her head back in laughter. "Oh my, a big spender. I just couldn't accept anything _that_ extravagant."

For whatever reason, the moment she met Howard Dyson there was an instant connection, like being reunited with a big brother she had been separated from as a child. Flipping her long hair over her shoulder with a brush of her hand, she changed the subject. "Did you get my email?"

"Yes, I did, and I'm rather bothered by it."

"Oh?"

His handsome features tightened. "You think this grizzly only attacks men, right?"

Nodding in agreement, a puzzled look swamped Jewels' face.

"And you assigned _me_ to this story? What's up with that? Trying to get rid of me by sending me to cover a story about a bear you think only eats men?" He paused, glanced down at his crotch then back up at her. "I _am_ a man," he confirmed, biting his lip to maintain a straight face.

"Well, I never thought—"

"That I was a _man_?"

"No, silly." She shook her head. "I never considered you to be in danger because I figured you wouldn't be camping or—"

Howard leaned forward in the chair. "Come with me to the Uintas." His hypnotizing dark eyes locked onto hers. "You can protect me from the big, bad wolf ... I mean, bear."

Swinging a reprimanding finger at him, she confessed, "Okay, you had me going for a minute. And speaking of going, skedaddle." Jewels playfully shooed him off with a few quick flicks of her wrist. "And if you want protection, take a gun. Now go track down that bear ... I mean, story."

Flashing a sexy smile at her, he rose. "Very well," he sighed with disappointment. After taking a few steps toward the door he stopped. Reached into his jacket pocket and spun around on his left heel. "Almost forgot." He strolled back to her desk. "This is my latest." He waved a gold shield at Jewels.

"You and your badges."

"No different than you and your shoes." Marching around to the side of her desk, he glanced down at her feet. "Let me see 'em."

Giggling, she stood up, modeled the bright pink stilettos that accented her pastel pink Anne Klein two-piece linen suit. "But, unlike your shields, my shoes aren't illegal."

He eyed her shapely legs and high heels. "Maybe they should be."

A reserved smile played on her lips. Sometimes his tone pushed the limits of her willingness to flirt with an employee, but most of the time she excused it by reasoning he was more like family. At least in her mind.

Extending his arm toward her face, he held the badge for her to see the inscription. "You gotta read this one aloud."

" _Lead Babe Investigator, United States of America_." She laughed, returning to her desk chair. "How many does this one make in your collection?"

He rolled his eyes toward the top of his skull. "Right around an even two hundred, but I believe you have at least double that in shoes."

"Just don't get caught flashing that badge around in public at some _babe_. It's a Class B misdemeanor and if you get arrested, I'm _not_ going to bail you out of jail," Jewels spouted, brandishing a devilish look.

Dumping the badge in his suit pocket, Howard straightened his index, middle, and ring fingers on his right hand, squeezed them together and waved. "Scouts honor, Miz Andrasy, I'll save it for behind closed doors."

"You were never a scout," Jewels razzed, her eyes dancing with mischief.

With a sly grin, Howard waved his brows at her then turned on his heel, sashaying out the door.

EARLIER THAT MORNING IN A REMOTE LOCATION.

It was never her intention to spy. Sharon just _happened_ to be passing the partially open door of the general's office at the exact moment four of the compound's most high-powered men were standing in a tight circle, talking, their tone hush-hushed but somewhat heated.

If it wasn't the devil that made her do it, then it was innate curiosity. Stopping in her tracks, she glanced up and down the gloomy hallway.

No one in sight.

Backtracking on tiptoes to the partially opened door, Sharon softly leaned against the stone wall of the hallway. Inching her body closer toward the door until she could stretch her neck into a position where her ears could hear all and her eyes could capture a peek.

"The Commander wants Phase One implemented within the next ten days to two weeks," Cooman relayed.

"This is no good. Now we're kidnapping women for the Commander's pleasure," Doc commented with disdain.

"Not women, just Julia Andrasy," Cooman corrected.

"Since when did we start fulfilling his _personal_ agenda?" Watters asked, an overtone of disgust in voice.

Tank snickered, slugging Watters on the shoulder. "No need to worry your pretty little head. I'll take care of nabbing the bitch. All you have to do is keep her locked up."

"That's not the point—"

"As long as I'm the C.O. of this compound, whatever the Commander wants, the Commander gets, including Julia Andrasy. And if he wants to dress her up, tie her up, beat her up, or mutilate her, so be it. We owe him that much."

"With all due respect, Sir, word has gotten out. The men are asking questions," Watters pressed.

Cooman glared. "The men, or just _you_?"

Watters sighed. "I'm just saying, Sir..." He waved open hands in front of his body and lowered his head to gaze at the floor.

Tank leaned into Watters. "I recall you have a little sister in Denver—"

"Don't even _think_ about her." Watters shot to attention and clenched his fists, glaring at Tank.

"Simmer down, Gentlemen," Cooman barked.

Tank laughed. "Hey, I'm cool."

Watters relaxed his fists, but continued to glare.

"Now let's discuss what needs to happen before she arrives."

Dread scorched Sharon's body. This was worse than she imagined. Before this moment she had only gleaned bits and pieces of information. Now it all made sense. At least in a sick, gruesome kind of way. _Gotta warn her_.

Once again on tiptoes, she retreated from the door as the men hammered out the details involved in the kidnapping and imprisoning of Julia Andrasy. But before she reached the crossing in the hallway, the tiniest of sneezes sneaked up on her. Despite her efforts to contain it, the little expulsion of air from her nose might as well have blared like a tripped security alarm.

Abruptly the hubbub of brisk voices went silent.

_Shit!_ Had the wimpy sneeze betrayed her? Not taking any chances her eavesdropping may have been discovered, she sneaked to the intersection of hallways, turned the corner, and ran toward the stairs.

Voices talked over one another. A moment later, "Bring her back," a male voice hollered.

Sharon recognized it as the general's. For sure she was in deep shit.

During the two years she had resided at the compound, it had become apparent death was a common punishment for seemingly minor infractions. The message: do exactly as you're told, no more, no less, or be killed.

No doubt, regardless of the special skill set she brought to the organization, overhearing a privileged conversation would warrant a death sentence if they caught her. Galloping down the familiar dungeon-like hall and around a sharp corner, the exit came into view.

"Where's the fire, Honey?" called out the guard standing at the top of the staircase.

"Tampon run," Sharon snapped, leaping up the stairs, two at a time.

Recoiling his head, he wrinkled his nose. "TMI."

_Too much information._ No shit. That was an understatement, considering what she had just overheard. "Make way, I'm PMSing bad," she growled at the guard.

Plastering his body against the wall behind the door, he cleared a path for her to breeze past him once she reached the top.

"Stop her! Don't let her out!" a male voice boomed from deep within the dark hallway.

Too late. With a good twenty-foot head start, Sharon was nearly free and planned to stay that way. Not slowing down or giving the guard a chance to stop her, she burst through the entry, practically slamming the big metal door in the guard's face.

A cool breeze, warm rays of morning sunshine, and the smell of pine trees greeted her, but Sharon didn't take the time to appreciate them. Avoiding capture was paramount if she were to warn her high school friend of their sinister plan.

Gravel crunched beneath the frantic hammering of her army boots as she tore toward her shiny red Jeep Wrangler. Thank god she had left the keys in the ignition. Immediate escape was a matter of life or death for her. And for her friend.

### Two

" **BY THE WAY..."**

Jewels jumped at the sound of Belinda's booming voice. She whirled the chair around to face the door, watching her secretary bounced through the entry.

"It's Thursday," Belinda reminded, her tone playful, big elk-brown eyes sparkling. "And guess what? Your FBI guy called. Again."

Belinda Parker, her busty twenty-seven-year-old secretary—whom she regarded more as a little sister than an employee—was five-foot-five-inches tall, a pleasantly plump one-hundred-forty pounds with chestnut hair cut into a sexy short crop and gelled into trendy spikes.

Rolling her eyes, Jewels sighed. _Again_ was right. For the past three months Theodore Hines, FBI Special Agent In Charge of the Salt Lake office, had been calling once a week, every Thursday, wanting to take her out on a date.

"Thanks, but no thank you," she said, sounding exhausted.

Crimping her brows, Belinda lowered herself into the inviting wingback chair opposite Jewels' desk. "Can we talk? I mean as friends, not as you being my boss?"

Concern tightened Jewels' face. "Certainly. Let me shut the door." Pushing back from her desk, she walked across the room and closed the door. Instead of returning to the seat behind her desk, she sat next to Belinda in the matching chair.

Belinda leaned forward and patted Jewels on the knee. "I think it's time we had a talk."

"About what?"

"You and Agent Hines."

Exhaling with force, Jewels collapsed her back into the chair and rubbed her forehead.

"Robert would want you to move on—"

"It's complicated—"

"Just hear me out. Okay?"

"Fine."

"Jewels you have everything—"

" _Had_ ," she corrected.

Belinda's head tilted, eyes pinched in reprimand at Jewels for interrupting her.

"Sorry, go ahead."

"First of all, look at you. You're thirty-four years old, have the beauty and poise of a cover model, the warm personality of a southern belle, and the business savvy of a Fortune 500 CEO..."

Jewels' face reddened.

"And you're a widow. Jewels, you're single. Robert's gone—"

"Don't you think I know that?" she interrupted with a huff, bolting to her feet. "Every day, I come into the New Greensburgh Press, the printing and newspaper business Robert and I built from nothing, and take a seat behind this beautifully decorated and furnished office Robert and I used to share.

"And every day..." her voice quivered, tears swam over her eyes as she walked toward the corner window, "I'm reminded that despite these _things,_ " she motioned at the expensive furniture and original paintings on the wall, "and even with all my wonderful friends and employees," she warmly smiled at Belinda, "I'm lonely. If it wasn't for Boo-Boo..." Unable to withhold her emotional pain any longer, Jewels burst into tears, burying her face in her hands.

Belinda rushed to Jewels and engulfed her boss and dear friend in her arms. "Oh, Jewels." After hugging her long and hard, Belinda stepped back. "Your loneliness is obvious. That's why I wanted to talk to you. Sure, I get no one could ever _replace_ Robert. What you two had was special. But that doesn't mean you can't allow yourself to enjoy the companionship of another man."

Jewels sniffed, nodded, strolled to her desk for a Kleenex and dabbed her eyes. "You're right. I know. It's just that—"

"You haven't dated in over fourteen years and you're scared."

Jewels chuckled.

"That's why I think Agent Hines would be a great breakout first date. You've known him for almost two years so he's not a stranger. Plus he's good looking, dresses like he's related to some fancy Italian suit maker, is a big cheese with the FBI, and, most importantly, he's crazy about you!"

"I guess when you put it that way—"

"Then go out with him. What do you have to lose? Who knows, maybe if you go out with him once, he'll never call you again."

A spontaneous tee-hee escaped Jewels' lips. Once again Belinda had gotten her to laugh. "All right, Belinda, you win."

"I'll be right back with his number." She darted out of the office.

Jewels hung her head. Robert had been her life since she was only twenty years old. He was the only man she ever had. The only man she ever wanted. The only man she believed she could ever truly love.

Reflecting upon the circumstances that stole Robert's life still brought her to the brink of tears, even after eighteen months.

How in the world could a huge newspaper roll slide off the forklift at the precise moment Robert passed under it, instantly crushing him? The odds of something like that happening were, what? One in ten trillion? A hundred zillion? God was the only one who knew. And as far as the police were concerned, it was an open and shut case: accidental death.

What haunted Jewels the most was the mystery of her husband's missing wedding band. Robert never removed his wedding ring. However, after the accident the ring could not be found. Anywhere. The authorities surmised the impact of the huge newspaper roll falling on his body shot the ring off his finger and it got lost, _somewhere_. But the mysterious black hole theory didn't sit well with Jewels.

"Here you go." Belinda handed the pink message pad to Jewels while scanning her BlackBerry calendar. "Tonight you've got the Shoot for MD fund-raiser at the Winston Range from five-thirty to eight. After that you're free. And totally open Friday night."

"Thank you."

Belinda winked at Jewels. Gestured a thumbs up sign of support and moral encouragement and exited, softly closing the office door.

Almost with a sense of dread, Jewels stared at the pink message pad with Hines' phone number written on it. Her mouth was dry. Armpits sweaty. Chest tight. Becoming aware of the nervous signs, she laughed aloud, "Jeez."

Rapidly waving around the pink message pad to fan her face, she exhaled through loosely knit lips. "I'll agree to dinner. That's all. No movie. No show. No whatever else. Just dinner. And I'll meet him wherever we decide to go." She lifted the receiver of her desktop phone and pushed the buttons to dial Agent Hines.

"Jewels!" Belinda burst through the door, panic in her voice and on her face. "For you. An emergency phone call on line six."

Nodding, Jewels punched the line six button, disconnecting Hines' number she had partially dialed. "This is Julia Andrasy. How may—"

"Jewels. I gotta talk to you. Right away. Not on the phone."

"Okay. Who is—"

"It's me, Jewels, Sharon Marie. Remember me? Sharon Marie Jeppson from high school ... the _drama trauma gang_?"

"Of course, drama club. Sharon, what's going on?"

"I gotta tell you something, but not on the phone. It's a matter of life and death, Jewels. How long before you can get to our old drama club hangout?"

"Life and death? Shouldn't you call the police—"

"No cops. It's too dangerous. Just get here as fast as you can."

"Uh, okay. Peggy Sue's?"

"Shhh. Don't say anymore over the phone. And, yes, that's the place."

Jewels glanced outside—a beautiful summer day—then peeked at the gold Rolex on her wrist: 10:38. "You know I'm in New Greensburgh, but I could be there in thirty or forty minutes."

"Hurry, Jewels. Please hurry."

_SO FAR, SO GOOD_ _._ Sharon hung up the pay phone receiver at the convenience store. No way would she use her cell. Didn't want the bastards to track her via the phone GPS. Plus she had left any would-be follower in the dust not only because she had a great head start on her getaway, but because she had a knack for losing pesky tails.

However, she forgot a condition for acceptance into the compound was for her Jeep to be fitted with an open sky GPS, rigged on top of her exterior spare tire mount. Perhaps the vehicle tracking device, and not her assumed keen driving skills, was the reason Sharon had so easily evaded being followed. But that thought hadn't crossed her mind.

Feeling smart and righteous, Sharon piled into her Jeep and headed for Peggy Sue's, a half a block away. Just like the old times, she parked in the rear, entering the restaurant through the back door.

When the door opened a cowbell clanged announcing Sharon's arrival.

About the size of a middle school gymnasium, the retro-fifties sandwich shop hadn't changed since the last time she was there, over a decade ago. To the left of the back door entry, a reproduction of the classic Wurlitzer bubble jukebox. "Blue Moon" blared from its speakers and flashed a colorful light show in time with the song. Opposite the nickelodeon, _their_ table.

Memories flashed through her mind. A pleasant smile pulled at the corners of her lips. Eight teens, shoulder-to-shoulder, crammed into the horseshoe-shaped booth. Laughing. Sharing milkshakes. Playing drama queens and kings. "Those were the days," she whispered to herself, remembering the reason they had chosen the booth nestled deep in the alcove was for its private location.

Confident she had outsmarted the compound dragoons, and knowing Jewels wouldn't arrive for at least another half hour, Sharon decided to order a sandwich. Ambling toward the counter, she soaked in the sights as if on a journey back in time.

Shiny rectangular tables surrounded by bright red vinyl upholstered booths on a black and white checkerboard floor lined the walls. Retro schoolhouse lights hung over the tables.

Near the front door, the famous deli counter where mouth-watering magic was conjured from the rows of lunch meats and cheese blocks lined up in anticipation of becoming part of one of Peggy Sue's famous custom creations.

A lean short man of Mexican origin, dressed like a butcher in a white apron and wearing a soda jerk hat, paced behind the counter. _Bored_ written all over his face. "Can I help you, Miss?"

Sharon knew what she wanted. "Gimme a Peggy Sue's special, loaded, with extra thousand island dressing on marble rye. And a monster Pepsi."

Nodding, he went to work on building her made-to-order grinder.

Sliding onto one of the dozen classic bolted swivel-seat soda fountain stools in front of the narrow counter, she waited, strumming her fingers on the glossy red bar while continuing to bathe in the scene.

Three waitresses, with their hair pulled high into ponytails, wearing poodle skirts and vintage lace-up white roller skates relaxed in a front corner booth, waiting for the lunch rush to begin.

Grinning, Sharon remembered how she was declined employment at Peggy Sue's because she failed the roller skating audition. Fell flat on her ass. Twice.

An idea regarding her current situation jolted her from the stroll down memory lane. "Do you have a piece of paper, like a notebook sheet or something like that?" she asked the sandwich maker, a tone of urgency in her voice.

Grunting, he looked around. Picked up a disposable white paper placemat and waved it at her. "Will this work?"

"Perfect. Paper is paper, right?" She snatched it from his hand. "And how about something to write with?"

"What? Writing a love letter or something?" His sarcasm was almost palpable. Acting put out, he moseyed to the cash register. Plucked one of the pens out of the Pepsi cup posted next to the register. All of the pens in the paper cup had a long red plastic spoon taped on the end to keep them from walking off with customers. "Will this do?" He held it up for her inspection.

Beaming a broad smile, she collected it from him. "You're the best. And I _promise_ to return it."

"Here's your sandwich and drink. And if you need another _piece of paper_ , use the one under your lunch," he suggested with a snarky tone, sliding the plastic carry tray toward her.

After paying for her sandwich and drink, nostalgia—along with the desire for much-needed privacy—motivated her to relax in the secluded horseshoe booth at the back of the restaurant.

While eating Sharon sketched. And by no means would she be accused of being an artist. Nonetheless, she did her best.

The cowbell clanged.

She glanced up. Did a double take at the hulking man. Gasped. Choked on the bite of sandwich she had just stuffed into her mouth.

Sharon shoved her _art_ under her thigh to hide it, while at the same time watching him pivot his head in her direction.

Before she could scream or move, he thrust his massive body into the booth to snuggle next to her. His thick arm wrapped around her shoulder like a steel band, drawing her body close to him so he could whisper into her ear. "Say one word and I guarantee your blue-haired Auntie Bea will have an _accident_ in her Jazzy."

"Leave her out of this," Sharon snapped, her mouth full. Aunt Beatrice was like a second mother to her and she knew that he knew it—that was the bitch about the compound. Word had gotten around that _they_ had _something_ on everyone; an Achilles heel that could be exploited anytime a member didn't toe the mark and walk the line. Aunt Bea was the chink in her righteous armor.

"Who did you call?"

"Call?" she echoed, chewing and swallowing the food tucked in her cheek.

Continuing to hold her while using the tabletop as concealment, he pressed the blade of a huge hunting knife near her bellybutton. "Don't fuck with me," he snarled, his voice low. "We can do this the hard way or the easy way..."
Prologue — Part Two

BACK TO A WEEK EARLIER.

The rough edges of the thick leather straps bit into her wrists as she fought the restraints. "Take these off me, right now," she demanded through gritted teeth, while continuing to combat the straps.

Near the foot of the bed he towered over his latest captive. Arms folded across his chest. Amused. Like a weed-out-the-wimps boot camp sergeant, his eyes narrowed. Why the hell did his _lab rats_ think he would give in to any of their demands?

The veins in her neck stood out in livid ridges and her hands balled into white-knuckled fists as she twisted and turned. Pulled and yanked. Her leaf green eyes bulged. Just as he had planned, the _hope_ of escape fueled her vigor.

Despite her best efforts, she wasn't going to escape. None of the others had. The potent leather bindings were designed to control the most violent of criminals no matter their size, how much iron they pumped, or how jacked up they were on drugs.

The bare bones log cabin creaked and swayed. Outside, near the timberline of the High Uinta Mountains, the late summer's pastel sky had fallen victim to a violent assault. Dozens of inky clouds spit lightning and belched thunder. Micro bursts of wind screamed through throngs of tall pines like sirens warning of an impending air raid.

"Who the hell dresses like that in the woods anyway?" she scoffed, breathing heavily, her brows furrowed and nose curled. "And that tie is ridiculous. It looks like the tongue of a half-breed Chow-Chow."

He raised a brow in a questioning slant. Straightened his pink and black silk tie and flicked imaginary dust off the sleeves of the costly black pin-striped suit coat. Standing erect, he bragged, "I look like a Fortune 500 executive, don't I?" As if basking in a moment of limelight on stage, he elongated his neck and turned his head toward the camping lantern softly swaying from a rusty spike in the rafter. Though it didn't spotlight his face, it illuminated the modest cabin interior: one large room with a small nook for a kitchen area which served his basic needs.

"You're a perverted bastard. Let me go," she snorted, glaring murderously at him.

A fist-sized purple bruise was manifesting beneath her left cheekbone from the knockout punch he had inflicted to abduct her.

His maleness swelled watching the woman's athletic body thrash about in vain for freedom.

Daylight seeped into the cabin through thin spaces between wooden planks boarding up the windows. The storm's invisible fury banged against the thick wooden door like a relentless knock from a persistent door-to-door salesman. Drafts of angry air squeezed through the poorly fitted door jamb, howling as its invasion commenced.

His mind ventured into the future, fantasizing about _her_. His chosen one. His true love. _Sweet Cheeks_.

Visions of her scrambled over each other in his head. Her long, vanilla hair. Aphrodite face. Alluring Nordic blue eyes. Smooth, sexy walk and sway of her hourglass body. The delicious smell of expensive perfume emanating from her soft, sun-bronzed skin...

How would _she_ react when it was her turn to be strapped down? Dreaming of his suave character and exquisite powers of charm, he imagined how he would beguile her into trusting him so completely she willingly submitted to him. Even as he buckled the restraints to painfully bind her to the bed ... and he envisioned her enjoying it. Being sexually aroused by it. However the notion of her resisting him, even just a tiny bit, was a guiltless pleasure he could exploit to his personal satisfaction as well.

It had been a long road, his trek to Sweet Cheeks. He had planned every detail, including her upcoming kidnapping followed by her staged death. Only then, when Sweet Cheeks was presumed dead, would she be his without interruption or threat from the outside world.

Using a collection of Barbie dolls—Sweet Cheeks' proxies—posed in various bondage positions like those featured on forced rape pornographic internet sites, he detailed the sexual poses of how he wanted to enslave her.

His maleness continued to swell.

"You fucker, say something!" The woman thrust a hate-filled kick at him. The tread of her hiking boot skimmed across his stomach, leaving a dirt mark on his white shirt.

Rearing back, he scowled. His Sweet Cheeks fantasy snuffed. "Look what you've done," he yelled, brushing the black streak on his shirt with a few quick strokes from the tips of his manicured fingers.

"Good. I hope it doesn't come out." Again she stabbed at him with her foot even though he was out of range.

Though he assumed the foul-mouthed, sour-faced cantankerous woman was probably close to the same age as Sweet Cheeks, this _lab rat_ was nothing like her. This one was plain. One of those wear-no-make-up, all natural women. A tree-hugging liberal. But that didn't matter. Miz Tree-Hugger had one purpose: to serve as the final experiment.

Shaking his head back and forth, he made a reprimanding clucking sound with his tongue. "I paid a hundred-twenty-five-dollars for this shirt." Crinkling his forehead in feigned concern, he paused, then roared a hee-haw. "And you could have hurt me."

"You're demented." She swung her boot at his torso again. Missed again.

Pointing to her churning legs with his chin, his eyes brightened. "Time to do something about those." Bending over the left corner of the footboard, he grabbed the inch-wide piece of black leather dangling from the corner post. Pulled on it, as if reeling in a small boat anchor.

At the end of the strip was a leather restraint cuff like the ones holding her arms.

He tossed it onto the bed and eyed her.

Backpedaling to the top of the mattress she tucked her heels toward her buttocks. "What kind of a perverted bastard are you anyway?"

Intrigued, he raised a brow and smiled slyly. "The smart and determined kind," he returned, lowering his voice for a menacing effect.

It worked.

Her breaths sped up. Nostrils flared. Pressing her back harder against the sturdy log headboard, she retracted her knees tighter toward her chest. None of the _lab rats_ had reacted that way at the sight of the leg restraints.

Ahhh. A new challenge. Inside, his stomach flip-flopped with excitement. Outside, calm. Cool. Collected.

He repeated the strap-reeling-in process on the other side of the footboard, while barely containing the thrill within. This was why he never fully restrained the _lab rats_ when they were unconscious.

Suddenly a blinding flash of lightning. A near deafening clap of thunder.

The captive woman jerked her body and screamed.

Rain pelted the cabin. Wind screeched through the cracks around the door. Mother Nature was throwing a full-blown weather tantrum.

Contemplating his next move, he massaged his hands in eager anticipation, visually scouring his test subject.

Her body quivered. Teeth chattered. Not from the cold, but fear.

Perfect.

Concluding it would be easier—and safer for him—to take the straps to her ankles, rather than force her tucked-up legs to the straps at the bottom of the bed, he untied the leash of each restraint from the corners of the footboard. Keenly aware of her gaping eyes fixed on him, "Macabre fascination," he stated, as if he were a medical examiner recording his observations during an autopsy.

Nonchalantly draping the leashes with the attached restraint cuffs across his shoulder, he stared back at her. Seeking to elicit _more_ unconscious body language of fear from his _lab rat_ , he hardened his face and compressed his eyes: lasers targeted to fillet her soul.

She responded with a pitiful whimper, recoiling her head backward. Moments later tiny beads of sweat dotted her forehead. "You can't do this to me. This is police brutality."

An _alligator grin_ , reserved for only the most rapturous of circumstances, swam across his face. "What?"

"You're a cop, right?"

"Because I flashed a badge?" Reaching into this suit jacket pocket, he pulled out the gold shield, waved it at her. "Twenty-nine, ninety-five. Ordered right off the internet."

Her facial muscles twitched. "You're not a real cop?"

Sneering, he rushed her, tackling her bunched up legs, pinning her motionless.

"Get away from me, you sick fucker," she screamed, showering the side of his face with tiny globs of saliva. Gnashing her teeth in mid, she lunged her head forward and back, attempting to bite his arm or shoulder.

That _alligator grin_ surfaced again. Teeth gnashing was a new experience, too. And new stunts performed by his _lab rats_ excited him. But there would be plenty of time for gratification later. Right now, he had to focus on controlling her legs.

Maintaining her in the pinned position and free from the path of her chomping teeth, he peeled off her hiking boots and socks and lobbed them onto the floor.

"What are you doing?" Her voice cracked as she pumped her legs, struggling to no avail to break his hold.

He buckled a thick leather cuff around each of her ankles, then snapped a leather leash onto the D-ring of each ankle restraint.

"Stop it! Let me go," she protested, her breathing labored from combatting his grip.

Holding a long leather leash in each hand, he thrust himself off the bed and stood up. Despite her physical resistance, he forced her legs to the bottom of the bed, fastening the leash ends to the logs at the edge of the footboard. His latest _lab rat_ —Miz Tree-Hugger—was bound as he desired: spread-eagle.

"Help! Help! Somebody, please, hellllllp!"

"Go ahead, scream. No one ventures this deep into the woods. No one. Ever."

And he was right. However, if by some chance anyone ever happened upon his _lab_ , he had made certain looky-loos would have no way of seeing inside. He had boarded up the cabin's three windows with wooden planks on the outside set in neat vertical rows. Each plank was laced with huge spikes, the ends pointing outward; a painful keep-out message to any man or beast who might spawn thoughts of intrusion.

Sobbing without control, she launched another frantic twisting-turning assault against the leather restraints.

He indulged his senses: the sight of her short auburn hair in a tossed mess across her face and her eyes wild with fright; the sound of her gasping short breaths; the smell of her sweat, seasoned with fear ... and her fully clothed body? No, no, no. That mannish red, black and white plaid flannel shirt and those tight-ass Levis had to go.

A mischievous grin scooted across his face. "Oh, Miz Tree-Hugger," he taunted, his voice rising an octave in anticipation of the next step. "One more thing." Flashing his version of a sexy Tom Selleck eyebrow wave at her, he brushed back his pin-striped suit coat to expose a knife sheathed at his side.

"God, nooooo," she shrieked, jerking her arms and legs against the stubborn straps.

"Now, now." He withdrew the SOG SEAL knife to reveal its seven-inch blade.

"Please, Mister. Please. I'll do anything you want. I mean anything. I even have some money. Please, just don't hurt me. I'll do whatever you want, please..."

Old news. How unoriginal. He had heard it all before. The sight of the blade had brought about an instant attitude adjustment in each of his past _lab rats,_ too. Miz Tree-Hugger's chatters were no different.

The verbal tirades always started and ended the same. At first when the women were bound only in wrist restraints they spouted angry commands. Demanded to be released. Judged him. Shouted vulgarities.

When their legs were strapped down, brave commands and damning judgements swiftly diminished to window-shattering screams and pleas for outside help.

Once that notion was squashed and the knife was unsheathed, Mickey Mouse bargaining attempts were proposed. When that didn't work, they resorted to shameless begging. And right now Miz Tree-Hugger was fuckin' groveling.

"Please, don't hurt me. I'll do whatever you want. I promise. Anything."

"Damn straight you'll do anything I want," he needled, bending over her.

"Just please don't hurt me. Pleeeease..."

Undisturbed by her sniveling and pleas, his steady hand guided the razor sharp knife through the heavy flannel material of her shirt with the ease of a pencil slicing through a cobweb.

Like those before her, Miz Tree-Hugger held her breath and pinched her eyes shut, muscles trembling without control. "Same old, same old," he commented, again like a coroner verbalizing notes.

After slicing the blouse, he skinned off her tight-fitting Levis. Lastly, he reduced her bra and panties to mere tatters before sheathing the knife.

Obviously relieved the knife was out of her sight, she started to breath again. And cry.

Peeling the slivered clothes from her body and tossing them on the floor, he hovered over her, visually frisking every inch of her naked body.

Miz Tree-Hugger's face was red and blotchy from crying. A thin line of blood trickled from under the leather wrist restraint on her right hand. Her nipples were hard and shriveled like purple raisins. And she had peed all over the bed.

The other _lab rats_ had taught him bladder relief was common in these situations. He remembered his first. A big-breasted Hispanic hooker with purple punk-hair. Charming her into believing he was just another kinky trick, she willingly submitted to the restraints. But as soon as she figured to the contrary, it was smelly hot piss everywhere. The mattress ruined.

But he was intelligent and learned from experience. When he purchased a new mattress he mentioned his son wet the bed. The salesman suggested a heavy-duty rubber mattress cover. "Wise investment," he muttered with a prideful smile as he gazed at the urine-soaked sheets.

Though the bulk of his attention was devoted to Miz Tree-Hugger, he wondered if Sweet Cheeks would piss all over herself. He hoped not, but would be prepared just the same and leave the rubber cover on.

"Please, Mister, let me go ... or get _it_ over with."

Standing silent, eyes narrowed, he continued to shake her down.

"Rape me. That's what you're going to do, right? Well do it then let me go. I'll never tell you raped me..."

_Rape_. The accusation offended him. "I'm no rapist," he growled, grinding his teeth. Stomping with indignation to the nightstand, he yanked open the top drawer and extracted a wad of leather, hiding it behind his back.

On and on she wailed about being defiled and repeating that word: rape.

Pushing the drawer shut with his knee, he glared at her as one would a cockroach needing to be stepped on.

"Please, Mister, please. Don't hurt me. I'll do anything you want. Just please don't hurt me..."

His lips curled with loathing.

Squirming, she continued to beg. "Please, Mister, just do _it_ then let me go. I won't tell anyone. I promise."

"Riiiight."

"Pleeeeeease. Just do whatever you're gonna do then let me go." Tears coursed down her face and puddled on the pillow. In obvious frustration and desperation, she launched another twisting, turning and yanking battle to liberate herself from the escape-proof restraints.

Tilting his head, he motioned toward the straps. "You know, you're the one to blame for your predicament." Scratching the back of his head, "Didn't your momma ever tell you not to ride with strangers?"

"I-I thought I could trust you. You showed me a badge and told me you were a—"

Bellowing a laugh, he pounced on her. Straddling her chest with his knees, he waved his hands in front of her face to reveal the hidden wad behind his back: a black leather gag with an oval ball attached. "Open wide."

"Nooooo."

Being an astute predator, he capitalized on the opportunity her screaming provided to jam the rubber protrusion into her mouth.

She shook her head in useless protest, crying out distorted shrieks.

Grinning at her futile outburst, he buckled the mask to her head, ripping out clumps of hair caught in the clasps.

Sliding off her, he stepped back from the bed, surveying the fruits of his labor.

The wide over-the-mouth gag covered the bottom half of her face and filled her mouth with a hard rubber ball. The stiff leather wrapped under her chin, creating a strict muzzle doubly secured by multiple straps fastened near the crown of her head.

The torturous gag wasn't meant to stifle panicked screams, though it did. Its purpose was to heighten the helplessness and fear of the _lab rat_ to feed his compulsion to dominate his subjects. The grunts, groans and garbled noises expelled from beneath the muzzle amplified the sexual entertainment.

Screaming and tossing her head back and forth, she continued to tussle in her bonds. Hair messed up and scattered across the pillow. Face contorted in misery. Every muscle tense in anguish. Her naked body staked-out...

An erotic show for him.

Sheer terror for her.

Flashing a broad grin of satisfaction, he peeled off his suit coat, loosened his tie, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Now the real _fun_ was about to begin.

Returning to the nightstand, the bottom drawer this time, he produced a liquid-filled glass jar. Loosened the lid and placed it on top of the nightstand. Next, he extracted two forceps, tucking them into his shirt pocket. Finally, a stainless steel apparatus resembling a skinny shoe horn with a razor sharp tip and black handle. Holding it like a carving knife, he sneered, leaning over her.

Accelerated fear widened her already bulging eyes into banjos.

He swept the edge of the blade across the top of her cheek.

She jerked her head. Her body pitched about. Fists tightened. In utter terror she screamed.

But just as he had planned, the leather belts kept her body secure and the gag distorted her shrill screams as he _artfully_ continued the razor's wicked journey.

Down the side of her neck and across her chest.

A figure eight around her breasts.

Diagonally over the middle of her stomach and a circle around her belly button.

An outline around the triangle puff of auburn hair then straight down the outside of her right leg.

He stopped the trail-leaving descent at her knee, dropped the shoehorn razor-tool on her concave stomach and turned an analyzing eye on her.

Blood marked the path of the blade across her body like a thin line of chocolate drizzled over a cake for decoration.

So far, her reaction was what had become the usual: breasts pumping up and down, eyes racing back and forth, and foamy saliva oozing from under the gag as fear consumed her body in dreaded anticipation of his next move.

But he was sure she couldn't imagine what was next. That _alligator grin_ resurfaced. "Time for _surgery_ , Miz Tree-Hugger."

She froze.

He let her think about it for a moment. "They call it female circumcision." His eyes danced with evil delight.

Squirting urine and blasting spurts of gas, she went berserk twisting and turning her body while yanking on the restraints, trying to break free of the leather straps that could keep a rampaging Clydesdale in check.

However all this peeing, farting, and pointless fighting was nothing more than the _usual_. Nothing new.

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to dream. Wonder what would Sweet Cheeks do.

He envisioned her beautiful hourglass body bound to the bed. She was quivering from the unknown, but trusting him just the same. From beneath the gag, she let out moans of anticipated ecstasy, begging him to do _it_ to her.

Again his maleness swelled.

While spending moments in imagined Sweet Cheeks bliss, he knew what was happening with his current _lab rat_.

By now, like her predecessors, Miz Tree-Hugger was nearing physical exhaustion. Not only because of her refusal to surrender to the restraints, but because he had gagged her to intentionally reduce her air intake. Her continued fighting exaggerated the futility of her efforts, escalating her fear. And as far as he was concerned, his ability to induce intense fear in a woman produced the ultimate high.

He opened his eyes. Back to reality. Back to his captive.

Pulling up two more leather straps secured to the bed frame under the mattress, he completed the binding. While he buckled the final leather straps above her knees and tugged on the opposite end to muscle her legs even wider, she offered little resistance.

Abandoning her for a moment, he ransacked a kitchen cupboard, returning with a light blue bath sheet and a Snake light. He flattened out the bath sheet between her legs so he wouldn't have to _work_ in her urine. Then wrapped the Snake light around her right thigh to illuminate the area between her legs. Concerning himself with details like gloves, instrument sterilization, or anesthesia didn't cross his mind. Those were trivial non-necessities.

"It's surgery time," he taunted as the thick fingers of his left hand spread the tender lips of her femininity, while his right hand reached into his shirt pocket for the forceps.

"Surgical tissue holders," he said without emotion, locking forceps on each skin fold. The handle end of the forceps he fastened to the thigh restraint with a snapping carabiner to hold the hinged instruments in place for an unobstructed, hands-free, view of her _sex button_.

Miz Tree-Hugger whined a pitiful whimper, body tensed, quivering in terror. Once again she waged a feeble battle against the straps but, of course, they remained dominant.

As if her little erectile were a rare gemstone, his eyes fixed upon it. With his finger he pinched and pressed her clit several times before burying his face between her legs. In a violent sexual feeding frenzy, his hot tongue and wet lips assaulted her.

Gasps of misery leaked from the savage gag as her thigh muscles flexed and strained, exerting maximum force to slam her legs shut, but the straps wouldn't allow it.

Once satisfied, his head rose from between her legs. Allowing his eyes to drift shut, he inhaled deeply, nostrils flared, basking in the scent of his latest _lab rat_ who whimpered and tremored.

His eyes flew open. Once again his fingers toyed with her _sex button_ as if preparing for a second gorging, but instead, in one smooth quick action he scooped out her clitoris with the surgical dissector, as if digging out an eye of a potato.

Emitting a drawn-out muted scream, her eyes ballooned. Face contorted. Body convulsed. Then just as quickly, stillness and silence. Blood leaked from between her legs.
Three

**10:55 A.M** **.**

Breaking every speed limit to get there, Jewels screeched the Humvee to an abrupt halt into an empty parking space outside the front door of Peggy Sue's Deli. With a wad of keys in one hand and her beige and platinum Gucci hobo handbag in the other, Jewels dashed from her car toward the sandwich shop.

Bursting through the door, she scanned her head back and forth in search of her high school friend.

A few early lunch eaters dotted the otherwise empty restaurant.

Jewels didn't recognize any of them as being the Sharon Jeppson she remembered from high school.

The familiar surrounding rushed her mind with fond memories of drama club. Thoughts of Kirk Kirkland, her high school boyfriend, momentarily relieved the tension on her face. More than once, as the _drama trauma gang_ snuggled into the hidden booth, she had to smack the playful football star's roaming hand off her thigh and keep his nimble fingers from scurrying up her skirt. Life was so simple back then...

Without warning, a hulking man clad in a black sweatshirt with the hood up over his head came barreling from the back of the cafe, making a hasty beeline to the front door.

As he passed Jewels, he clipped her hard on the shoulder with his forearm. The impact almost knocked Jewels off her stilettos, but like a high wire walker using a raised foot for balance, she steadied herself.

The ruffian didn't slow down. Didn't look back. Didn't mumble an apology.

Eyes narrowed and smoldering, Jewels straightened her suit. Chalked up the rude experience to a close encounter with unrefined testosterone.

"Can I help you, Miss?" inquired the skinny sandwich maker pacing behind the counter, about ten feet to Jewels' left.

Preoccupied with browsing the faces of the customers, Jewels ignored the man.

"Ma'am," he called again, his voice a little louder this time.

Gesturing an impatient no thanks, Jewels continued to look for Sharon.

The man behind the counter shook his head in annoyance, mumbled something in Spanish, and resumed pacing.

"Duh," Jewels said to herself. Sharon would probably be seated at the drama trauma gang's table, located out of sight from the wandering eyes of the mainstream deli patron. She stretched her neck to see into the alcove.

Sure enough, Jewels caught the profile of the familiar, though somehow different, face she was seeking. "Sharon," she called, waving her hand at the woman.

The woman nodded.

Jewels sprinted, as best she could in four inch heels, the length of the dining area toward the rear of the building. Sharon was huddled in the curve of the horseshoe booth. Head drooping, shoulder-length coffee-colored hair hung like stalactites around her face. Wrapped in a black Nike windbreaker, her arms were folded across her stomach like she was bucking frigid tundra air. Though the same age as Jewels, thirty-four, she looked a haggard fifty.

Jewels plopped into the booth.

"You made it." Sharon lifted her head to look Jewels in the eyes. A faint smile blossomed on her face. "Pretty. Julia, you're still so pretty."

Sharon's voice was weak. Not like it was on the phone about half an hour ago.

"What's going on?" Jewels scooted closer to her friend from the past. Stared. The woman looked like a dirty homeless person. And appeared to be in terrible health. Her face was pale. Dark rings encircled her eyes. And she shivered as if chilled. Not the norm for such a warm summer day.

Sharon sat. Silent. Motionless.

"You don't look well, Sharon. I'm calling for help." Jewels dug the cell phone out of her purse, her fingers poised to dial, but a bloody hand stopped her.

"Sharon!" Jewels dropped the cell phone onto the table. Her eyes followed the trail of Sharon's bloody hand to an open windbreaker revealing a bunched up camouflage T-shirt covering Sharon's stomach. Blood oozed between Sharon's fingers as they tried to mesh together the gaping wound. "Good heavens, Sharon. You're bleeding."

Sharon shook her head, indicating Jewels should disregard the seepage of life. "Don't worry about that." Pointing to her thigh with her chin, she whispered, "Under my leg, Jewels. That's what's important. Take the paper under my leg."

"Are you kidding? You need help." Jewels leaned out of the booth, waved her arm, "Hey—"

"No! Listen to me," Sharon scolded, preventing Jewels from attracting attention. "Get the paper," she instructed through clenched teeth, once again motioning under her thigh.

Extracting the white paper placemat from under Sharon's leg, Jewels glanced at it and tossed it on the table without regard to her friend's implied importance.

Sharon's bloody fingers latched around Jewels' forearm. Squeezed.

Jewels' linen suit soaked up the blood from Sharon's hand.

"Promise me, Jewels," she paused, her breathing labored. "Promise your best promise ever that you won't give that map to nobody, nowhere, no how, especially not the cops." Sharon coughed. Blood sputtered from her mouth.

Jewels' eyebrows knitted. "Sharon, you need a doctor—"

"Not until you promise."

"I promise—"

"No cops," Sharon insisted, squeezing Jewels' arm tighter. "Promise me, Jewels. I want to hear you promise me, no cops."

"Okay, I promise, Sharon, no cops. I promise." Patting Sharon's hand in reassurance, Jewels nodded at the paper, "But this can wait. First things first, you need medical attention." Jewels reached for the cell phone, but again Sharon stopped her.

"No. Please ... the map ... _look_ at the map first."

"All right, Sharon. All right." Jewels picked up the amateurishly sketch and scrutinized it.

SPOF HIDEOUT was written at the top. Beneath it a bunch of lines she assumed meant to represent roads and sloppily drawn boxes labeled COMPOUND and CABIN and an oval marked LAKE.

"Okay, I've looked. Why does this matter?"

Sharon's body was sliding off the smooth vinyl seat. Her eyelids fluttered.

"Help! My friend's bleeding. Please call nine-one-one," Jewels yelled toward the front of the deli, hoping someone would respond.

Consciousness was about to elude Sharon as death, eager now, arrived to claim her. Folding the map into a two-inch square, Jewels shoved it into her bra. "Don't worry about the map, Sharon. I promise it will be safe with me. But right now I'm calling the paramedics. Just hang on, Sharon. Hang on."

Extending a bloody hand toward Jewels, Sharon wrapped it around the lapel of her Anne Klein suit, pulling her in closer, once again thwarting the emergency phone call Jewels was about to make.

She draped her arm around her shoulder, leaned down, and cocked her ear toward Sharon's mouth.

With death so near, talking was almost impossible for Sharon, but with her dying breath warned, "Don't trust ... the old times."

Distant sirens closed in. Thank goodness someone, probably the guy pacing behind the sandwich counter, called for help.

"Hang on, Sharon. Hang on." Tears tumbled down Jewels' cheeks. She was reminded of Robert. Thank goodness she hadn't witnessed his death. But she had seen death arrive before. Once at a gruesome car accident she just happened to behold, then again in her father's eyes as she stood at his bedside. And it was here. Now.

The few people dining in the deli when Jewels arrived moments earlier had sprouted into an overbearing crowd. Huddling around the booth, their mouths gaped and eyes jumped with morbid excitement; vultures waiting for a fresh meal.

With her arms wrapped around Sharon's shoulders and Sharon's head resting on her chest, Jewels gently rocked side to side, as if lulling a baby. Waiting. Thinking. Knowing she was involved in what was soon to become a murder investigation. Being the last person to speak with Sharon, and given her prominence in the community, would make her involvement in this murder news. Big news. But in her mind, she wasn't supposed to _make_ the news, she was supposed to report it.

Then there would be police. What was she going to tell them? She had made a promise, her best promise, to a dying friend, vowing she would not give the so-called _map_ to the cops.

But her friend was dead. The map was evidence. Maybe even some sort of clue. Could the map help solve her friend's murder? She wanted to do the right thing, but at the moment had no idea what it might be.

As Jewels weighed the pros and cons of fessing up to law enforcement about the map, her father's words echoed with distinct clarity in her mind: "Your word is all you have, Jewels. Your word is your bond. No matter what, always keep your word. Always."

The decision was no longer a conundrum. She _would_ keep her word. Sharon figured the cops were corrupt. But why? Were her suspicions motive for murder? And what did the crude map have to do with anything? And the warning about the old times...

"Paramedics. Coming through," an aggressive, reassuring male voice announced.

_Finally_. But Jewels knew help had arrived too late. Sharon was already dead.
Prologue - _Part Three_

LAST TIME BACK TO A WEEK EARLIER.

He cradled the tiny piece of precious flesh in his hand, rushed over to the nightstand to a formaldehyde filled jar labeled #4 MOMMA, and dropped the little lump of tissue inside.

Tightening the lid, he toted the container into the modest kitchen nook. He smashed the precious jar close to his body with one hand while he fished the other behind a large particle board cabinet in search of a hidden lever. Once he found it, a small section of the wall popped open, exposing the entrance to a secret room.

He held the jar against his chest and slithered inside. Slapped his hand against the wall to the right of the opening several times until it connected with a round, battery-operated touch-light.

The pale light revealed a tiny room, no larger than a modest walk-in closet. An old wooden rocking chair sat in the middle. Rows of six-inch wide pantry shelves lined the walls. But the shelves were not stocked with food. They were full of treasures. His treasures.

He placed #4 MOMMA next to the jar labeled #3 MOMMA. Stepped back to admire his collections and fixated on an eight-by-ten inch color-faded photograph of a seven-year-old boy and a pretty blonde woman happily embracing each other.

Smiling, he picked it up. The vintage wooden frame creaked in his grasp.

He stroked the face of the woman in the picture with his pointer finger. "Momma, why couldn't every day have been like _that_ day?"

Oh, how he loved Momma and how happy he was when Momma and Daddy lived together. Yet, he had never blamed her for Daddy leaving. It wasn't her fault. It was the fault of her _sex button_ : the clitoris. That tiny piece of flesh hounded Momma, pressuring her to have sex with men other than Daddy and forcing her little boy to touch her in feminine places forbidden to a son.

Daddy never knew about the taboo acts Momma required the six-year-old to perform. However Daddy caught Momma in bed with three different men, three different times, and forgave her three times. But the fourth time, well, Daddy just left.

By the age of ten, Momma had schooled the child in a variety of finger rubbing, tongue licking, and object using techniques to stimulate the flesh between her legs. The boy grew to believe the tiny button of tissue had hooked Momma to seek a _fix_. Like an addictive street drug, the fleshy nodule created insatiable cravings for orgasms two, three, four, or more times a day and Momma would satisfy them by any means possible. Even if it meant using her own son.

Although he felt shame for touching his mother _down there_ , he was captivated by her beauty. Big blue eyes. Long silky golden hair that shimmered against her heaving bare breasts. Small waist. Flat stomach. And long, lean legs that engulfed his boy body, squeezing like powerful tentacles on an erotic ingurgitation as she moaned in sexual bliss.

Afterward, Momma would smile, caress the side of her son's face, and eye him with adoration. "I'll always be _your_ Sweet Cheeks," she would promise while coaxing his head between her legs for another round.

By his late teens the boy had learned all women were designed with an enslaving little knob that compelled them to seek orgasms. The teen reasoned if Momma had been rid of the fleshy nub hooking her to orgasms and driving her to have sex with strange men, Daddy would have never left and the little boy's childhood would have been storybook worthy.

But that didn't happen. Daddy had made a big mistake. He should have removed Momma's sex button.

Now grown up, that little boy was determined not to repeat his father's oversight. No, the woman of his dreams— _his_ Sweet Cheeks—would be _cleansed_ of her corruptive sex-seeking nodule and he would extract it himself. After all, how hard could it be to snip out such a tiny clump of flesh? But first things first. He had to find his Sweet Cheeks.

Using a long and uncompromising measuring stick, _his_ Sweet Cheeks had to be nothing short of the perfect duplicate of his mother.

After years of searching, one day when he least expected it, Sweet Cheeks walked into his life: his mother reincarnated, even more beautiful and sexy than he remembered. He had found her. Finally found her. Nirvana!

Then, as quickly as seventh heaven manifested, it disintegrated into fire and brimstone when Sweet Cheeks flashed a seductive smile and mentioned she was _happily married_. He knew the culprit. That evil little sex button was dictating her life.

Crushed, he resigned to settle for visualizing the _cleansing_ process, as if she were his wife. Right before purifying her, he would touch her _there_. Stimulate her sex button. Satisfy her evil craving one last time. Plunge her into the depths of base sexual desire before finally redeeming her with his cleansing ritual. He would be her sexual tormentor and savior in one!

Every time he played the scenario, the mental picture launched a wicked good hard-on followed by glorious bliss.

In a short time, however, the images in his head were no longer emotionally or sexually satisfying. Compelling him to escalate his fantasies to mock versions of the _cleansing_ process with pretty blonde-haired, well-endowed dolls he had bound, gagged, and mutilated. Though toying with the plastic dolls in subservient positions temporarily gratified his deep-rooted compulsion to control women—specifically Sweet Cheeks—he yearned to cleanse the _real_ woman. That's when he decided he must possess her whether she was married or not.

With the prized photograph still in his hand, he waltzed to the rocking chair, plopping down. "It won't be long before you get to meet _my_ Sweet Cheeks, Momma. She's beautiful, just like you. Remember the last time we talked and I told you I had a couple more details to finalize? Well, they're all but done. And that means you're gonna meet her real soon. Maybe even this week."

Rocking in the chair, he cooed to the picture of Momma before kissing the photo and replacing it on the shelf. Surveying his collection of dolls tied in various enslaved positions, he focused on his latest: a doll bound in a brutal forced kneel restraint. Pleasure blossomed on his face as he dreamed of Sweet Cheeks tethered like the doll. She would be in ecstasy, eager to have him bind her, gag her, flog her or do whatever he wanted just because it made _him_ happy...

Before leaving his secret room he scanned the shelves one more time. Compulsively twisted the jar labeled MOMMA #4 a little toward the right to line up the labels. Satisfied all was in order, he slipped through the crack of an opening, dousing the battery-operated light as he exited. Pushing the wall back into place with his shoulder, he listened for the hidden lever to click and lock.

Peering over at naked Miz Tree-Hugger, she lay motionless. Eyes closed. Skin pasty-white. A lake of blood accumulated on the towel between her legs. The cabin reeked of cooled urine and clotting blood; the nauseating stench of a slaughterhouse, but it didn't bother him. The smell was familiar. Enjoyable.

Another clap of thunder rocked the cabin.

Miz Tree-Hugger's body and head twitched with a startled jerk. A barely audible shriek sneaked out from the muzzle.

"Good, you're still alive." He eyed his watch. "It's been about an hour. Looks like surgery was a success."

His mind drifted to his previous _lab rats_.

The first was a disaster. Blood and bits of flesh everywhere. Had to keep digging and scraping. The hooker died quickly.

_Lab rat_ number two was less of a disaster, but still a blood bath. Scooped out much more flesh than necessary. The middle-aged bartender died about fifteen minutes after surgery.

Three lived for twenty-seven minutes. Again, hacked more flesh than necessary from the convenience store clerk.

His fourth was perfection. Just the right amount of pressure. No extra flesh. She would survive. That special _alligator grin_ glided across his face again as he congratulated himself for mastering the _cleansing process_. "I can do this," he announced to the semi-conscious Miz Tree-Hugger. Walking toward her, he felt confident he had practiced enough and was now competent to perform a successful cleansing on Sweet Cheeks.

A stark realization eclipsed his mental applause: If Miz Tree-Hugger lived, she would be a witness.

Couldn't have a witness. She had to die. But how? Leaning his back against the rough log wall, he laced his fingers behind his neck and gazed at her as he played out his options.

Shoot her?

No, a gun would be too messy. A bitch to clean up.

Cut her throat?

Too bloody.

Smother her with a pillow?

Nah, too easy. Wouldn't be gratifying enough.

Pondering his options, he flexed his arms; biceps curls with imaginary dumbbells. Then it dawned on him: _strangulation!_ It was the perfect solution. No mess to clean and hands-on gratifying.

He strutted to the bed. "Time to meet your Maker." A grin of superiority snaked across his face as he crawled onto the mattress. Cognizant of the pooling blood and urine between her legs, he positioned himself at her side to ensure her bodily fluids would not be driven by gravity to contaminate his expensive suit pants. Once comfortable with his position, he descended upon her. Wrapped his fingers around her throat. Squeezed.

Body tensing and jerking, she gasped to breathe.

Earthworm-sized veins popped on his well-developed arm muscles as he bore down. "Die, die, die," he commanded through clenched teeth, using the weight of his body to apply more pressure.

Miz Tree-Hugger's eyes flew open, ballooned. Every muscle in her body flexed in a violent convulsion. Rapid blasts of air spurted from her nose, projecting snot like impotent bullets. Dreadful gurgling sounds erupted from within.

The panic pulsating through her body stoked his death grip to super human strength. Within moments her throat tissue collapsed beneath his mighty fingers, crushed like an empty aluminum can.

Her body wilted. Eyes glazed still. Lungs collapsed, forcing remaining air through her nostrils like a fireplace bellow. She was dead. Finally.

Euphoria consumed him. Waves of bliss surfed his innards as he straddled the dead woman's chest. Sitting tall, he arched his back and engorged his lungs with a deep sucking in of air, basking in the victory of the kill.

ABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER.

Unlocking the forceps from her flesh and the carabiners from the thigh strap, he set the instruments on the nightstand. He liberated the dead _lab rat_ from the restraints and gag. Shaking his head in reprimand at the brutal ligature marks on her wrists, ankles and face, he spoke to the corpse. "You made those yourself."

A goofy grin trotted across his face. He eyed his handsome and powerful fist. "Well, except for that near shiner."

Gathering her shirt, pants, bra, panties, and socks from the floor, he folded each one, taking extra care with the tattered pieces he had shredded to ensure they appeared tidy. In an orderly fashion—bra, shirt, panties, pants, socks—he lined up the clothing on her torso. Started just below her neck with the bra and ended with the socks flattened out at the top of her thighs. Picking up her boots, he stuffed them upside down toe to heel, the length of her lower legs. Pulling up the corners of the bloody, urine-soaked sheet from the mattress, he wrapped up her body like a burrito, tugging her off the bed by her feet.

The thud of her lifeless mass hitting the wooden floor reverberated through the log cabin. Dust particles, blown in from the violent thunderstorm, shot up around her body, frolicking in the air like morbid confetti. Frowning at the sight, he abandoned his _lab rat_ to dash outside. Retrieved a cordless handheld vacuum from his vehicle. Upon returning, vacuumed up the dirt crumbs from around the _burrito_ before resuming the body disposal process.

Dragging the _lab rat's_ carcass behind him, he pulled her out of the cabin.

The air was crisp. Smelled of new rain and wet pine needles. Warm rays of dusky sunlight stabbed through the dense forest. Nature's creatures hummed in the background. Drag marks from her body marred the natural pattern of forest floor as he towed her body around to the back.

A newer pointed shovel rested against the rough exterior cabin wall. He heaved the pointed edge into the ground. Stomped his foot on the lip. Raised a shovelful of dirt and tossed the earth to the side. She would be buried along side the other three _lab rats_.

Digging was easier than usual due to the recent rainfall, but the added humidity made him sweat. Irritated him. After a few minutes of intense, non-stop shoveling, he cleared the liquid beads from his forehead with the back of his hand. Wiped his sweaty hands on a corner of the soiled bedsheet. Standing tall, he kicked Miz Tree-Hugger's body into the hole with a powerful thrust from the heel of his expensive oxblood shoe.

Her body landed at the bottom of the shallow grave with a muted _thud_ that didn't bother him. He lobbed the dirt back into the hole. Patted the mound with the back of the shovel, then propped it against the cabin wall in nearly the exact same spot from where he had taken it.

With the body disposal complete, he brushed his hands together to dry his moist palms. Examined his expensive shirt, flicking off a few dirt specks. Gazed down at his feet. "Shit," he muttered in response to the tad of mud on his footwear.

He stomped back into the cabin and grabbed a roll of paper towels from one of the kitchen cabinets to wipe the mud from his shoes. Meticulous about having every speck of dirt removed, his _detailing_ task lasted a full ten minutes, taking priority over finalizing his _lab_ cleanup.

ONCE A FIRE WAS ROARING in the fireplace, he rolled up the cruddy fitted sheet and tossed it into the flames. After scrubbing the rubber mattress cover with Lysol Bath Cleaner, he threw the rag into the fire, causing a flare-up that crackled and sparked. Foul-smelling smoke billowed out of the chimney, worming its way into the cabin. The odor assaulted his nose, causing his eyes to water. Sniffling, he rubbed his eye sockets with his fists, then surveyed the cabin.

With cleanup completed to his satisfaction, he focused on preparations for Sweet Cheeks. Though he imagined her submitting to his restraint requests, he didn't want to take any chances. Unlike his _lab rats_ whom he had knocked out with a swift punch to the face before introducing them to the cabin and applying the straps to their wrists, he would not deliver a haymaker to Sweet Cheeks' pretty face. She would be conscious and alert when he introduced her to the cabin. Therefore, just as an added precaution, the bed restraints had to be hidden. Out of sight to her while readily accessible to him.

Storage of the gag was a no-brainer. He returned it to its designated spot in the nightstand along with the forceps and dissection razor. Before closing the drawer, he paused, gazing at the remaining jar. It was filled with formaldehyde and labeled, Sweet Cheeks. The _alligator grin_ manifested. "Soon." He massaged his palms together in eager anticipation of adding _her_ sex button to his collection. Pushing the drawer shut with his knee, he turned his attention to the bed restraints.

He considered stashing the _surgery_ straps under the bed, but curled up his nose at the idea. Reasoned the logical place to hide them would be where he kept the other restraints and various types of bondage equipment: in the cabinets flanking the fireplace next to the bed.

With the leather bindings in hand, he padded over to the fireplace cabinet nearest to the bed and flung the door open. Two floggers dangled from hooks on the inside of the door and a metal bondage bar leg-spreader leaned against the back of the cabinet. A variety of leather restraints and harnesses were stacked on the narrow shelves. Rearranging a few of the heavy-duty straps to make a spot for the special bed restraints, he tucked them inside, closing the door.

Next he retrieved a set of wine-colored satin designer sheets from the shelves of _treasures_ in his secret room. Only the best for Sweet Cheeks. _Lab rats_ deserved nothing more than cheap, plain white poly-cotton sheets.

After dressing the bed in the expensive sheets, he covered them with a beautiful handcrafted quilt that could be perceived as a family heirloom. Of course it wasn't. He bought it at a local church bazaar just a few months ago because it resembled the one his mother kept on her bed.

After that, he swept the floor and vacuumed up any remaining dust particles. Lastly, he double-checked the stockpile of dry wood for the fireplace and Coleman fuel for the lanterns.

Plenty of both.

Content with the cleanup and preparations, he lathered his hands and forearms in Germ-X hand sanitizer, then unrolled his sleeves. Straightened his tie. Climbed into his jacket and strolled outside to watch the sun retire.

It was a spectacular sight. The thunderheads had moved on. Leaving a brilliant stream of color in the sky. The air was pristine.

How ironic, he thought. Just as he had performed a _cleansing_ , so had Mother Nature.

Closing his eyes, once again, he dreamed of Sweet Cheeks. Imagined her as his wife. The touch of her passionate kisses on his lips. His hands fondling her full breasts. Him inside of her...

Darkness and frigid air ousted the warmth of the sun's rays from his cheeks. His eyes opened. Once again he spawned that _alligator grin_. For two years he had plotted, experimented, and executed elaborate plans to make _her_ his own. Cupping his hands around his mouth like, he hollered into the dense forest, "I'm ready for yoooouuuu, Sweet Cheeks."

### Four

**2:37 P.M.**

"Thank you, Ma'am. If we need anything else, we'll be in touch," the portly detective told Jewels. Like an overused scene in a Hollywood movie, he flipped shut the note pad and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

Statements. Police and news reporters were a lot alike. Both eager for a statement. Jewels felt a tinge of guilt for not sharing the SPOF HIDEOUT map with the detective. But told herself a dying woman wouldn't make such an urgent, pointed request without good reason. Besides, she had given Sharon her _word_. Therefore she dismissed the speck of guilt festering, rationalizing she could always tell the detective about the map tomorrow _. If_ necessary.

Emergency vehicles began disappearing from the scene, opening a path for Jewels' Humvee to edge out onto the street.

A small crowd had gathered around her vehicle, but she was used to it. There weren't many Humvee H1 Alpha Wagons in the Salt Lake area, or Utah for that fact. And of those that were, none of the four-door hard tops were cloaked in a rich metallic burgundy paint, tastefully pin striped in pink and white, and heavily accessorized in bright chrome. Jewels' H1 had been spectacularly customized.

Equally sensational was the interior. Loaded. Custom burgundy leather heated and cooled seats. A Bose twelve-disc CD stereo system, Bluetooth, CB radio, and navigation system; few luxury cars could compare. JEWELS V the vanity plate announced. It was her dream machine and so much more.

At the time, Robert couldn't have known the extravagant SUV would be the last gift he would ever give his beloved wife. Yet he acted as if he knew.

Investing a painstaking amount of time in the customizing process, with ardent attention to every detail, he had ensured the vehicle would be perfect for his sweetheart. Once certain all elements were as he wished, Robert prepaid, adding a handsome tip to make certain his instructions would be followed to the letter. Including delivery of the customized vehicle to Jewels at the Press on their fourteenth wedding anniversary, which would fall about six months from the date he had placed the order.

As fate would have it, Robert's mortal eyes never witnessed his wife take possession of her dream machine. But if they had Robert would have been pleased. His gift arrived as he had requested at the Press, at noon, on their fourteenth anniversary. Fourteen dozen long-stemmed pink roses filled the front seat. A note written in Robert's own handwriting was taped to the steering wheel:

I love you, Jewels. Thanks for fourteen terrific years. Looking forward to fourteen more. All my love, always and only to you, Sweetheart. —Robert

The vehicle's title lay in a white envelope on the dash. It was apparent Robert had thought of everything.

The Andrasy Humvee story had become a romantic tragedy of legendary proportions in New Greensburgh, though it barely had a year to circulate. Starry-eyed young lovers told the sad story with hopes their love would grow into something as precious and timeless as Jewels and Robert's, yet not end as tragically.

Jewels found comfort, peace, and deep internal strength in her Humvee. Rarely would she drive her other car, a giallo Ferrari 458 Italia, though Robert had bought the brilliant yellow sports car for her, too. After all, the Humvee had kind of become her _trademark_. And besides, she didn't mind the attention the H1 attracted and loved showing it off. Several times she had given permission for someone, often a male teen, to sit behind the wheel to snap a picture.

The crowd around the Hummer gasped and parted way as Jewels walked toward it. Somebody whispered something about _Kennedy_ and a blonde _Jackie_. It wasn't until glimpsing down at her jacket she realized how much of Sharon's crimson life-juices had ended up on her linen suit.

Before crawling into the Hummer, Jewels peeled off the blood-soaked jacket, tossing it over the console onto the passenger side of the front seat. Once inside, she closed the door and stuffed the key into the ignition.

The manly roar of the Duramax diesel engine turned heads. Three male onlookers bounded to Jewels' unsolicited aid to help her maneuver through the scattered array of emergency vehicles still at the scene.

One man stopped traffic.

Another asked a policeman to move his car forward about a foot.

A third gave Jewels the _go_ sign, pointing in the direction she should drive.

An unnatural smile stumbled across Jewels' face as she waved and whispered _thank you_ while pulling away from the curb. Jewels had nothing to smile about. She had arrived at Peggy Sue's, to Sharon, too late. Just a few minutes earlier... "Maybe a few _seconds_ earlier," she shouted aloud, pounding her fist on the steering wheel.

The _too late_ thought triggered the memory of the man who had collided with her. Could _he_ be Sharon's killer? The police needed to know.

Searching her mind for details, Jewels came up empty. The fact was, she didn't get a good look at his face. Not even a glimpse because it was shrouded in the hood of a sweatshirt. What would she report to the police about the hooded man? At this point, she couldn't imagine.

Out of habit, Jewels glanced into the rearview mirror.

The tiny hairs at the nape of her neck leaped to attention. Dread ascended the back of her throat. Was that green truck following her?

Without losing concentration on the road ahead, she strained for a better look at the pickup in the rearview mirror.

Body style appeared to be newer. Tandem wheels. Forest green. Tinted windows. Not the run of the mill pickup. Mega bucks had been invested for that Ram.

Her eyes cut to the dash clock: 3:05. At the next light she would cruise into Circle K. Grab a Diet Coke from the fountain. Browse the magazine rack. Waste five or ten minutes. At 3:15, leave. If the person behind the wheel of that Ram wasn't tailing her, the truck should be well on its way to wherever it was going. But if that green dually appeared in her rearview again, she would have to engage the mindset rules of combat, continuing with heightened awareness and escalating with plans to avoid a possible confrontation.
Five

3:15 P.M.

After paying for the handful of magazines and the Thirst Quencher, Jewels hustled to the H1. Not wanting to alert the would-be follower of her suspicion, she kept her head down, acting like she was absorbed in fumbling with a tangle of keys.

Once inside the safety of the Hummer, she pretended to touch-up her lipstick using the rearview mirror to scan behind her.

So far, so good. No fancy green Ram.

Jewels turned on the radio. It was tuned to The Oldies, Rock-n-Roll. Music would calm her. Help her think.

Again her eyes shifted to the rearview mirror. Still no sign of the green truck. "Okay," she sighed with relief.

The radio whispered in the background. A commercial ended. A song was about to play.

She cranked the volume. After hearing the first half dozen notes, she knew it was "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival. Was the song an omen?

Laughing it off, Jewels chalked up the notion to extreme paranoia and changed the subject. "Better check in." She lowered the radio volume to command the voice-activated phone system to call the office.

"New Greensburgh Press, Belinda speaking. How may I direct your call?"

"Belinda—"

"Jewels! Things are _crrrrazy_ around here. Are you okay? Reporters have been calling for you all afternoon. They want to interview you. Sorry to hear about your friend."

"Thanks, Belinda. And yes, I'm fine. Any crises? Press still running?"

"No crises that I know of, and yes, the press is on schedule. Are you coming back to the office today? What do you want me to tell the reporters? Did you call your FBI guy? He called here for you, _again_."

Jewels snickered. She'd never known anyone who could talk as fast as Belinda without taking a breath. "Belinda, you can always make me laugh." A slight, but genuine, grin sneaked over her lips.

She glimpsed at the scene in her rearview mirror. A fancy green tandem wheeler had just pulled into traffic two cars behind her. Was it the same green pickup?

"Jewels? Jewels? Do we have a bad connect—"

"We'll talk when I get to the office. See you in ten minutes." Jewels tapped the END button, disconnecting the call. Her undivided attention had to be focused on that green pickup, whose driver was either the world's worst shadow, or didn't give a hoot if she knew she was being followed. Either way, not good.

Double-checking the truck in her rearview mirror, she concluded it _was_ the same truck. Even had tinted windows.

"Shit!" Swearing was not part of her everyday vocabulary and when she used it, she was feeling pushed to the brink.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER.

The green Ram had followed her to the Press. Parking in her designated spot, she again pretended to primp in the mirror.

The truck cruised into the Maverick convenience store across the street and parked with its hood facing the Press lot.

"I got you now." Jewels squinted to see the license plate. But the front bumper was bare and at the angle the truck was parked, it was impossible to see the rear to nab the number. "Damn." Maybe she should ask Belinda to get her another fountain Diet Coke. While she was there she could jot down the creep's license plate number.

She shook her head and frowned. "Jeez, Jewels. What are you thinking? That could be Sharon's killer behind the wheel. Belinda's life could be in danger if you sent her over there."

Stepping out of the Hummer, the Gucci handbag slung over her shoulder, she reached across the seat to pick up the Thirst Quencher. After locking her vehicle with the remote key fob, she proceeded to stroll toward the Press. The spiked heels of her shoes clacked against the cement sidewalk with each brisk step.

The tiny hairs on the back of her neck jumped to attention again. A disturbing wave lapped her spine. The driver of that fancy green truck was watching her ... she _felt_ it. Hurrying her pace, she couldn't wait to reach the security of her office, located about thirty feet from the main door of the Press.

"You made it," Belinda greeted in her usual cheery way as Jewels hustled inside.

Smiling, Jewels couldn't help but think how Belinda's personality was so much like that of a puppy dog: always happy to see you no matter what, and always having a way of making you feel just a little bit better by being around. But Belinda's feel-good words were eclipsed by the unnerving feeling of being _watched_.

Unable to shake the urge to look one more time, she paused at the entry and leaned her entire body backward in an attempt at nonchalance to peek out the window at the Maverick. At least the green Ram was still parked where she could see it.

With papers in her hand, Belinda popped out from behind her desk and dashed toward Jewels. She riffled through them. "The _Tribune_ called, as did Sarah Kimball—"

"Not now." She thrust her free hand forward like a stop sign. "I'm sorry, Belinda, I need some time alone, undisturbed. Hold all calls, cancel my engagements for tonight and please don't interrupt me unless it's a dire emergency."

Belinda stood stunned, mouth gaping. "Uh, okay." All enthusiasm squashed as Jewels hurried into her office.

With the office door locked, Jewels marched straight for her plush office chair. Set her Thirst Quencher close to her computer. Dropped her purse into the bottom right drawer of her desk and took a gander out the window toward the Maverick. "Still there." She remotely closed the blinds that covered both inside and outside windows in a self-imposed lockdown of sorts.

Stretching her arms above her head, she collapsed into her big executive chair. "This could be a long afternoon." She slipped out of her heels and grabbed big Thirst Quencher. Sucked a mouthful of Diet Coke that burned, in a good way, all the way down.

Now in the total privacy, comfort, and security of her office, she retrieved the folded placemat from her bra. Ironed it on the desk with her hands. "Sharon Marie," she whispered, studying the scribblings. "What is this, and why would someone want to kill you to keep it a secret? Or do they even know about this map or that you passed it to me?"

Leaning back into her chair, she closed her eyes. Slowly tilted her head from side to side and rubbed her stiff neck. "Who are _they_ and why did you give the map to _me_ ... and why _today_?"

Questions swirled in her mind. Talking aloud sorted her thoughts, helped her think more clearly. And right now, she needed all the clear-thinking assistance she could muster for her boggled mind.

After rolling her shoulders in an exaggerated up-back-down motion a few times, she opened her eyes. Continued her thinking process aloud. "Was the person behind the wheel of that green pickup following Sharon? Is that same person now following me? Could the pickup driver also be the hooded man from the cafe and could he be Sharon's killer?"

One point was clear: whoever killed Sharon, presumably for the map, wouldn't think twice about killing her too. Some kind of action was required on her part, But what? Whatever she did, it would have to ensure that, heaven forbid should a terrible _accident_ befall her this afternoon or later tonight, both her and Sharon's deaths would not be in vain.

Of course the simplest solution— _Plan A_ she called it—would be to surrender the map to the police and let them deal with it. Still, she wondered _why_ Sharon made her promise not to hand it over to the authorities as well as _why_ Sharon gave the map to her in the first place. The remaining classic reporters' questions, _where, when, what_ and _how_ , could be answered later, after she figured out the _whys_.

Kneading the plush carpet with her toes, she mulled over the possibilities. Could law enforcement be involved with Sharon's murder? If so, were they locals or feds? Was it a rogue officer or two, or an entire department? And why? Why kill Sharon? For the map? Jewels turned her attention to the poorly sketched drawing.

At the top, under SPOF HIDEOUT, the words UINTA MOUNTAINS were scrawled. In the middle of the paper, a rectangular box. SPOF was written on it with groups of lines, like a child would make to indicate roads, shooting out from and around the SPOF box, with one of them marked MAIN.

Near the top left corner, a small square labeled CABIN traced over numerous times to make the letters thick then underlined multiple times for obvious emphasis.

On the opposite side at the bottom, a squiggly oval with LAKE written across it.

What was the point of this so-called map? Would it lead to a lost treasure? Reveal a dark secret? Jewels was clueless. "The only thing I know for sure, is the SPOF HIDEAWAY is somewhere in the Uinta Mountains."

It took a moment of further contemplation for Jewels to conclude _Plan A_ had too many drawbacks. Not the least being the fact she had promised her dying friend she wouldn't give the map to the cops. So no, the cops would not get the map from her. At least not yet.

On the other hand, if a psycho was following her and _something_ did happen to her tonight, she would want to ensure _someone_ in law enforcement knew why she was killed ... presumably for that damn map!

"Better come up with a Plan B." She gulped another swig of Diet Coke.

An idea popped into her head: make two photocopies of the map and create two detailed voice recordings of her encounter with Sharon then mail them to trusted contacts in law enforcement.

One map and one tape would be Fed-Ex'd to the FBI, attention Special Agent In Charge Hines. Even though she didn't want to date him, she figured she could trust him. After all, this matter with Sharon was business. Dating was personal.

The other tape and map she'd Overnight Express to her friend, Jodie Clarkston, the Westmoreland County Sheriff, whom she _knew_ she could trust.

The envelope addressed to Hines would be placed in Belinda's _out_ box. The other, addressed to Sheriff Clarkston, dropped in the _out_ box in Production located in the wing opposite her office. That way if _someone_ broke into the Press and ransacked her office area, he would only find the envelope addressed to Hines. A thief probably wouldn't think of searching the other end of the building for a second envelope. Especially if one was found in her office.

If nothing happened throughout the night, she would arrive at work early in the morning and gather the envelopes. It would be as simple as that.

This envelope caper could continue endlessly, affording as many days as necessary to solve the mystery of the SPOF map's importance.

Pleased with her scheme, Jewels fashioned _Plan B._ Using the scanner connected to her computer, she duplicated two copies of the map. Next, retrieving the pocket-sized voice recorder she stored in her desk drawer—a reporter's necessity, of course—she verbally documented her story. Once the original recording was finished, she copied the tape. Lastly, she addressed two special delivery envelopes each with a SPOF map and audio recording inside.

With _Plan B_ ready to execute, Jewels collapsed back into her chair. Allowed her eyelids to slide shut and engaged in deep breathing exercises to unwind.

5:45 P.M.

A gentle knock on her office door snapped her out of relaxation mode.

"Jewels?" Belinda called through the closed door. "It's almost six. I'll be leaving in about five minutes."

"Uh, okay. Will you wait for me?"

"Sure."

Tapping the button on the remote to open the blinds covering the outside windows, the view surprised her.

Wind hissed through the thick branches of the trees. The little wooden bird feeder spewed its contents as it twirled round and round, back and forth, up and down, as if manipulated by a spastic puppet master. Billowing hues of gray and charcoal painted the sky. A violent summer rainstorm was about to assault the valley. And the Maverick parking lot was empty. No green truck.

"Have to get home before the storm hits." Jewels slipped into her heels. Gulped the last swig of the Thirst Quencher and dumped the cup into the wastebasket under her desk. Folding the original SPOF map in two, she tucked it under her left arm along with the two envelopes. Dug her handbag out of the big drawer and whipped it over her right shoulder. Scampering to the door, she unlocked it, flinging it open.

Belinda, standing next to the office door like an unsophisticated eavesdropper, reared back in surprise. "Are you all right, Jewels?"

She nudged Belinda on the arm as a show of gratitude for her concern. "Of course I'm all right, but thanks for asking," Jewels replied with a little too much pep in her voice.

Raising an eyebrow in disbelief, Belinda strained a smile. "How about I walk you to your car." She zipped up her pink windbreaker and tightened the hood around her face for protection from what was soon to be pelting rain.

"That would be great as long as you don't mind if we make a detour to Production." A slight smile romped across Jewels' face as she thought: except for the missing strip of iconic fur encircling Belinda's cinched up face, her secretary looked like a cartoon Eskimo bundled up for an ice fishing adventure.

Belinda nodded that the detour was agreeable.

"Please see that this goes out first thing tomorrow morning." Jewels handed Belinda the letter addressed to Hines.

Eying the addressee, Belinda widened her eyes. "Agent Hines, huh?" A playful grin vaulted across her face.

Jewels answered with a simple tilt of her head.

On the way out Jewels dropped off the other envelope in Production and stuffed the map into her purse. As they exited the building gabbing, Jewels laughed and giggled, purposely melodramatic, at everything Belinda said. But between the bursts of forced gaiety, her eyes scoped the landscape. No sign of a green Ram. Yet.
Six

**THE HUMVEE'S WINDSHIELD** wipers slapped to the beat of the last few bars of the golden oldie. After a few commercial spots, the music resumed. It was CCR's "Bad Moon Rising." Again. And again Jewels wondered: _Could the song be an omen of treachery to come?_

Her eyes cut to the rearview mirror.

No sign of the green pickup.

"Well, at least that's a _good_ omen," Jewels assured herself, before singing along with the radio.

The pelting rain subsided into occasional drops. The wipers screeched an irritating tune as they scraped against the dry glass.

Switching off the wipers, she piloted the Humvee around the bend of the sleepy highway. Her driveway came into view. A white sedan was parked on the opposite side of her rural mail box. The car reeked of plain clothes law enforcement. Locals or feds? Soon enough she'd know.

Tall pines towered along both sides of the half-mile private lane, winding back to a spectacular two-story farmhouse dressed in a crisp, white wraparound porch. It was the perfect country home in the perfect, peaceful country setting.

Jewels poked the garage door opener hooked on the sun visor.

The door rose.

As the big four wheeler crept into the garage, a quick look in the rearview mirror revealed the unmarked cop car had followed her down the lane. At least it wasn't a green Ram pickup.

With the driver side door ajar, her left foot dangling out, Jewels snatched the SPOF map out of her purse and refolded the white paper placemat into a small square. Reaching under her left armpit, she stuffed the map inside her bra and adjusted it so the corner of the paper would not be revealed through the semi-sheer material of her white silk blouse. Picking up the bloody jacket and draping it over her arm, she slid out of the Hummer, slamming the door shut.

Before exiting the garage, out of habit, Jewels skimmed her hand under the front driver side wheel-well to verify the hideaway spare key to the Humvee was still there. It was.

Hiding an extra key under the wheel-well of every vehicle they owned was a habit Robert had instilled in her. _Never know when a spare key will come in handy_ , he used to tell her.

After completing the hidden key ritual, head held high, Jewels strolled out of the garage with confidence to meet the cops.
Seven

**THE GREEN RAM RUMBLED** passed Jewels' driveway. The driver's eyes tracked the white sedan until it disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the dense trees.

This was bad. An unexpected turn of events that could have far-reaching, devastating effects. The general had to be informed right away. But the order was clear: don't break radio silence unless it's an emergency. A _dire_ emergency.

"If this ain't fuckin' close to a _dire_ emergency I don't know what is," he thundered, reaching for the CB mic, stopping short of picking it up. "Nah. Forget it," he told himself. "What's the point? Nothing can be done right now anyway."

Cloaked in a heavy army boot, his size fifteen foot mashed the gas pedal. The Cummins diesel roared.

Seconds later the metallic howl of the green Ram faded as it sped away, leaving remnants of the summer's quick-moving rain shower in its wake.
Eight

**ONCE THE COPS WERE IN VIEW,** Jewels recognized the caramel-colored, feathered, full head of hair adorning the passenger. "Agent Hines." She rolled her eyes in uneasy anticipation his visit could involve a high pressure solicitation for a date, even though just hours earlier she had _almost_ called him back to accept his dinner invitation.

But the fact Theodore wasn't alone was a clue the visit _must_ be official FBI business, Jewels reasoned feeling somewhat relieved. At least he wasn't going to hound her for a date. She wasn't in a socializing mood and especially not with the sometimes overbearing Agent Hines.

All of a sudden an icy fist wrenched Jewels' innards. Her face drained of color. "What _official_ business would the FBI have with me?"

Sharon's murder was the first—the only—answer she could fathom. Was Sharon involved in _something_ the FBI was investigating?

Another question leaped into her mind. If the FBI had Sharon under investigation, which would be serious, what becomes of her promise _not_ to turn the SPOF map over to the cops? After all, Hines and his partner weren't just local law enforcement boys. They were feds. The F-B-I.

What should she do about her promise?

Allowing her eyes to slide shut for a brief moment, she combed her soul for the answer. The _right_ answer. Her heart was telling her to trust her friend. To keep the faith of a dying woman. To be true to herself by honoring her word.

But the voice of reason was quick to remind her of the reality of the situation. Warned if the FBI _was_ investigating Sharon or SPOF—whatever or whoever that was—and Jewels kept her promise, she risked facing federal charges for withholding evidence in a current investigation. Federal charges that could land her hard time in prison.

The sound of a car engine being put to rest prompted Jewels to open her eyes. The passenger door swung open first.

The aroma of Hines' Ralph Lauren Polo cologne preceded his physical presence, which was not exceptional, but by no means repulsive.

He was about six-foot-two with a solid, athletic build. A cleft chin, chiseled jaw line, and a straight, thin nose. Biscuit brown, spaniel eyes were set against mildly pocked, sun-browned skin. And Hines was a sharp dresser. Always wore expensive tailored suits, looking more like a highly-paid corporate executive than a lawman.

Granted, Theodore Hines presented an acceptable physical package. But how could she ever take any man seriously who felt the need to wear so much cologne? What was he trying to cover up? Jewels was sure she couldn't imagine and was certain she didn't want to find out.

"Jewels," an exuberant Agent Hines greeted, smiling widely and striding toward her with open arms.

Rebuffing his invitation for a hug, she extended her hand. "Agent Hines."

Shaking her hand, he lobbed a puzzled look at her. "Miz Andrasy, this is Special Agent Folsum," Hines introduced, mocking her formality as he cocked his head toward the trainee.

Jewels looked over Agent Folsum. Young for an FBI agent, she thought. Maybe twenty-three, but wondered if he was older than he appeared. He reminded her of a chunky, baby-faced Jimmy Smits.

After climbing two steps up the side stairs of the wraparound porch, Jewels paused. "Now what does the FBI want with me?"

Though she didn't know it, Jewels' suspicions about Folsum's age were right on. He looked a decade younger than he was at thirty-one. Formerly a low-ranking FBI analyst, he had recently completed his Field Agent training at the FBI's facility in Quantico. Anxious to exercise his new authority, he seized the opportunity to respond to Jewels' inquiry.

Skirting the edge of the flower bed on the sidewalk at ground level, he kept his eyes on her while hurrying his pace to rush ahead of her slow ascent onto the porch.

Clearly, he was positioning himself to beat her to the front door. Once about ten feet in front on her, Folsum stopped. Thrust his hands on his hips. Stood stiff and stared coldly up at Jewels. "Hold it right there, Miss," he barked, lowering his voice to sound authoritative. Maybe even threatening.

Jewels had already been standing still and continued to do so. Annoyance swept her face. "What?" she snapped, with hostility. "You been practicing that take-no-shit look in front of the bathroom mirror and think you're going to use it on me now?"

Agent Folsum's face heated up, but he continued to stare her down.

Swiveling her head over her shoulder, Jewels shot Hines a dirty look. Expected him to say _something_ , but he just stood on the sidewalk, staring up at her on the stairs. "Hmph." She refocused her simmering eyes on Folsum. "So now what? Gonna, shoot me?" Her tone and demeanor sarcastic.

Folsum and Hines remained motionless at the edge of the fancy red brick walkway, gazing up at her.

"Not a good idea." Jewels stomped up the remaining few steps onto the porch and stormed about fifteen feet across it toward the front door. Her heels clacked out angry tune against the porch's wood slats.

The moment Jewels started moving, Folsum sprinted into a dead run the length of the porch and up the front steps, cutting her off before she reached the entry. With hands planted on his hips and chest puffed out, he tarried, blocking Jewels from her own front door. It was that _take-no-shit_ look again.

Not in the mood for this crap, Jewels folded her arms across her chest, squared her shoulders, and widened her stance, posturing for a standoff. "Ooooouuuuwww. Big, bad FBI man gonna try intimidation tactics to keep me from entering my own home?" Jewels taunted, fury building, becoming more and more pissed by the second ... at Hines for not calling off his wanna-be enforcer.

Folsum retrieved a pocket notebook and pen from the inside of his suit jacket, clicked the top of the pen, then engaged his machine gun mouth to rapid fire damning questions. "The woman in the deli, who was she to you? What was your relationship with her? Why did you decide to meet? How long have these meetings been going on—"

"Enough." Jewels gestured a quick swipe of her extended thumb across her throat as if to cut it. "Do you have a warrant? Are you here to arrest me?"

Folsum and Hines stood like statues, mute and unmoving. Befuddled looks washed their faces.

Wagging her head in aggravation, "I didn't think so," she huffed. Narrowing her eyes at Folsum, Jewels looked him up and down. "Now get out of my way, young man, or I'll call my attorney."

Folsum, once again red-faced, stepped aside and backed down the steps, allowing plenty of room for her to pass.

Stamping toward the front door, she paused. "If the FBI must speak with me, they may do so after my attorney arrives." Fumbling with the keys, she searched for the one that fit the door.

Hines shot daggers at Folsum who responded with wide eyes and raised shoulders.

Agent Hines trotted up the porch steps. "Miz Andrasy, wait." He tapped her on the shoulder.

Shrinking from his touch and keeping her back toward him, she continued fiddling with the house key. Butterfingers! She dropped the keys, stooped down, picked them up.

When she stood up, this time Hines grabbed a meaty hold of her shoulder, spinning her around to look at him.

Jewels wobbled on her stilettos, but gained balance. "Get your hand off me."

"Please, Miz Andrasy, let me explain," he calmly suggested, releasing his grip and taking a step away. He glanced at his shoes then back up. "Agent Folsum ... well, he's new and a bit overzealous. And, well ... he didn't mean anything by that, really. And, well ... I'm really sorry. It's just that ... well—"

"Pretty deep subject for such a shallow mind." She forced a nominal chuckle.

Hines and Folsum volleyed quizzical looks back and forth for a second before laughing, too.

"I'm sorry," Jewels said with a long sigh. "I've had a rough day, and—"

"Say no more," Folsum broke in, resting his hand over heart and bowing to her. "It is me who owes you the apology." He tipped his head to Hines. "The boss said you were someone we could have a little fun with and I guess I went too far."

"Really." Cocking her head, Jewels hurled a puzzled look at Hines. "Is that what he said?" Her voice edged with intrigue as she continued to fiddle with key. Finally the massive oak door unlocked.

Boo-Boo, her three year old golden retriever, bulldozed her way between the door and wall before Jewels could open it all the way. The dog rushed out onto the porch. Jumped and yipped, greeting her with the enthusiasm as if she'd been gone for years instead of several hours.

Jewels adored her big Boo-Boo Bear. Bending down and wrapping her arms around the dog's neck, she stroked the silky hair on her back for a vigorous mini massage. "How's my little moon pie today?" Her voice was high-pitched and baby-talk playful. Robert and she had chosen the pup from a litter of eight. Boo-Boo was their baby. The only _child_ they would ever have.

The agents took a quick step backward as the one-hundred-twenty pound fur ball bounced up and down. Squealed with delight and wiggled her entire body in Jewels' embrace. Clearly this was a well-established welcome home ritual. It was also apparent Jewels was in no hurry to rush it despite the presence of two hovering FBI agents.

After a few moments, Jewels stood up. Straightened her suit. Readjusted the handbag on her shoulder and bloody jacket on her arm, then stepped through the door. Holding it open wide, "Come, Boo-Boo," she called, patting her thigh as a signal the dog should enter the house.

Obediently she followed, but parked in the middle of the entry creating a furry blockade, eyes fixed upward on her _momma_.

"Move Boo-Boo. Get out of the doorway so the nice FBI guys can come in and _grill_ your momma just for the fun of it."

Hines tilted his head back in laughter. "I promise, no more _bad cop_ routines."

Raising a brow in a questioning slant, Jewels grinned. "I guess we'll soon see."

Boo-Boo responded to the visitors by dashing off down the hall, nanoseconds later returning with a half-skinned tennis ball. She nudged the ball into the palm of Agent Folsum's hand.

"Interesting. Despite your earlier antics, Agent Folsum—"

"Michael. Call me Michael."

"Well, _Michael_ , she must sense you're a good person. Boo-Boo is rarely this friendly with strangers the first time she meets them. It usually takes two or three visits before she warms up."

Hines forcefully blew air out between gritted teeth. Growled. Neither Jewels nor Agent Folsum acknowledged his negative reaction to her calling the rookie agent by his first name, though both noticed. How could they not?

"Gee, I'm honored." Folsum chuckled, glancing at the slobbery ball in his hand.

"Go ahead, throw the ball in the house. I don't mind. But be forewarned: play ball with Boo-Boo once and, as far as she's concerned, you're friends for life. Shun her once, and she'll never forgive or forget you."

Directing the agents into the formal living room, Jewels instructed them to make themselves at home. "I'm dying for a Diet Coke. Would you gentlemen like to join me?"

The agents nodded in agreement.

Hustling off to the kitchen Jewels was eager to dump the blood soaked jacket from her arm and the heavy purse on her shoulder. Plus she _needed_ another Diet Coke.

Fine country wood furnishings added a warm glow to the hunter green and burgundy plaid fabric of the sofa. The two wine colored over-stuffed wingback chairs parked opposite the sofa looked too inviting for the agents to refuse. They each plunged into a chair, both sighing in comfort.

An ornately hand-carved wooden mantel added pizzazz to the towering stone fireplace. Venetian plastered walls were adorned with original western paintings, several by Gary Carter, a distinguished member of the prestigious Cowboy Artists of America. Folsum relinquished the comfort of the chair to examine the art.

Boo-Boo followed him, nudging the ball into his hand. Obliging the dog's request, he continued tossing the slobbery ball around the room.

Jewels returned with a stack of bright yellow paper napkins, a plate of chocolate covered chocolate cake donuts arranged in a pyramid, and three glasses of Diet Coke. "Help yourself, guys," she offered setting the tray on the coffee table. "Thought you might like some donuts." Teasing, she added, "They _are_ the preferred snack among you law enforcement types, aren't they?"

"And apparently of beautiful women as well," Agent Micheal Folsum returned.

"Every girl's gotta have her chocolate and I keep quite a stash," Jewels admitted in good humor.

Everyone chuckled.

Snagging one of the glasses, Jewels sat down on the sofa and noticed the agent was studying her art collection. "Michael, are you a Gary Carter fan or just fond of western art?"

"Oh, Carter. Cowboy art. Western art. Arnold Friberg. I love all the fine arts, especially the more outdoorsy stuff," he confessed, admiration in his voice as he continued scrutinizing the paintings.

"Me, too. I've got a large limited edition print of _Prayer at Valley Forge_ hanging in my office. Mister Friberg wrote a personal inscription to me on it. It's one of my favorites. Remind me to show it to you before you leave. You'd probably also—"

"Enough already, you art critics," Hines interrupted, a tinge of jealousness in his tone. He picked up a soda, pounded it down in one big gulp, then slammed the empty glass onto the table.

Hines' abrupt words and uncouth behavior caught Jewels' usual good manners off guard. "Party pooper. No wonder Boo-Boo doesn't like you." Wincing at the harshness of her words, she wished she hadn't said them like _that_. She pressed the glass to her lips, swallowing a drink of Diet Coke.

Folsum caught the whirlwind of tension building and launched a stab at de-escalating it. Turning to Jewels he offered a courtesy bow. "Pardon me, Miz Andrasy. Special Agent Hines is absolutely right. We're here on _business_."

Stepping toward the coffee table, he picked up a glass of Diet Coke, then stood to the side of the couch, gazing down upon Jewels. "I'd very much love to see that Friberg print, but not tonight. Maybe we could get together another time, go out for a drink, talk art..."

Michael was hitting on her, but Jewels wasn't bothered by it. Wondered why she didn't mind the notion of seeing Michael when she had been so adamant about saying _no_ to Hines who had been bugging her for a date for months.

Although she had never thought about it before, the fact was, Boo-Boo _didn't_ like Theodore. But why?

Her mind floated back to two years ago. The dog had made a point to steer clear of Agent Hines the half dozen times he had visited the house as her _source_ when she was writing the series of articles on the FBI's Most Wanted. Jewels subscribed to the notion dogs have an innate ability to read human character and to sense good from evil.

Then again, maybe Agent Hines wasn't a dog-loving person and Boo-Boo picked up on that instead.

Swallowing another drink of Diet Coke, Jewels refocused her thoughts on the _now_ and decided, all things considered, it was best if she didn't respond to Michael's suggestion about going out for a drink and talking art. Instead she quietly sat. Smiling. Sipping Diet Coke. Unintentionally looking drop dead gorgeous.

Hines was still seated in the comfy chair but looked like an agitated house cat primed for a fur-flying confrontation with a rival. Folsum had returned to ogling the paintings, occasionally drinking the cold refreshment.

After a moment of awkward silence, Hines cleared his throat. Leaned forward closer the coffee table. Closer to Jewels. Holding a small electronic device, he waved it at her. "Miz Andrasy, I would like to record our conversation. Is that okay with you?"

Nodding in agreement, she crossed her legs. Motioned for Boo-Boo to come over.

The dog climbed onto the couch. Collapsed next to Jewels and parked its head in her lap.

Agent Hines inched near the edge of the chair. Sat erect. Straightened his suit and tie.

Stroking the dog's silky golden hair, Jewels probed. Her voice was calm, tone cooperative. "I must admit, Gentlemen, I'm curious. What in the world does the FBI want with me?"

"What was your relationship with the deceased, Sharon Jeppson?" Hines' voice cold, FBI businesslike.

Jewels' lips pursed. Hines hadn't answered her. An intense contemplative look fell upon her face. Flashing a look over at Michael for his reaction to Hines' stern questioning, she realized he wasn't paying attention. He was mesmerized by the paintings. Frowning, Jewels focused on Hines. "Hmph. The FBI isn't involved in a murder case unless that murder is related to _something_ they've been investigating. That means one thing: you feds were watching Sharon."

Negatively shaking his head, Hines' eyes glanced down at the floor. "I'm not at liberty to discuss the case—"

"Ah-ha," Jewels exclaimed, shooting her finger in the air, her body bouncing up and back down on the couch without disturbing Boo-Boo. "You _are_ working on a case that involves Sharon."

Concentrating on the art, Folsum hadn't picked up on the escalation of tension. He glanced over at Jewels. Did a double take. Eyes drawn to her sexy long legs draped over the edge of the couch and crossed at the ankles, his attention captured. Paintings all but forgotten.

Sighing with disapproval, Hines resumed questioning. "Miz Andrasy, _please_ just answer the question. What was your relationship with Sharon Jeppson?"

Thinking, Jewels rolled her tongue around inside of her right cheek as if it were a piece of jawbreaker candy. She patted Boo-Boo on the head. "We became friends through drama club in high school, but it's not like we were best friends or kept in touch after graduation. As a matter of fact, until earlier today, I don't think I've talked to her since our five-year class reunion, which was..." Jewels looked up at the ceiling to search her memory, "about eleven years ago."

"Uh-huh, and before today you're telling us you had no prior contact with her or anyone in her organization?"

Irked by the insinuating tone in Hines' voice, Jewels responded curtly, "Like I said, no prior contact with _her_ since the reunion. And I don't know what _organization_ you're talking about. Does it happen to have a name, or at least a type? Like a religious cult? A drug ring? White slavery? Or—"

"Why were you meeting her at Peggy Sue's Deli? And what did she say to you when you got there?" Hines pressed.

"Oh, answering a question with two questions, Mr. Hines?" Agitation laced her words.

"Cut out the commentary and just answer my question, Miz Andrasy," Hines demanded.

Mouth quirked in annoyance, Jewels' Hungarian temper flared. "My response to that is: you can get all the answers you want from the statements I made to the local police. I'm sure everything you need to know is in that report." Shooting to her feet, she rushed to the front door, flinging it open.

Boo-Boo followed, standing a few feet behind her as if for moral support.

"I think it's time for you gentlemen to leave. If you want to talk further, make an appointment and my attorney will be present." Gesturing with her hand for them to get up off their butts and out of her house, she added, "And I'm not joking."

"Now wait a minute, Miz Andrasy," Agent Folsum piped up, striding toward her.

"Don't play that good cop, bad cop routine with me." Face rigid, Jewels planted her left hand on her hip and pointed outside with her right. "Now if you two _gentleman_ will _pleeeeease_ leave."

Hines evicted himself from the comfy wingback and tramped past Jewels. Not looking at her.

Folsum's body language sagged with regret as he trailed his superior, then backtracked a few steps to claim the recorder still lying on the coffee table, voicing a brief apology as he exited.

She closed the door with an angry slam. "Damn FBI! Who do they think they are, anyway?" she grumbled, looking down at a wide-eyed, tail-wagging Boo-Boo. That was the second time she swore out loud that day. Not a good sign.

### Nine

**7:25 P.M.**

So many questions, zero answers. Like the meaning of Sharon's dying words, _Don't trust the old times_. Wearing a faded pair of Rocky Mountain jeans and a bright salmon colored vee-neck T-shirt, Jewels sat in the cozy breakfast nook nestled deep within a large bay window. The house was silent. No radio or TV blaring. She nibbled at the cooling microwavable lasagna dinner.

Boo-Boo sat at attention, eyeing the table and panting in eager anticipation of the leftovers.

The kitchen was expansive. Over eleven-hundred square feet, showcasing all the upscale amenities one would expect to find in a multi-million dollar home, including commercial grade stainless steel appliances. Custom dark maple wood cabinets with decorative corbels. Fluted fillers and crown moldings. Giallo matisse granite counters and backsplash imported from Brazil. And a walk-in pantry larger than the average bedroom.

Sipping on yet another Diet Coke—it was her fourth, maybe even her fifth for the day—Jewels stared vacantly at the massive side-by-side Sub Zero refrigerator. The clinking of new cubes dropping from the built-in ice maker caused her to flinch, but didn't interrupt her silent review of the day's bizarre events.

Rehashing _old times_ Kirk Kirkland, her onetime beau, materialized first. Though he never made a career of football, the guy was a wizard at fixing cars. And anything else. Probably close to a genius. If it was mechanical and broken, dime-to-dollar, Kirk could repair it.

"Maybe he's a private inventor or owns a chain of auto repair shops or works for NASA. Regardless, _not_ someone I should be warned not to trust," she reasoned, talking aloud to herself out of habit.

"Besides, I haven't seen him since graduation and he's not even a Facebook friend. And knowing his libido, he's got a dozen kids. Maybe by as many women," she ventured with a laugh.

Out of nervous habit Jewels flicked the side of the Diet Coke glass with her acrylic nails. The glass replied with muffled clinks as she sifted through her memory for possible suspects to be wary of from _the old times_ other than Kirk.

"Not in contact with anyone from _the old times,_ like drama club or even childhood friends. No one from _the old times_ is employed at the Press, either past or present." She swallowed another swig of Diet Coke. "Maybe Sharon's warning wasn't about people. Maybe old _things_. But what? Spuds Mackenzie and grunge clothes?"

Hardly.

Making no progress, Jewels shook her head in frustration, tossed Boo-Boo the remains of the half-eaten microwave dinner and refilled her Diet Coke from the stockpile of cans she kept chilled in the restaurant-sized refrigerator.

Her eyes cut to the glowing teal numbers of the digital clock on the built-in microwave: 7:38. "Time to get to work," she told Boo-Boo who had chewed off and spit out the corners of the plastic disposable dish. But Jewels didn't concern herself with the mess, she was too preoccupied with Sharon's death. Her murder.

With the glass of Diet Coke in hand, Jewels shuffled her bare feet into her home office. Located across the entry and opposite the living room, she had direct access to it from the kitchen. In ritualistic preparation to work on the computer, she plunked the drink onto the table.

Before Robert's death, the European-inspired, classic dark cherry pedestal table had served as the main attraction during countless festivities with friends, family, and politicians, including the governor.

After Robert's death the elegant table, along with its companions—the matching buffet server and exclusively designed china closet—had been relegated to office furniture. Since the space was no longer privy to social gatherings, Jewels had converted the area to her home office. In part because the room was dead space, but mostly because of the incredible view out the floor to ceiling wall of glass, void of window coverings as to not obstruct the scenery. And after the late afternoon's summer cloud burst, the landscape was even more breathtaking.

Majestic snow capped mountains towered in the near distance. Aromatic pines and colorful aspen dotted the two-hundred-fifty acres of forest surrounding her home. Quail, mule deer, ground squirrels, and chipmunks were ever present, scampering about and living their lives to the fullest. Every so often, an elk or mountain lion would make a stealthy appearance. The scene was pure Wasatch Mountain country, a mere twenty minute drive from downtown New Greensburgh, a new and bustling suburb of Salt Lake City.

The Canfields, Jewels' closest neighbors, lived across the highway a little more than a mile away. Their teenage daughter worked as Jewels' part-time housekeeper every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after school. Tomorrow, Friday, the Canfield girl would be over to dust and vacuum.

Scooting the wheeled swivel chair in front of the dark computer, she pressed a button to wake it up. After a few moments of whirling the machine came to life, waiting for her command.

Dipping into her bra, Jewels retrieved the paper placemat. Unfolded it and smoothed it out on the table with her flat palm. After studying it for a moment, she decided to scan it into the computer. Once successfully imported, the program prompted her to name it.

"Hmm. What should I call it?" Nibbling on her lower lip, she searched the room for ideas. Her sight landed on Boo-Boo lying at her feet under the sprawling dining room table. The dog's head rested on the mutilated TV dinner tray, a treasure she had toted in from the kitchen.

"Got it!" Jewels typed: BOO-BOO'S DINNER MENU. If someone searched her computer, they wouldn't think of opening a file with such a screwball name in hopes of it being an important and secret document.

However, she forgot computer basics. Including the fact her computer was not password protected nor were any of her files. Anyone with a molecule of computer knowledge could turn on her computer, then check RECENT ITEMS to find the document. If the thief were a bit more computer literate, he could search HISTORY and _everything_ she did on that computer would be revealed.

"Now, where to hide the original?" Jewels pondered, removing it from the scanner. Her eyes were drawn to the towering china closet. Snickering, she knew where to conceal it. "How about under the gold flatware case? No one would look for it there."

After stashing the map under a mahogany chest of flatware, located in one of the six drawers of the massive china closet, Jewels returned to her desk chair. Mentally reviewed the scene with Special Agents Hines and Folsum.

A disaster. It was unlike her to be so impatient. So edgy. So stupid. At the very least she should have mentioned the lurking green Ram.

Like a foul smelling fart in a windowless small room, the thought of someone stalking her wasn't dissipating swiftly enough. Fear shimmied up her spine. She shivered.

Oh, how she missed Robert's warm hands holding her. Caressing her. Reassuring her everything was going to be okay, because together, they could conquer the world. Or in this particular instance, at least prepare a proper defense against whomever was stalking her in that tricked-out Ram. But she was alone.

Tears of self-pity bathed her cheeks. Sniffling, she smeared them away with the back of her hand. With Robert gone, her personal security consisted of four things: 1) a sophisticated electronic alarm system, which she fell out of the habit of arming because the false alarms had scared her to death too many times and she wouldn't _need_ a fright like that tonight; 2) the master bedroom doubling as a _safe room_ ; 3) her watch dog, Boo-Boo; and, 4) a handgun, the great equalized in which she put the most stock.

To help calm her jitters, she reached for the Glock 21 zipped in a mauve striped gun rug stashed next to the computer. Whenever the Canfield girl was scheduled to clean, Jewels locked the handgun in the upstairs gun safe, but at any other time the Glock was there. Loaded. Thirteen hollow point Hydra-Shok rounds stacked in the high capacity magazine. A fourteenth round rested in the chamber. This was her _ready gun_. It was ready. So was she.

Having taken a variety of defensive firearms training courses, Jewels knew how to run her gun. And she'd made the conscious, moral decision to pull the trigger to defend her life or that of a loved one, if necessary.

Out of habit, she patted the gun rug to confirm the .45 caliber was still inside. Of course, it was. She felt a little safer. A little more in control. Yet like an ice cube on a hot plate, that _safe feeling_ hopped and sizzled around in her gut until it evaporated. An unnerving sense of gloominess settled over her.

Evil lurked. It was in the air.

Jewels knew it. Felt it. Her _vibes_ foretold it. And her vibes were always right. Dead right. And now those vibes were warning her danger was coming.

She changed the computer program to email. Didn't bother to look at new mail, instead focused on sending a message. To Belinda she typed: MAY BE GONE FOR A WHILE. PLEASE FEED GOMER.

The _feed Gomer_ segment was the message. The warning. The plea for help. A little trick she had learned from the BATFE—Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives—when she reported a story on confidential informants, CI's as they call them.

A CI had a special code word or phrase to inform agents when targeted information was retrieved or if they were in trouble.

Though she hadn't always felt that way, Jewels warmed up to the _code word_ concept. Robert had suggested they implement "a civilian version," explaining their secret phrase would be a way of asking for help when the conventional means of calling the police or dialing nine-one-one were not viable options.

Jewels remembered saying she couldn't imagine such an instance and thought it was a little too _cloak and dagger_ silly. But Robert persisted. Rationalized since Jewels was often involved in on-the-edge investigative reporting and sometimes with shady characters, having a distress code phrase would not be "cloak and dagger silly." Instead would be smart. Like an emergency insurance policy of sorts.

Continuing to resist the idea, though it was beginning to make some sense, Jewels recalled Robert's _what-if_ scenario and his passionate voice.

"What if you fell victim to a home invasion? Suddenly the phone rang. The hostage takers allowed you to answer it, reasoning if they didn't, somebody might think something was wrong.

"Before they let you answer the phone, the hostage takers held a knife to your throat. Warned if anything _funny_ was said, the blade would slit your throat before you could hang up the phone.

"You, of course, agree to their terms. Caller ID tells you it's me. Your heart springs hope. Maybe I can help. You pick up the phone, but at this point, what could you say to alert me of your dreadful situation without risking having your throat slit?"

Jewels had no answer. Robert was right. They needed a warning code. Subsequently, _feed Gomer_ was hatched.

Besides the two of them, one other person knew their help code, Jewels' secretary, Belinda Parker. The instructions were simple. If either of them received a message from Jewels with _feed Gomer_ in it, that was their clue she was in trouble. Big trouble. The kind of trouble where she couldn't pick up the phone and dial nine-one-one. It was their cue to send help. Pronto.

With her _vibes_ warning of impending doom and escalating in intensity by the minute, she feared it could be a _feed Gomer_ night. If so, maybe help could be solicited in advance. At the very least, perhaps someone could come over to spend the night. But who? Belinda?

"No, wouldn't want to worry her. Besides, if something bad _does_ happened, I wouldn't want her involved," she rationalized aloud, talking herself out of the idea.

Howard Dyson floated into her mind. Knowing he had a concealed carry permit she figured he knew how to run a gun. Having a second gunner would be a bonus from a defensive standpoint. Plus, Howard was in terrific physical condition. He would be of great value in helping fight off an attacker. And he would offer comfort, like a protective big brother...

"Stop, Jewels." Shaking her head, she nullified that idea too, though it lingered a moment longer. Truth me known, she missed having a man in the house. For extra security. Added defense. Affection?

Flushing the notion of calling Belinda or Howard to _babysit_ her, Jewels pressed her mind for other options.

What about help from professionals? Cops. Firemen. Nah, probably not. Couldn't call nine-one-one. Or could she? Jewels imagined the conversation.

JEWELS: Uh, yes police, I have a _feeling_ something bad's going to happen to me tonight. Will you please send somebody over to my house to stay with me until the something bad, which I don't know what that is yet, happens?

911 OPERATOR: Is an unauthorized person in your home or prowling around your house?

JEWELS: No.

911 OPERATOR: Have you, or someone else, been injured?

JEWELS: No.

911 OPERATOR: Hmph. What is the problem, Ma'am?

JEWELS: Like I said, I have a feeling something bad is going to happen to me tonight or sometime soon.

911 OPERATOR: (disgusted) Ma'am, this line is reserved for people who need help _now_. Not people who _feel_ they're going to need help sometime in the future, but don't know when or what kind of help is needed. (Hangs up phone.)

"Ludicrous," Jewels blurted aloud, regarding the notion of dialing nine-one-one. It was a fact she had no facts. No tangible proof of any foul play, except the green pickup that tailed her. And since the truck didn't _do_ anything except follow her, she didn't even have that. Not without a license plate number. Right now, her only option was send the _feed Gomer_ email message and hope, just this once, her vibes would be wrong.

If by a one-in-a-million chance her internal prompting had misled her and nothing dreadful transpired tonight, Jewels would cruise into work early tomorrow morning. Delete the _feed Gomer_ message from Belinda's email, right after gathering the two envelopes addressed to Special Agent Hines and Sheriff Clarkston.

She punched SEND.

7:55 MESSAGE SENT.

A black spider launched a sneak attack from the back of the computer and zoomed down the top of the screen hellbent toward Jewels.

Screaming bloody murder, she engaged the full force of her arms and legs to propel her chair backward with such strength it bulldozed her faithful dog, who had sometime earlier relocated herself from under the table to behind Jewels' seat.

The chair toppled backwards.

Boo-Boo yelped, scrambling for cover.

On impact, the chair swiveled, slamming Jewels onto her right side. Carpet fibers grated her cheek, but the mild rug burn didn't slow her down. Clawing to her feet, she barreled into the entry seeking cover behind the ornately carved cafe doors leading to the kitchen.

She peered over the swinging door. Eyes wide. Breaths fast and hard. Hands clutched over her chest for protection from the eight-legged terror the size of her fist. Or at least a nickel.

Jewels hated spiders. She was petrified of them. Didn't mind rats, bats, snakes, or ants. But spiders could send the fear of God into her faster than just about anything. At least anything she had encountered in her life so far.

She nibbled the flesh at the side of her left thumb for a moment before glimpsing down at Boo-Boo who was sitting near her feet.

The dog's big brown eyes gazed up at Jewels searching for a clue: should she seek cover or jump up and plant a consoling juicy dog kiss on her?

"Oh, Boo-Boo," she gushed, bending over to wrap loving arms around her four-legged baby. "Thanks for putting up with me."

The dog responded with a sloppy swipe of her warm tongue across Jewels' cheek.

Laughing, Jewels wiped the dog slobber off the side of her face with a swift rub of her cheek against the shoulder of her shirt. "Time to declare war on the pesky critter," she claimed with determination. "A fly swatter should do the trick."

By the time Jewels had calmed herself, found the fly swatter, and returned to the dining room, the sneaky little guerilla had vanished.

Where did it go?

Her muscles tensed. Shoulders scrunched up toward her ears. White knuckles glowed as she wrapped both hands around the end of the fly swatter and pressed it close to her chest.

Gulping hard multiple times, Jewels scanned her work area. The creepy crawly could be anywhere. On her chair. In a drawer. Under the table. The possibilities for another ambush were endless.

"Get a grip," Jewels barked, followed by a deep sigh. Relaxing her shoulders and the death grip on the fly swatter, she rubbed her forehead in exasperation. Was the miniature terrorist another omen of evil to come or the icing on a lousy day?
Ten

2034 HOURS.

The green Ram chewed its way up the dark four-wheel-drive road, spitting out a trail of dust behind. Its headlights off. The faint illumination of the night's slivered moon was all the light the driver needed.

He knew the rugged road as if it were his own backyard. And in a way, the treacherous road was his _front_ yard. Living at the secret compound for more than two years had afforded the opportunity to explore the vast surrounding forest. Considering himself a modern day Davy Crockett, he had become an expert on the terrain. Paying special attention to the whereabouts of caves and old shacks that could be useful, should the need arise for a private hideout.

Employed as the ruthless strong-arm of the secretive militia group, SPOF—Sovereign Patriots Of Freedom—he did whatever _dirty_ work needed to be done. The dirtier the work, the more he liked it and the better he was at it. Whatever was necessary to further the growth of his bank account was his personal philosophy.

The road vanished into a dense thicket, swallowing the fancy green truck under a disguised parking area concealed by natural flora and massive woodland-colored camouflaging. The military grade nets were lined with Red-Out, a foil-like material that inhibits detection from the most high-tech of infrared scanners mounted on aircraft. Nestled beneath the hidden parking spots lay a maze of tunnels and underground rooms serving as the headquarters of SPOF.

Several dozen vehicles, belonging to SPOF members, were parked in the hidden area. His elevated status at SPOF earned him the prized designated spot closest to the door.

The driver of the fancy green pickup bounded out of the truck. Slammed the door. Approached a berm resembling a ten-foot tall ant hill. The man-made stone enclosure, cloaked in live greenery native to the area, surrounded a thick metal door.

The man doubled his massive fist. Pounded on the door. "It's Tank."

The door groaned as if in agony as it swung open. A robust man with a protruding gut and a tight-fitting black leather mask greeted him.

"General's waitin' for ya, Tank," the doorman said.

"Thanks, Zip." He brushed his broad body passed the oddly dressed guard and cantered down the steep stairs.

Nearly everyone at SPOF had a nickname. He was no exception. No one at the compound called him by his given name, Gerald Whitlock. No, he was Tank. The moniker described his hulking size and overpowering personality. Some dweeb in juvy DT started it, and since he liked it, the name Tank hung with him for the past twenty-five years.

Zip was short for Douglas "The Zipper Face Man" Gohn. He was heavy into bondage sex, with a preference for the forced rape scene. And he loved his black leather mask with the zipper mouth. Before SPOF, he sported the mask in public during broad daylight. In grocery stores. At malls. Said he did it because he liked to see the fear in the eyes of women, the respect and envy in men. Even sometimes at SPOF, when a kinky mood hit him, he would wear the zipper-mouth mask. Apparently it was one of those _kinky mood_ evenings.

_One seriously fucked up dude_. Tank descended into the compound, his cafe noir skin melting into the blackness of the corridor.

The stone and mortar walls of the bunker possessed a dungeon-like quality. Dank in most people's opinion. But Tank found the gloomy atmosphere invigorating. He thrived on the darkness and the darker side of life.

Tank's pounding footsteps echoed down the long hall. He navigated his way through the nonsensical layout of the roller skating rink sized compound. To anyone not familiar with it, the compound would appear to be a ginormous basement divided into a mind-blowing maze of hallways, doors, and stairs often leading nowhere. But once understanding _who_ the original architects were, its madness was understood.

Though painstaking modifications were made by SPOF members to upgrade the compound with running water, electricity, and security measures before setting up headquarters, much of it remained as it was originally built in the 1960's ... a free spirit hippie commune whereby the sexual revolution, psychedelic rock, and altered states of consciousness could be embraced in serenity. Keeping that in mind, the outlandish creation made perfect sense. At least to someone tripping on hallucinogenic mushrooms or LSD. Ironically, the original _make-love-not-war_ underground building now housed America's most feared and deadly militia.

The rusty hinges creaked under the weight of the steel door as Tank muscled it open. He poked his head around the corner. "General Cooman?"

The medium framed, forty-six year old man sitting behind the army green metal desk relinquished the hold on the pen he was using and rose to his feet. "Tank. Please, come in," he said with a strong Alabama accent. He waved his hand, gesturing for Tank to enter.

The general's face was tan and leathery. His seaweed green eyes almost glowed. Two-day stubble dotted his face. And like everyone at the compound, he was dressed in a green camouflage T-shirt and matching camouflage cargo pants. His black lace-up army boots shined like the top of a Steinway.

A round silver and black clock marking military time was the only object hanging on any of the stone walls of the room designated as Cooman's office. It read: 2037, 8:37 p.m. civilian time.

The fourteen-by-eighteen foot space was illuminated by one double-tube florescent shop light fixture. The corners of the room remained shrouded in darkness, hiding a brass coat tree to the left of Cooman's desk and a putty colored four-drawer filing cabinet to the right. Crates of .223 ammunition stacked three deep and piled to the ceiling filled the two opposite corners.

Tank stepped in, closed the door, saluted.

"At ease, Tank. Pull up a chair." Cooman settled back behind the desk.

"Thanks, General." Three worn army-green metal and vinyl chairs lined the wall next to the door. Tank dragged over the one with the least amount of torn vinyl on the seat.

Rocking back into his chair, Cooman perched his elbows on the armrest and steepled his fingers. "So. Did you take care of the bitch?"

Tank squirmed, not only because the badly broken brittle vinyl pinched his ass right through his cargo pants, but because he was uneasy about what he had to report. "Yeah, but not before she met with a reporter."

"Shit!" Cooman leaned forward, his seaweed eyes constricted with concern. "Reporter dead?"

"Well, that's the problem, Sir. The reporter is Andrasy. Julia Andrasy."

Bolting to his feet, Cooman slammed a white-knuckled fist on the desk. "Fuck! I knew we should have never permitted a woman in the compound. No matter how clever she may be with bomb construction, no cunt can't be trusted."

"Think Grease Monkey will be a problem now that his squeeze has been polished off?" Tank asked.

"Shit! You're right. I'll have Watters lock him up until I find out what the Commander wants to do with him."

Tank nodded and readjusted his butt in the chair. "So what do you want me to do about Andrasy?"

Turning on his heel to pace, Cooman stared at the uneven stone floor. Thinking. "There's only one thing we can do." He raked his fingers through his cocoa-colored crew cut hair, a telltale sign he was not comfortable with what he was about to direct. "Bring her here. Tonight."

Tank rose from the chair. "Yes, Sir." He turned to leave.

The general reached over the desk and latched his hand on the big man's shoulder. "Tank, be careful with her. Remember who she is. Who she belongs to. You can't hurt her. At least not very much."

"I know." Tank proceeded to take a step.

Cooman tightened his grasp, stopping him. "One more thing..."

Annoyed, Tank eyed Cooman's hand on his shoulder, then looked over at him. "Yeah, General?"

"We need one of her vehicles for Phase Two. So while you're there grab the Hummer."

"Got ya."

"Make it so," Cooman ordered, with a dismissing tap of his hand on Tank's shoulder.

WITH DETERMINED STRIDES Tank maneuvered the dimly lit halls, passing the hood of a 1963 Ford pickup a tripping hippie had bolted to the wall then spray painted with numerous peace-signs in a variety of bright colors.

"Art." Tank scowled. As far as he was concerned, that piece of shit scrap metal should have been torn down or painted over before they moved in. But the general wouldn't hear of it. He liked it. Claimed it added "zest" to the place.

_The hood_ had become an unintentional but significant landmark, directing SPOF occupants toward the main exit located the next left past _the hood_ , about twenty feet ahead where an intersection of four hallways came together at a crossroads.

Tank made the left turn.

The stairway leading outside to the vehicles came into view. A beer-bellied man with an AR-15 rifle slung across his back still stood at the top of the steep stone stairs as entry guard. The bondage mask was a dead giveaway as to his identity. No one else in the compound would be caught dead wearing the zipper head hood. At least not while serving as sentry.

"Zip, I need your help," Tank called out from down the hall as he continued his trek toward the door.

"You name it, Tank. Anything." He scrambled down the stairs.

"General's got me runnin' an assignment that's not in my area of expertise. Can't kill the target." Tank paused, grinned. That was his stab at humor.

Zip's face remained emotional. Didn't get the joke.

"The target's a woman," Tank continued. "She lives alone and I gotta nab her at her house. How about some pointers."

"Sure. But I can do better than that. First, gotta have this." Zip peeled off the mask, extending it toward Tank. "Don't want your face to be seen." He laughed. "Gonna cover up that perfect mug you're so proud of—"

"Hey-hey." Tank caressed the side his own cheek with the back of his hand. "More than one woman said she'd kill for my complexion."

Zip's eyes widened. "I heard you were a narcissistic sonofabitch, when it came to your face. Guys say you use skin cream and fuss over your looks like a broad."

Tank's eyes narrowed. "You gotta problem with that?"

"No, no. Just sayin'. You got great skin and know how to take care of it. I can only think of one other guy in this place who's better lookin' than you."

"What the fuck?" Tank hard boiled his eyes into Zip's.

"Watters. I think he might be..." He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "No. For sure, you have the best face." He beamed a smile "For sure."

"Watters, huh?" In deep thought Tank gazed at the wall. Supposed Watters _did_ have a handsome face. But...

Zip cleared his throat, returning the conversation to the mask. "As I was saying, even though she lives alone, you never know about those pesky security cameras these days. They're fuckin' everywhere. Even inside houses." He waved the mask in his hand. "It takes some getting used to at first, but once you do, you're gonna enjoy it and wonder how you ever managed without it."

Tank accepted Zip's offering, however disbelieving he would _enjoy_ wearing the kinky head gear, though he agreed hiding his face was necessary. And what the fuck was this about Watters being better looking?

Zip signaled Tank with his finger to wait. "Stand guard for a minute, would ya?"

"Go ahead."

HANDING TANK THE AR, Zip jogged down the hall to the _intersection_. Turned left. Engulfed the crystal knob of a vintage single-panel fir door in his hand and pulled on it.

The door opened to a twenty-by-twenty foot room with beat-up rusting lockers lining three of the four stone-stacked walls. With a skeleton staff of twenty residing full time at SPOF, each man could claim up to three lockers if he wanted. Most used two.

Zip scanned the area.

Dirty pants, shirts, underwear, and socks were strewn across a half-dozen secondhand living room chairs randomly dotting the room. The ragged chairs looked like mice had shredded the cloth upholstery and the space smelled like a fusty bachelor pad inhabited by red neck slobs.

Wearing nothing but skivvies, a tall slender man with taxi cab ears and a buzz haircut poked his head out from behind one of the open lockers. He looked more like a high school basketball player than an Army-trained sniper.

"Hey, Snipe, can you watch the main entry for me? General's got Tank on a special mission and I gotta help."

"No problem." He crawled into a woodland green camo T-shirt. "Be right there."

TEN MINUTES LATER.

Standing in front of his open locker, Zip talked to Tank like a father giving his teenage son advice before embarking on his first date. "Nothing attracts unwanted attention like the sound of a scared shitless woman screaming her head off. Can't let her scream, Tank. Got to shut her up right away."

"Don't think screaming will be a problem. Bitch lives in the middle of the woods. No neighbors for miles."

"Excellent. Still, you'll need to shut her up for transport to the compound. Unless you're planning to drug her."

"Nope. Can't wait for Doc. I hear he won't be back for a couple more hours. So she'll be fully conscious."

Zip's forehead wrinkled. "Plus, you gotta be concerned about the bitch bitin' ya. And that can get pretty nasty." A cocky grin parted his pudgy face as he pointed to sickle-like scar on his right forearm.

Brows lifting, Tank's eyes widened. "A bite from a woman?"

"Yup, but that was right before I gagged the bitch with her own panties." Welled up with pride, he shook his head and puffed out his chest. "A feisty cunt she was. Gave me a black eye, too. But I showed her. After I raped her, I busted up both her knee caps with a metal pipe."

"Hmm," Tank replied without emotion.

Bending over, Zip reached to the back of his locker, pulling out two sets of leather straps: one for legs, the other for arms. With a devilish gleam of excitement he dangled the well-used tethers in front of Tank's face. "We'll get to the gag in a minute, but first the bitch'll have to be restrained."

Tank's face brightened. "You're one prepared pervert."

The perceived compliment encouraged Zip. Continuing to hold the straps in front of Tank's face, "These are the quick capture kind," he explained. "Just slip this noose over her hand, around her wrist, then jerk the strap quick and hard. The cinch will constrict around her wrist, automatically locking the strap in place. No buckles to fumble with. Nothing to tie down. The hold is inescapable. And as a bonus, you have a little leash to hold onto."

Tank made a face indicating he was impressed.

"For optimum control," Zip continued, "bind her hands behind her back. Plus, then the bitch can't scratch you." He held up the ankle restraints. "These leg straps work the same way, except see this extra strap in the middle?"

Tank nodded.

"Once you get her in the car, roll her onto her stomach then use this strap to bind her feet up to her hands." He chuckled. "The bitch'll look kinda funny, like a human hunting bow, but she'll be totally, fuckin' immobilized."

"No shit. That's just what I need." Tank planted a heavy pat of thanks on Zip's back.

Zip beamed. "Now let's get you a gag." Turning back to the locker, he rooted around and mumbled an endless line of expletives as he tossed out a balled up wad of dirty clothes that landed in a stinky heap on top of Tank's right foot.

Tank's head jerked to the side at the blast of stench assaulting his sense of smell. He wrinkled his nose and kicked the smelly laundry off his boot.

Zip produced an oval red ball with an elastic band threaded through the wide end of the egg-like device. "This is one of my favorites." He mimed the actions. "Just shove this ditty in her mouth and slip this elastic strip over her head. Use these straps, like a saddle cinch, to make it real tight. Believe me, with this thing in her mouth, she ain't gonna be sayin' nothin' to no one. And like I said, she's got no way to bite you, either."

Tank eyed the array of paraphernalia filling his arms. "Thanks Zip for the ... uhh ... _equipment_."

The men laughed.

Pursing his lips, a hint of concern tainted Tank's perfect complexion as he studied the straps. "Is this stuff gonna be painful for the bitch?"

A fiendish grin ate Zip's face. "You can bet your fuckin' black ass on it!"

Tank bounced his brows. He rolled up the bondage gear and stuffed them into his jacket pockets. 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."

"Maybe just a little _sample_ would be okay," Zip pressed with a dirty grin, walking shoulder to shoulder with Tank down the stone-encased hallway. Their casual footsteps amplifying to sound like an army marching in sync.

"Forget it. Like I said, not an option."

About to cross the intersection, Tank halted, raised a finger and 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 around for a few moments then extracted a wrinkled ball of material and shook it out. "How about a laundry sack?"

"Good enough." Tank snatched the cloth bag out of Zip's hand, proceeding to fold and roll it like a mini sleeping bag before stuffing it into another pocket. "See ya in three or four hours," he promised, 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.

Tank halted. Spun around. Jogged 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 hurried 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.

"I was just fucking with ya." Zip grabbed his shoulder. "Watters ain't got _nothing_ on you, except maybe more hair."

Tank laughed.

Zip slapped him on the back and 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 chuckled. A half a dozen strides later he turned serious. "Focus. Game face on. Gotta _package_ to wrap up and deliver and her name is Julia Andrasy."
Eleven

10:42 P.M.

Jewels gazed vacantly 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 truck" she told Boo-Boo, stroking the silky hair on the dog's back. "Or the attack of the eight-legged terrorist," Jewels 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 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 bother her. Especially since the couch remained a viable alternative to making the trek upstairs to bed.

Boo-Boo's head perked up. Ears forward. A slow, deep, throaty growl signaled danger.

Base fear shot up Jewels with a mega dose of adrenaline. She was suddenly 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 .45 she had earlier taken from her office and stuffed down at her side, _just in case_.

From practiced habit, Jewels performed 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 deposited onto the kitchen island, would fill that requirement. But she had to fetch it first. After that, all Jewels had to do was hustle to her _safe room_ , where it was stocked well enough to hold off a small army for hours, perhaps 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. Neither Robert nor Jewels had remembered to buy one.

Letting Letterman blare, Jewels rose from the sofa. The cell phone was across the room and through the cafe doors. All she had to do was retrieve it.

Jewels 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 slinked along at 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 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, nostrils flaring, she exhaled through circled lips. "Come on, Jewels. You can do it," she whispered. "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, Jewels continued this motivational cheerleading mantra and deep breathing exercise until she reached the cafe doors. She peered over the top.

The kitchen was black as a raven's wing. Though the big bay window welcomed twilight illumination, the sliver moon was stingy.

Jewels stuffed her arm between the swinging doors, extending her hand toward the wall to flip on the light switch.

Dozens of recessed halogen lights awakened, bathing the expansive kitchen in brightness.

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.

She pushed open the swinging doors.

Boo-Boo prowled 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 and sucking in a few quick, short breaths. 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 in victory, 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.

Boo-Boo stood two feet in front of her with lips snarled, teeth bared, and 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. He held his ground while drawing a huge knife from his side. Bending over, he baited the animal to tear into his left forearm.

Jewels gasped. Raised the .45. Aimed the muzzle in the direction of the masked man, but couldn't get a clear sight picture. Might hit her dog.

Boo-Boo predictably lunged with obvious intent to rip his arm to shreds.

But that was 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. Jammed his forearm under her chin to lengthen the dog's neck and stabbed his knee into her side to control her body. Swung his right arm high above his head, then powered the blade downward to 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 been practically decapitated.

The ghastly scene unfolded in a nanosecond and Jewels hadn't even gotten off a shot.

With numbed horror she watched her precious Boo-Boo twitching at the feet of the adept slayer. The dog's nerves were rapid-firing, creating involuntary muscle spasms. Boo-Boo wasn't suffering. She 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 faded 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 .45, 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.

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 closed in. The big black knife ready to mangle. Was Jewels' throat next?

"You bastard,." Jewels raised the gun to fire at his chest.

Now within arms reach of Jewels, the killer 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.

"Ahhh." The intruder dropped the big knife to grab his arm.

She winged him!

The killer's surprised reaction offered Jewels enough time to regain her balance and refocus her attention. She needed a weapon. Another gun. Had to scramble to the bedroom. Her _safe room_. If she could reach the bedroom and lock the door, she would retrieve the pump action 12-gauge. No way Jewels 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, she bolted out of the kitchen. Into the hall. 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.

Up the stairs, two at a time, Jewels leaped.

Almost to the top.

At the top.

Illuminated by a night light in the bedroom, through the inky darkness the outline of the white colonial door frame 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 gone from under her. Boo-Boo's murderer had clipped her from behind.

Flipping herself over and sitting on her butt, with all her might Jewels kicked at the masked predator.

A few blows connected because he moaned in pain and released the death grip on her ankle.

The second he let go she rolled onto her side. Pumped her legs. Fingers churned into the sandalwood carpet, like a rock climber clawing at a sheer cliff to keep from falling.

Almost immediately a vise of a hand recaptured her right ankle. Reeled her in.

Jewels screamed. Kicked. And scratched like a wounded feral cat fending off the snapping jaws of a Rottweiler.

But she was no match for the Bunyanesque attacker who, with little effort, overpowered her. Pinning her arms above her head with his skillet-sized palms 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. Kicking. Arching her back. Twisting her body. Jerking her arms. But he was in complete control and she was near exhaustion, like the film of the gazelle squalling and wiggling. The one about to have its throat crushed between the powerful jaws of the big cat. Helpless. Hopeless. Pitifully struggling.

Panting hard, Jewels 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. 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. Stuffed her hands under his knees. Applied enough pressure from his body weight on her wrists to keep her arms in check.

A trail of blood dotted the carpet as the attacker's pooling blood drizzled out of her left hand.

Striations of pain rocketed up and down her arms like electrical shocks. Jewels whimpered. Flexing her arm muscles she tugged, struggling to worm her way from under the restraint of the colossal 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?" His leather-covered nose a mere two inches from hers.

His lips were cruel. Dark. Eyes black. 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 that stunk like regurgitated meatloaf. She wrinkled her nose, crimped her eyes shut, and turned her head away, saying nothing while continuing to squirm to no avail.

TANK 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.

A maniacal grin grew under the mask. "Fun? Fuckin' fun." 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 bigger and stronger, the obvious fix was a gun. Not an option at the moment. Without her great equalizer she had no chance.

Or did she?

Jewels' mind-search recalled G. Gordon Liddy's advice.

Once while Jewels was radio surfing, the G-man's show caught her attention. The topic was self-defense. Specifically the actions a woman could employ if she was under attack but had no weapon ... her current situation.

Pressing her memory for details, Jewels remembered at the time she considered his suggestion a rather gruesome form of self-defense.

Liddy said _any_ attacker could be stopped if the woman had the courage to jab her fingers into the man's eyes. Once her fingers were inside his sockets, the next was to bend them, then while keeping her fingers bent, pull outward with all of her might. The G-man said the pain of the eyeballs being ripped out of his skull would be so excruciating the attacker would instantly cease whatever violent act he was committing.

But Jewels had a bigger problem than coming to a final decision whether or not she should forever take away this creep's sight. For her plan to a have a thimble-sized chance of working, at least one hand had to be free. Preferably the right one. Though the left one would be better than nothing.

However both were pinned under her captor's knees. Still, if he intended to rape her, sooner or later he'd have to ease up. And the instant he did, she had to strike. There would be no second chance. No time for hesitation.

Knowing injury trumps strength every time, Jewels decided, right then and there, she would blind him. Having given her _inner predator_ permission to do what needed to be done, the plan solidified in her mind: when the bastard released her hands, the last thing he'd ever see would be her ripping out his eyeballs.

Without warning his beefy hand hammered her sternum. Latched onto her T-shirt, ripping her top down the middle of the vee-neckline with one powerful yank.

The extreme force of the jersey being torn off seared the flesh on her shoulders and upper arms like a savage rope burn. "No!" Jewels launched an all-out struggle for freedom, thrashing her body under his restraint.

"Settle down," he barked, drawing the knife from his waist and pressing the tip under her chin.

Gasping, she ceased fighting. Elongated her neck, extending it as far away from the razor tip of the knife as possible. A mask of unadulterated terror demolished her features. Was this beast going to slash her throat like he had Boo-Boo's?

His black eyes pierced her innards. "You're a pretty little bitch," he analyzed, stroking the side of her chin with the edge of the intimidating seven-inch blade. "If you want to keep it that way, you better be a good girl."

Gazing up at her captor, she batted her big blue eyes as a tacit plea for mercy. Witnessing how one mighty stroke of his hand had nearly sheared the head off Boo-Boo, Jewels had little doubt he could butcher her face into hashed meat. Or worse. Though she dared not move a muscle, her teeth chattered and tears leaked onto her cheeks. Perhaps if she wanted to live, she had no choice other than to be a _good girl_.

Keeping the knife pressed at her neck, he scrutinized her face with dissecting eyes. Explored her chest. Watched her full tan breasts pump up and down within the confines of the C-cups of her lace embellished black bra.

Sensing his deviant desires, Jewels trembled. As distraction from her captor's assault, her mind churned in chaos. About the map. Sharon's murder. And murderer. The abrupt manner in which she shooed away the FBI agents. And Howard Dyson. If she had gone to the Uintas with him, none of this would have happened, and she wouldn't be up the old _shit creek without a paddle_ right now.

As if awakened from a hypnotic state, he straightened his back. Sheathed the knife.

Sighing with relief, the severe stress crevices on Jewels' face softened but didn't disappear. Her mind continued to boil with questions. And regrets.

"Time to go."

"Go? Go where?"

Ignoring her inquiry he proceeded to unload his bulging jacket pockets. Straighten twisted pieces of leather and lay them to the right side of her head.

Consumed by grim curiosity, Jewels craned her neck to inspect the articles. "What are those? What are you going to do?"

He didn't reply, just kept emptying his pockets.

"Please, say something. At least tell me if you were the one following me in that green Ram today."

He nodded. "You're alert. Intuitive—"

"Did you kill Sharon?"

Raking his teeth against the bottom of his lip, he again bobbed his head. "Glad you're a quick study." Picking up one of the leather pieces, he dangled it inches above her nose. "See this shit? They're restraints for your wrists and ankles and you're gonna wear 'em."

Fear ate her inside out. She pinched her eyes shut. Unleashed another mindless body squirming, head tossing fit.

He remained dominant.

Within seconds Jewels wore herself out. Her head wilted back into the carpet and tear-filled eyes gazed up at the masked terror. "Please don't. Pleeease." She continued to wiggle about.

He drew the knife. Smacked her left cheek with the side of it. "Settle down."

Gulping dryly, without choice Jewels ceased struggling though the tears continued to flow. "Ok-k-kay."

"That's better." A broad smile of superiority parted his cruel lips. "The fact is you're coming with me. You're gonna be restrained. And there's no way of avoiding of either." Pausing, he smirked. "However, we can do this the _hard way_ or the _easy way_ , my pretty little bitch."

"Please, don't—"

"Shhhh," he ordered, rapping the side of the knife against her lips. "So are you gonna be a good girl for me?" He grazed the razor edge against her throat before returning it to the sheath.

Quivering nonstop, Jewels stared horror-struck at her assailant. _Good girl?_ Were there any other viable options?

Laughing wickedly, his colossal hands palmed her bra-covered breasts. Squeezed.

Jewels whimpered. Flinched. Dared not resist or say a word. Figured enduring the hardhanded fondling of her breasts was more tolerable than the probable alternative of surviving a diced up face. Or slashed throat.

His fingers, thick and hard like rolls of quarters, crept under her bra. Toyed with her constricted nipples.

Eyelids compressed, Jewels ground her teeth. Held her breath. Braved the abuse.

After several seconds, he withdrew his hands. "What I said about being a good girl when I put these straps on you includes keeping your mouth shut. No screaming. No begging. No biting."

Opening her eyes, Jewels blinked at him while her mind secretly plotted her eyeball-ripping counterattack. For sure she wasn't going to feel a thimble full of remorse when she blinded this sleazeball.

Leering, he planted his hands on his hips. Wiped his tongue across his sparkling white teeth. Shrugged. "But, it don't matter to me. The _hard way_ or the _easy way_. You're just gonna wear this shit," he promised, motioning with his head to the restraints.

Her mind kicked into overdrive. If she was going to rip out this slime bucket's eyeballs and escape, she had to do it before he bound her.

"So what's it gonna be? Easy, you don't fight me when I put these on you..." Again nodding at the restraints. "Or _hard_ and you still wear 'em. Except they'll be tighter and you _will_ be hurting. That's a guarantee."

Falsely capitulating, she remained still. Focused on the ceiling. All part of her eyeball-ripping scheme.

With laser-like eyes he analyzed her. "Maybe I should fuck you to make sure you're still alive," he needled with a mean laugh, again savagely grabbing her breasts. Squeezing mightily.

Jewels cringed, but otherwise remained silent. Motionless. Centered her thoughts on the opportunity to dig out this lunatic's eyeballs. Meanwhile, had to appear she surrendered. Opted to be a _good girl_.

"Too bad," he grunted apparently buying her surrender. He snatched a restraint. Widened one loop of the smaller of the two sets of leather bindings. Prepared to apply it. "Right first." Raising his left leg enough to release limited pressure, he jerked her right arm out while keeping her left hand held down by his other knee.

"No! Don't!" It wasn't in Jewels' nature to surrender without a fight. Launching a full throttle battle, amounting to little more than clenching her fist and jerking her arm about, she fought to keep her wrist free of the waiting leather noose. But, once again, resistance proved futile. Close to triple her size, he was fiercely stronger. Unequivocally meaner.

A wicked smile sneaked from beneath the leather mask. Unmistakably, he enjoyed her resistance. Maintaining an overpowering hold of her right arm, he encircled her wrist in the leather. Yanked it hard.

The strap locked in place.

"No! Please, no." Jewels maintained her rigorous white-knuckled protest.

"So, much for being a good girl. Wanna do this the _hard way_ , huh?" Narrowing his eyes, the killer bobbed his head up and down. "Well you're gonna get it, Bitch."

"No-no. I'm sorry. Please don't," she pleaded, shaking her head in vigorous disagreement to his plans. Jewels' mind tumbled. No way could she overpower him, not that she hadn't tried. Maybe if she submitted, he would let down his guard. Lighten the pressure of his knee on her left hand enough to unleash her eyeball-gouging strike.

The whites of his eyes radiated delight through the frightening mask. "I _like_ the _hard way_ ," he confessed, menace in his voice.

"No. No. Please, I'll cooperate. I promise. I will. Just don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me."

In silence he gazed at her.

Jewels wondered if the behemoth was contemplating her sincerity. As physical proof her words were genuine, she coerced herself to simmer down. Cease her combativeness. Relax her muscles. Relinquish her balled fist and ease the tension on her face.

With her hand limply hanging from the restraint, she repeated, "Please, don't hurt me. Please. I'll do whatever you want. I'll be a _good girl._ I promise." Her voice almost calm.

He scoffed. "Really?"

Breathing hard, heart hammering, Jewels continued to force herself to remain submissive. Reiterated, "I'll do whatever you want. Whatever you say."

"We'll see." He let out a truncated chuckle and held onto her tethered hand by the restraint as if it were a short dog leash. "Roll over onto your stomach and put your hands behind your back."

Attempting to obey his command Jewels tried to turn onto her side, but couldn't. The bulk of his imposing body remained perched on top of her. "I can't," she whined, once again attempting to turn over, providing evidence her words were true.

Not taking his eyes off of hers, he raised his body just enough to permit her to roll onto her side, freeing her left hand in the process.

This was her chance. Yanking her left arm out from under his knee, Jewels swung it upward. Stiffened her fingers—which had gone numb from the weight of his knee—and jabbed them at her captor's eyes. Imagined the driving motion would only stop when her acrylic nails collided with the back of his skull.

_Something_ soft and gooey slimed her tingling fingertips. That was her cue! Crooking her fingers, she rocketed her torso into a half-sitting position and tugged her arm rearward, enlisting as much of her body weight as possible to strengthen her pull. Her shoulders and head slammed onto the carpet.

The killer let out a startled yell, falling backward onto his heels. His hands covered his eyes.

Jewels was free! And _something_ was on the fingertips of her left hand, but no way did she want the distraction of taking a glimpse. Instead, focused on reaching the master bedroom and retrieving the shotgun. If by some chance the G-man's eyeball-ripping tactic had failed, she'd finish off the knife-wielding wacko with a blast from the 12-gauge pump.

But her legs, also numb from him sitting on top of her, wouldn't support her body weight. Crawling on all fours Jewels scrambled toward her _safe room_ , less than twenty feet ahead.

Moments later the majority of the feeling had returned to her legs. "Come on, Jewels, get up and run." Stumbling to her feet, she sprinted down the hall.

"You fuckin' bitch!"

Diving into the bedroom, Jewels slammed the thick metal door shut. Twisted the doorknob lock. Flattened her back against the door while catching her breath and allowing her eyes to acclimate to the semidarkness. Once her vision adjusted, she glanced over at the huge rose-colored Fort Knox gun safe.

A mere twenty-five feet away in the corner next to the four-poster cherry wood bed, the huge metal chest housed the solution to her problem.

_Must reach the safe. Retrieve the shotgun_ ... But she was getting ahead of herself. First she must barricade the door. From the edge of the door jamb, Jewels flipped the hinged bracket forward. Grabbed the metal bar attached to the opposite side of the frame. Swung the rod downward across the width of the door to the waiting bracket that would secure it in place. But she wasn't fast enough.

Her masked adversary bulldozed the locked door with his solid shoulder.

The surrounding metal door frame buckled as if it were nothing more than a flimsy aluminum window screen. Neighboring wallboard broke apart like it was constructed of peanut brittle. The velocity of the door blasting open smashed Jewels' head and chest into the wall. Sandwiched her between the venetian plaster and metal door. The impact knocked the wind out of her. Induced an instant headache.

The intruder hit the light switch on the wall.

Dozens of recessed lights illuminated the expansive room resembling a palatially decorated suite in Vegas. One reserved for high rollers, presidents, and royalty.

He slammed the door shut.

Dazed, Jewels' body wilted. Crumbled against the closed door; the door designed to keep threats out ... providing the Doorricade security bar was engaged. _Shit!_ Another screw-up on her part.

Lips snarling, his eyes glared murderously.

Jewels vaulted. If she could maneuver around him, scramble over the bed, sprint to the other side of room, open the safe...

Snaring her waist with his muscular anaconda-sized arm, the killer whipped her rearward. Hurled her to the ground before she had a chance to travel half the distance to the bed.

Jewels' head snapped back. Body collided with the carpet, which felt more like concrete.

Lying breathless on her back in a battered heap, Jewels squinted at her attacker hovering over her. The image of her assailant's head was a fuzzy blob. Details out of focus.

"Turn over," he thundered, but didn't wait for her to respond. Latching onto Jewels' slight shoulders, he wrenched her over onto her stomach. Cranked her arms behind her back.

Carpet fibers scoured her tender facial skin like a Brillo pad as the masked man slapped a restraint on her left wrist, then bound her hands together brutally tight. Feeling as though her arms were about to be ripped out of their sockets, she bleated in pain. Her features twisted in agony. Moments later he performed the same savagery to her ankles, binding her legs together.

How could the G-man's eyeball-ripping advice have been so wrong? So ineffective?

"You fuckin' cunt. You tried to rip out my eyes. Temporarily blinded me. Made me see double," he snorted, as if in direct response to her thoughts.

Black panic consumed Jewels. Didn't want to imagine what this monster was going to do in retribution for her failed self-defense stunt.

Flipping her onto her back, he pitched Jewels onto the elegantly dressed bed. Continued his tirade. "And you fucked up my mask."

Staring in stunned horror at her captor, Jewels' eyes required a moment to focus. Part of the man's face was distinguishable. Sure enough, the mask had been demolished. The eye holes had been torn down almost to the zipper mouth. The slimy _something_ she felt on her numb fingertips was sweat-soaked leather. Nothing more.

The destroyed mask afforded her the opportunity to glean two details from the face at her attacker: one, the desire to murder in his eyes; and two, he was a black man she had never before seen. Was he going to rape her? Torture her? Kill her? All of the above? Her body pulsated with fear. Dread clawed her spine.

Like hot car exhaust, his voice seared her face. "Let's get this over with, Bitch. I told you. I fuckin' warned you. Hard way, easy way. Didn't matter to me. You were gonna wear this shit."

Bedlam ravaged her mind, prompting an impulsive escape attempt. Rolling her body toward the edge of the bed, when she hit the floor, she would...?

The answer didn't matter.

Pouncing on her the instant she lurched to her side, he cast Jewels onto her back again and straddle her chest between his knees.

The bones of her bound arms dug into her spine. Vertebrae cracked and popped like knuckles. Contorting her body for relief, she moaned in despair. "What do you want with—"

The barbarian didn't let her finish. He wedged an object into her open mouth.

It was cold. Hard. Felt like a rubber egg, pushing against the roof of her mouth and forcing her jaws wide.

He slipped a strap around the back of her skull.

The bastard was gagging her! Jewels shook her head back and forth and stabbed her tongue against the awful solid blob, hoping to dislodge it. Yet, once again, resistance proved worthless.

"Over the head and tighter." He jerked hard on the adjustment strap.

The edges of the leather belt sawed into the corners of her lips. Felt like it was carving into her cheeks. She pinched her eyes shut. Wailed in misery. The teardrop protrusion tormented the back of her throat. She wanted to puke. Needed to puke. But resisted the urge, knowing if she gave in, she would drown in her own vomit.

Jewels watched the brute revel in victory as he knelt towering over her. Hot tears sizzled down her cheeks. Terror chilled her blood.

Just when she thought her predicament couldn't be any worse, he plunged a dingy cloth laundry bag over her head, drawing the string taut around the base of her neck. The bag smelled like ripe tennis shoes. Again she harnessed the urge to puke.

Seconds later the killer yanked her off the bed, pitching her body over his broad shoulder.

Saturated with alarm, Jewels' mind blanked. Irrationally she rocked her torso side to side. Wiggled her bound legs up and down as if performing a dolphin kick. Screamed so hard her vocal chords felt raw.

_WHACK!_ His open hand swatted her buttocks.

Jewels squealed. Entire body tensed.

"Stop it or the next time I'll use my belt."

Not wanting to add being beaten with a belt to her dilemma, Jewels quit squirming. But couldn't subdue the onslaught of tears as dread escalated, wondering where in the hell he was taking her.

Mentally she tracked her whereabouts. Down the carpeted stairs. Across the travertine entry. Through the single swinging door that softly whined as the toes of her bound feet tapped it.

After several steps into the kitchen, he paused. Squatted. Stood up. Seconds later a mild _thud_. Seemed like a padded object had been dumped onto the counter. An instant later, the familiar sound of items in her purse being rummaged through, then the clang of a bundle of keys.

Her abductor had ransacked her purse. Stolen her keys and who knows what else.

Without further delay, they were on the move again. Around a corner. Into the mud room. The door leading into the garage growled as he opened it.

The kidnapper's heavy boots pounded out a doom-filled rhythm with each determined stride as they descended the cement stairs into the garage. Followed by a half dozen steps across the decorative epoxy-coated floor.

Unable to see or smell anything other than disgusting bag over her head, Jewels auditory senses kicked into overdrive.

Clothing rustling.

Keys jingling.

Vehicle door opening.

A few more steps.

Tailgate opening.

Jewels recognized the sounds. It was her Hummer. The bastard was kidnapping her and using her own vehicle to do it.

"I won't to drop you." His voice calm. Sincere.

Is that supposed to comfort me?

Bending over, he slid her body off his shoulder and dumped her into the rear compartment of the H1.

Jewels landed hard on her right side. The impact jarred her entire body. Head bounced against the metal floor. A muffled moan escaped in anguish. So much for not dropping her.

Twisting her over onto her stomach, he hoisted her tethered legs up to meet her bound hands. Cinched them together.

Hogtied, Jewels whimpered in misery. Fear blitzed her thinking. Why was Sharon's confessed murderer kidnapping her? Where was he taking her? What was he going to do? Kill her too? If so, why not just murder her now? Why was any of this happening? Because of that stupid map?

"You be a good girl now," he chuckled, slamming the door shut.

Moments later her captor was behind the wheel of her Humvee.

The garage door rose.

Backed the vehicle out.

Closed the garage door.

Drove the Humvee down the winding driveway, onto the street. Once on the highway, the kidnapper turned on the radio. It was tuned to the oldies station.

"Bad Moon Rising" blared from the speakers.

What was it with that song?

Just as her vibes had foretold, but far worse than she could have interpreted their warning, Jewels was in trouble. Big trouble. But could have never anticipated _this_. Gagged. Hogtied. Blindfolded. Kidnapped by a knife-wielding maniac, who had butchered her dog and admitted to murdering her friend ... for who knows what reason. Ransom? That damn map? Was she about to learn the meaning of _SPOF_?

Regardless, the possibilities were endless. And shuddersome. Jewels' tears intensified to unabashed crying.

The escalated sobbing clogged her nose, further stifling her ability to breath. The intrusive stuff gag eliminated the option of breathing through her mouth. Overcome by the sensation of suffocating, she coughed. Snorted oxygen, but only sucked in the stale air recirculated within the confines of the hood engulfing head. She was going to smother. Had to gain her captor's attention. Fast.

"Help! Help," Jewels screamed over and over. Of course the gag prevented distinguishable words while the blasting music masked her muffled gasps.

Unable to gain his attention verbally, Jewels pitched her body back and forth, ramming against the back seat. Hoped her violent movement would rock the truck. Cause him to pull over to take a look.

No response.

Was she going to die in the storage compartment of her Humvee?

At least death would come in a place she loved. Though Jewels didn't want to die, she fantasized about a life-after-death reunion with Robert and Boo-Boo. Comfort cascaded over her like a soft summer rain.

Abruptly her thoughts of a peaceful spiritual rendezvous were eclipsed by the catechism schooling of hellfire and brimstone. The nuns' endless lectures about God's will and His punishments overpowered her confounded mind. Transformed her soothing raindrops vision into damning golf-ball sized hail.

Could her horrible plight be God's will? Punishment for something she had done or failed to do ... those so-called sins of commission and omission? If she relinquished her own desires and instead _let go and let God_ , would she be spared? At this point, Jewels had nothing to lose by trying.

It's said in foxholes there are no atheists. Perhaps the idea of an all-powerful divine being springs a glimmer of hope to the hopeless. Given the bleak circumstances and the fact she was powerless to help herself, Jewels surrendered. _God_ would help her or not. Ceasing to struggle for oxygen, Jewels allowed her eyelids to slide shut.

Moments later the blasting music faded to silence. The intense pain of the wicked bindings all but dissolved. On the verge of losing her grasp on consciousness, she no longer fought to hold on. If draining consciousness could be rated like a gas gauge: full, three-quarters, half, one-quarter, and empty, Jewels' consciousness was running on fumes.

Spending her last bit of alertness, she mumbled, "Dear God, please help me..."
Twelve

FRIDAY, 0200 HOURS.

The burgundy Humvee rolled out of sight into the dense thicket, halting under the camo canopy.

Zip, anxious to hear how Tank fared with the bondage gear, rushed to meet the parked hypermasculine vehicle. Tank bailed from behind the wheel as Zip shouted, "Bitchin'." A comment directed at Jewels' tricked-out Humvee.

"You oughta drive it. Fuckin' charmed." Tank dropped Jewels' keys into his pants pocket and flung open the back compartment door, revealing the much-anticipated _package_.

With hungry eyes Zip surveyed the bound woman. "Shit man. Couldn't have done better myself." Nothing excited him more than a woman unwillingly tied up. Helpless. "Well? How was she? Did she fight ya?"

A sly smile breached Tank's tight walnut face. "Like a fuckin' she-grizzly with cubs." Pointing to his biceps, he bragged, "Even shot me."

"Shot ya, huh? Don't see no blood," Zip remarked with skepticism, scrutinizing Tank's clothes for gory evidence.

"You asshole, blood doesn't show on black material. Besides, I plugged the hole with part of a tampon I found in her purse when I was rummaging for her keys."

With admiration on his face, Zip bobbed his balding head. "No shit. Good thinking."

"Glad you approve," Tank returned with sarcasm.

Zip's eyes cut to Jewels. He rubbed his palms together, eyes bulging. A dirty grin sprouted. "Well, let's see more of her." The mere anticipation stoked an obvious full blown erection that looked like a 12-gauge shotgun shell chambered in his crotch.

Scowling, Tank bulldozed Zip aside with his shoulder. "We're here," Tank announced as he unbuckled the belt binding her feet to her hands. Her body would be easier to sling over his shoulder with her legs straight.

Peering over Tank's back, Zip stroked his crotch and shifted his weight from side to side, straining for a glimpse.

Once the connecting strap had been removed, Tank backed away in anticipation of a violent thrashing of feet.

But nothing happened. Not even a groan of relief. Her legs fell like a lifeless mannequin's. Had the frenzied fight of the she-grizzly been tamed so easily?

Zip sighed with disappointment, the _shotgun shell_ wilting.

"So you're gonna be a good girl now, huh?" Tank taunted, grabbing Jewels' legs and dragging her closer to the opening in preparation for pick up.

"Want some help?"

"Nah, I've got her. Just get the doors." Tank slung her body over his shoulder like a sack of dog chow.

The prized _package_ still hadn't moved. Hadn't groaned.

Worry smeared Tank's features. Had he been too rough? Had the bindings been too tight? Had she fought the restraints with such vigor she seriously injured herself?

Seeking words of comfort that lifelessness was common, Tank turned to Zip. "I guess this tying-up ordeal ended up being kinda traumatic for the bitch. Think I should let Callahan take a look at her?"

Zip, too, had noticed the eerie stillness of the body, though refrained from commenting for fear Tank would blame him for her demise. Experience had taught him kidnapped women, especially those severely bound like this one, were so full of fear they were anything but lifeless. Even if exhausted, they'd still contort their bodies in search of freedom. Or relief from pain. At the very least, they'd whimper in dread whenever they were handled. But not this one.

She was quiet. Corpse silent.

Furrows of concern gathered on Zip's wide forehead. "I suppose being tied up _was_ traumatic for the bitch." Pausing, he chawed on the inside of his cheek, thinking, then bobbled his head. "Yeah, Tank, maybe it would be a good idea to let Doc take a look at her before you pass her off to Watters."

Nodding in agreement, Tank hustled into the depths of the underground compound. His heavy boots thumped down the stairs, echoing into the ten-foot wide hallways. Dirt granules dusting the stone flooring crunched beneath his feet as he booked it into the _intersection_ and kept speeding straight down the long hallway.

As they neared the medical area, Zip jogged ahead. Flung open the door. Tapped the light switch.

The overhead fluorescent tubes flicked to life.

"Doc. Doc Callahan," Tank shouted, his tone laced with urgency, as he dashed into the infirmary.

In spite of the windowless stone walls, the medical wing was one of the few areas within the compound that looked somewhat _normal._ That is, if the words FLOWER POWER—in a psychedelic bell-bottom style of hippie lettering—chiseled into the rock floor and spanning over thirteen feet in length were ignored.

Second in size to the cafeteria, the infirmary was a two-thousand square foot mini hospital. The twenty-by-forty foot triage area boasted half a dozen army green cots lined up against the right wall. On the opposite wall left of the entry, five floor-to-ceiling gray metal cabinets with double doors were butted together and packed with basic patient care supplies from gauze to nasal cannulas.

On the short wall opposite the entry door, a red crash cart, loaded with all the necessities pertinent to treat cardiac arrest—paddled defibrillator, endotracheal intubation equipment, central vein catheters and cardiac drugs—was parked next to a double-wide doorway that accessed the rest of the medical quarters. A half dozen large free-standing oxygen cylinders were nestled next to the crash cart. The compound was prepared for war. And casualties.

Treading over FLOWER POWER, Zip jogged through the open doorway into the adjoining hall. "Doc, Doc. Come quick."

Surrounded by the standard stone walls of the complex, the wide hallway revealed four doors, three in a row, like those hiding prizes in a TV game show, the fourth at the end of the passage. Behind door number one: Doc's personal living quarters. Number two: Doc's office. Three: a multi-station bathroom with shower. Four: the exam room.

The head of a sleepy-eyed black man popped out from his freshly lighted room. "How can I help you boys?" The question blended into a yawn as he eyed the bundle slung over Tank's shoulder.

"Doc, got a woman for you to look at. I think she's unconscious or something."

The doctor wrapped the gray, blue, and black striped terry cloth robe around himself, knotting the matching belt at his waist. Shuffled out of his room. "Take her in there." He pointed at the fourth door.

Tank beelined it toward the room, pushing Doc aside.

Zip darted in front, opening the door and slapping the light switch.

The examining room appeared under wakening fluorescent and halogen lights. In the center a long stainless steel table waited. Wide black nylon belts dangled from the sides.

Tank dumped the motionless parcel of flesh onto the table and quickly backed away. "She's the Commander's. I was ordered to bring her here. Not hurt her. I thought she was okay but, I guess maybe the restraints..."

Warm, molasses brown eyes shielded the contempt Doc Callahan felt for what he saw before him: a woman dumped on her side, torturously bound in leather restraints, a cloth bag cinched over her head. "Take that hood off," Callahan instructed from the doorway.

Tank fumbled to loosen the drawstring gathered around her neck and pulled the bag off her head.

Jewels' long silky blonde hair flowed over the edge of the table like a waterfall.

The sight of the egg-like gag alarmed Callahan. "What the hell?" Rushing to the table he bent over her. Pressed his fingers against the side of her neck. Cocked his ear toward her nose and gazed at her chest, performing the classic _look, listen,_ and _feel_ for signs of life.

Breathing shallow and pulse steady, she was alive, but unconscious. Doc's face was hard, abhorrence emanating.

Tank felt pressured to explain. "She was screaming. I had to ... I couldn't let her..."

"Get that damned thing off," Doc demanded grinding his teeth.

Unbuckling the strap, Tank removed the muzzle, tossed it to Zip.

He caught it midair. Her saliva had slimed the gag. Zip's pudgy face brightened. Without drawing attention to himself, he rolled the oval ball gag around in the palm of his hand. Her spit coated his fingers like sexual lubrication. Drool turned him on.

"Don't stop. Take the rest of that garbage off too."

Doc's commanding voice jolted Zip from his saliva fantasy, motivating him to assist Tank in removing the leather binding her wrists and ankles.

The severe tightness of the straps had turned Jewels' hands and feet puffy.

Tank pointed to the dried blood on Jewels' left hand and arm. "Uh, that's not hers. She shot me." He rubbed his arm as if seeking sympathy.

Callahan glanced up at Tank. His eyes said it all: he couldn't give a rat's ass about Tank's gunshot wound. Focusing his attention on Jewels, he gently rolled her onto her back. Examined her limbs for broken bones, soft tissue damage, and oozing blood.

"What happened here?" Doc motioned with his chin at her shredded T-shirt.

Tank twitched his head. "Nothing really."

Doc snorted at the lame explanation, knowing full well the poor woman had endured savage manhandling at the very least. Probably much worse.

Using a damp cloth Doc cleaned the blood off her hands and arms. "Ligature marks," he mumbled, gazing at the red stripes of tormented flesh encircling her wrists. Evidence she had been brutally restrained and strenuously resisted.

"Is she gonna be okay?" Tank's voice thick with concern.

Eyes seething, Callahan answered coolly, "Only if you haven't managed to smother her will to live."

If Jewels' _will_ was the determining factor in whether or not she would survive, Tank knew she would pull through. A toothy smile broke across his face. "Trust me, Doc, this woman will be just fine." With his confidence back, he bragged, "By the way, make sure you take extra good care of her. That's Julia Andrasy."

Callahan shot a wary glance down at the woman, then over to Tank. His eyes grew wide, begging for confirmation of what he just heard.

Tank gave it to him, served with a ghoulish grin. "Yes, Doc. _That_ Julia Andrasy. The Commander's very own."

"But I thought Phase One wasn't going to happen for a couple more weeks?"

"Change of plans." Tank motioned with his hand to Zip that they should leave Callahan to his work.

After taking a few steps toward the door, Tank turned back to Callahan. "A word of advice, Doc. This bitch is a real wild one. A keg of dynamite. Better keep her strapped down if you don't want your eyes raked out or your balls shattered."

DOC WINCED AT THE LAST REMARK, instinctively reaching to his crotch.

Tank and Zip laughed as they meandered out the exam room door.

Callahan watched them exit, listening for the closure of the main infirmary door as a sign they had vacated the area.

Just the two of them now, he surveyed Jewels' body.

A real life Sleeping Beauty. Caressing her flawless lightly-tanned cheek with the back of his manicured walnut hand, he admired her outer beauty while imagining her inner strength.

Wagging his head in disapproval, he mulled over the Commander's plans for Jewels. "Not right. Just not right."

A vision of his daughter glided into his mind. Pursing his lips, he furrowed his brows. "I'm sorry," Callahan whispered to Jewels, dusting the stray strands of hair from her face. "But better you than my little Lexi." And with that, he sucked in a deep breath and began engulfing her body in the wide nylon straps.

### Thirteen

**FRIDAY MORNING.**

"Robert?" Jewels stirred.

Except to slip away long enough to change out of his sleepwear, Leo Callahan, M.D., had remained vigilant at Jewels' side since Tank had dropped her off hours ago.

Dozing off in the black vinyl waiting room chair he had dragged from his office and stationed next to the exam table, her moaning perked him up. Rising to his feet, he arched his back and stretched his arms above his head. Hovering over her, he softly tapped her cheeks with an open hand. "Julia? Miz Andrasy?"

"Robert. I'm home..." A sweet smile glided across her face.

"Miz Andrasy? Julia? Wake up."

JEWELS' EYELIDS FLUTTERED. Rose slowly. The figure before her was backlit in brilliant light, making it impossible to distinguish the face. "Robert," she muttered, desiring nothing more than to throw her arms around him, but she couldn't muster the strength to do it. Her eyelids slid shut.

"Julia? Come on, Julia. Open your eyes."

It was that unfamiliar voice again. Drawing her away from her husband. "Wait. Robert..." She knitted her brows.

"Wake up, Julia."

The insistent voice angered her. Robert faded. Frustration mounted. "No, no." Her head twitched. Eyes squinted open and shut. She wanted Robert to stay but, images, horrible images eclipsed him. Now she saw snippets of her kitchen. Boo-Boo's body convulsing. Head about hacked off. Crimson life juices spewing. Giant man. Hideous black mask. Blood-drenched knife. Charging her. The chase. The fight. The capture. Jewels' eyes saucered open. "Noooooo," she screamed, jerking her head forward and contorting her body.

"Julia? Julia, settle down." His voice was calm and soothing. He pressed his palms against her shoulders to prevent her from attempting to sit up. "You're okay. My name is Doctor Leo Callahan. You're in a medical facility. You're going to be fine."

Jewels' confused brain was slow to process his words. Gasping for air, her lungs burned. Heart jack-hammered. Wild-eyed she gazed at the man bent over her who reminded her of Morgan Freeman when he was in his late fifties or early sixties. The similarity calmed her. Relaxing her muscles, she swallowed hard. Her throat felt rough, like a cat's tongue. "Water. Please, water."

Moments later the Morgan Freeman look-alike shoveled his hand under the base of her skull, tipped her head forward, and pressed a plastic cup to her lips.

She gulped the cool liquid.

"Take it easy, Honey," he cautioned with a warm smile, backing off the cup and lowering her head onto the folded white terry cloth towel serving as a makeshift pillow.

Relief radiated from her countenance. "Thank you," Jewels whispered, gazing up at the man. His face was friendly. Eyes kind. Touch gentle.

"More, please."

Again he flashed that warm smile and obliged, helping her to a few more swallows of water.

"Thank you." Now fully conscious, Jewels scanned her surroundings.

Three giant round lights, like those seen in an operating room, hovered above her. Colorful charts of the ear canal, and circulatory and nervous systems dotted the walls. A black and white bone chart was taped to the side of the door.

White cabinets lined the walls. Various sizes of glass jars heaped with tongue depressors, cotton balls, and gauze pads sat on the counters. And the place reeked of a hospital, that nauseating raw chicken, rubbing alcohol scent.

Wrinkling her nose at the smell, Jewels concluded she was, in fact, in some sort of medical facility, just as her caretaker had claimed.

But how did she get here? Sifting through her mind for some recollection, the last thing she remembered was being tossed in the back of her Humvee with her feet yanked up to her butt and having them tethered to her bound hands. But what about Robert? He was there. Somewhere. Wasn't he?

The blanks had to be filled in. Attempting to sit up, Jewels realized her body was immobile. Seeking to at least raise her arms, she discovered they wouldn't budge either. Though she was able to rotate her hands and ball her fingers into fists.

Likewise, she could wiggle her toes and circle her feet, but her legs wouldn't move an inch. While testing the ability of her limbs to operate properly, she became aware of the surface. It felt hard and cold against her flat palms. When she bent her fingers, the tips of her sharp acrylic nails raked against the top, sounding like a spatula scraping against a cookie sheet. Was she lying on a metal table?

Jutting her head forward in hopes of catching a glimpse of the problem, she was horrified at the sight: the outline of her body loosely covered from her chin to the tips of her toes in a large white blanket draped over the edge like a corpse in a morgue.

Without a doubt, something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. Her thoughts went haywire. Did being hogtied wreak havoc with her gross motor skills? Could she be paralyzed, either temporarily or permanently? Confusion swamped her mind, drowning out her ability to imagine other possibilities.

After regaining control of her wits and accumulating enough courage to handle the potentially devastating answers to the questions that must be asked, Jewels glanced at her caretaker whose back was toward her. He was standing in front of one of the cabinets across the room, fiddling with what sounded like a drawer full of silverware. "Excuse me. Sir?"

Callahan wheel around, striding to her side. "Yes, Julia?"

She cast her eyes down at her body, then back up at him. "What's wrong with me? I can't move anything but my fingers and toes. Am I paralyzed?"

His comforting eyes turned to crescents as he grinned and wagged his head. "No, Sweetie. You're not paralyzed. Just restrained."

_Restrained!_ Her body stiffened, alarm smothered her face.

"It's okay," he reassured, patting her shoulder in comfort. "The straps are just temporary. Didn't want you hurting yourself." With a hint of joking he added, "Or me."

"Why would you think I would hurt myself. Or you?"

"You've been through a lot, Dear."

"Where am I? How did I get here? Did you rescue me?"

Callahan shifted his gaze to the other side of the room.

By his reaction, Jewels figured she was not going to be thrilled with the answers. Still, she had to know. "Please. Tell me. Please," she softly petitioned.

After pondering her request a moment longer, he sucked in a deep breath, exhaling through loosely compressed lips. He dragged the waiting room chair next to the bed and lowered himself into the seat. "All right. I'll give it to you straight."

Jewels gulped air in nervous anticipation of what he might say.

"You've been kidnapped. Your abductor has brought you here to make sure you survived the ordeal relatively unscathed," he paused, his eyes shifting to the floor. "And, no, Dear, I'm not your rescuer," he admitted, wrenching regret in his voice. "I work for the man who orchestrated your abduction."

Jewels wanted to scream bloody murder. Burst into hysterical tears. Unleash a fit of physical insanity despite the restraints. But bridled the pressing urges. The fact she was still under her kidnapper's control triggered a swell of nausea deep in her gut, as if she had just swallowed a double dose of ipecac and puking was imminent. Her antidote: conjuring up thoughts of escape.

First things first. Get the straps off, which he did say were only temporary. The fact this man seemed to feel a certain amount of sympathy for her might be fashioned to her advantage. Yet Jewels realized no matter how much sympathy he might feel for her, he would never remove the restraints as long as she appeared too emotional. Too irrational. Too scared to think logically. Or too desperate.

She mustered a voice oozing with charm and rationale. "Thank you for your honesty. At least I'm glad to hear I'm not paralyzed. And so I've been kidnapped. I have to tell you, that didn't come as a surprise."

That comment drew a faint smile out of him.

_Keep the charm coming._ "So now that I know the scoop, will you please let me up?"

His conflicted face said he wanted to honor her request, yet he just sat there.

"So, what do you say, Doctor..." her somewhat cheery tone was meant to lead him to fill in the blank as part of her ploy to conceal her desperation to be free.

"Callahan. Leo Callahan," he answered with a plastic smile.

"Okay, Doctor Callahan, how about allowing me to use the little girl's room?" Lifting her head and cocking it toward him she whispered, "I think my bladder's going to explode."

Chuckling, his eyes glimmered. "Well, in that case, since an exploding bladder would make a terrible mess, I suppose I can let you go to the bathroom."

Giddiness danced through her body. This could be her opportunity to escape.

"But just to go to the bathroom." Authority underscored his words. "After that, it's back on the table."

Though Doc didn't say it, Jewels knew by the way he said, _back on the table_ included restraints. And just like that, the carnival within her packed up and left.

Still, Jewels figured even a few minutes off the table was better than none at all. Feigning her sweetest smile, she nodded in agreement. "I understand."

Callahan drew back the blanket, revealing five eight-inch wide black nylon belts engulfing her body.

An audible gasp squeaked out of her at the imposing sight. No wonder she couldn't move. Did he think she was Arnold Schwarzenegger's twin sister?

"Psychiatric body restraints," he informed her while unbuckling the metal clasp and muscling apart the stiff Velcro binding of the double-locking strap tethering her lower legs. The broad fetter covered her ankles and half way up her shins.

One down, four to go, she thought in her mental countdown to freedom.

"They keep the patient strictly subdued with minimal risk of injury no matter how hard he, or _she_ , fights," he commented, eyeing Jewels when he emphasized _she_ , as he removed the restraint just above her knees. "And the metal table prevents the patient from flexing joints, particularly the elbows, creating a virtually escape-proof total-body confinement system."

_Two down, three to go._ "It feels good to move my legs," Jewels commented with gratitude, bending and straightening her knees to stretch as Doc released the restraint at her waist.

Three down, two to go. Freedom's just two straps away.

"Sometimes two or three strong men are required to hold down a combative patient until the restraints are applied." Callahan chuckled, adding, "And we sure have an abundance of testosterone around here with men all too eager to assist in such a circumstance."

Obviously the tidbits of information Doc was doling out were warnings. Were her thoughts of escape _that_ apparent?

After disengaging the buckle, hands poised to release the Velcro strap just under her breasts, he stopped. Gazing down at her, his eyes took on a bit of a threatening look. "You better not make me regret this."

"No, Sir. I'll be most grateful." Which was the truth. At least the gratitude part.

Moments later the last cumbersome strap, the one pinning her shoulders to the metal table, was released.

Jewels sighed with relief, extended her arms above her head, and twisted her body while arching her back to stretch.

"Whenever you're ready, I'll help you up." Callahan scrutinized her moves, prepared to act if she misbehaved.

"Thank you." Jewels pushed herself up onto her elbows into a half seated position.

Doc Callahan pressed his hand into the middle of her back, assisting her to sit straight up.

Suddenly Jewels became aware of the gaping hole in her shirt. Though in the presence of a physician, she was compelled to attempt to cover her bra with the shreds of material remaining from her torn T-shirt.

"Honey, don't worry about your shirt. Your bra is covering the important parts and I'm not going to attack you."

A guarded smile surfaced on her concerned face, but Jewels clung to the tattered shreds she had pulled across her breasts anyway.

"Your bladder didn't explode yet, did it?"

Wagging her head, Jewels released the death grip on her shirt and rubbed her paining wrists.

"You didn't get those ligature marks from _my_ restraints," he noted, a tone of superiority in his voice.

"I know." After massaging her throbbing wrists, she tucked her knees high to her chest to smooth out the divots gouged in the soft tissue around her ankles by the kidnapper's merciless bindings.

"Ready?" he asked, a tinge of impatience in his voice.

"Okay."

Like a gentleman offering a supportive hand to a lady stepping down from a stagecoach, he helped Jewels slip down from the exam table.

Her numbed legs collapsed when her bare feet collided with the cold stone floor.

Callahan caught her.

"Thank you, Doctor."

Placing her arm around his shoulder for added stability, he cradled her small waist in the crook of his elbow. "Bathroom's outside to the right." He motioned toward the closed door with his head.

Each step brought new strength to Jewels' legs, along with a renewed awareness of her aching ankles.

During the few moments and several dozen steps required to reach their destination—the bathroom—Jewels soaked in as much of the environment as she could, noting the two closed doors along the same wall as the bathroom and the double-wide archway to an adjoining room. Could one of the closed doors or the other room lead to freedom?

"Here you go." Callahan pushed open the door, motioning with his hand for her to enter.

The bathroom was long. Narrow. Consisted of three toilet stalls, a shower booth, and a counter with a double sink. The stone walls and stark fixtures reminded her of a facility one might encounter at a decrepit rest stop located in the middle of nowhere when traveling across country. On the upside, it was well-lit and clean.

Callahan directed her to the larger, wheelchair accessible toilet at the far end. "You can take it from here." He turned and pulled the door shut. "Ill get you a washcloth and towel. I'm sure you'd like to freshen up." Added, "And I'll see what I can do about a shirt."

Standing on tiptoes and popping her head over the top of the partition, she intended to thank Callahan, but he was already out of sight. She listened as the patter of Callahan's footsteps dissipated. _Now_ might be the perfect time to escape. But to where? She didn't have a clue. At least not yet.

Flushing the toilet and exiting the stall, she scanned the room for something, _anything_ , she could use as a weapon. Perhaps harsh cleaning chemicals. A bowl brush. Even a plunger.

Nothing.

Seconds later Callahan returned with two white terry cloth bath towels, a wash rag, a bar of Irish Spring soap, a yellow comb, and a woodland green camouflaged T-shirt. He dropped them on the faux marble Formica counter next to the deep stainless steel sink. "Julia, you need to know this compound is home to nearly two-dozen sex-deprived men who haven't been with a woman in a long time. For your own protection, I'm giving you a shirt much too big to help conceal your feminine body features, if you know what I mean. I also wrangled up a comb." Grinning he added, "Not that that's a hint or anything."

Jewels chuckled reservedly. "Thank you." Given different circumstances, she wondered if this soft-spoken man and she might be friends.

Splashing lukewarm water on her cheeks, followed by a delicate massaging with the washcloth, she had wiped away all evidence of the tears of terror spilled just hours ago.

After brushing her teeth with her finger, she combed her long hair, untangling the half dozen knots created during the savage kidnapping.

Freshening up rejuvenated Jewels' soul. Her desire to be free. Her hope for help.

She glanced at her watch: 8:25. Jewels reasoned Belinda had checked email messages, which meant poor Boo-Boo had been discovered and her home was undoubtedly crawling with cops. Plus an APB on her missing Humvee should be fresh on the airwaves.

And by nine o'clock tomorrow morning, the county sheriff and the feds will have received her overnight express envelope. By noon, the authorities would be combing the area. Searching for her.

All she had to do was hold on until help arrived. Meanwhile, it was all about survival. Even if that meant escaping before she could be rescued.

Peeking around the corner of the bathroom's main door, she saw Callahan leaning against the hallway wall. Arms crossed in front of him.

Bouncing out of the bathroom with a wide smile, Jewels stretched her arms above her head and twisted her torso side to side. "I feel so much better, Doctor Callahan," she revealed in a voice that could charm a rabid pirate.

"Ohhh." Gathering himself to stand erect, he acted surprised to see her finished so soon. "You _do_ look much better."

Despite the sagging man's extra-extra-large T-shirt that hung like a plus-sized muumuu obliterating any sign of feminine curves, Jewels _did_ look better.

For an awkward moment Jewels and the doc just stared at each other. Then Callahan cleared his throat. Took charge. "Better get you back to the exam room."

"Uh, okay." Jewels' voice cracked, knowing full well what _going back to the exam room_ meant: being strapped down with psycho restraints to a cold metal table.

His warm hand in the middle of her back prompted her to move toward the exam room.

Walking slowly, she quizzed, "So, tell me, Doctor, what does S-P-O-F stand for?"

Callahan, apparently taken off guard that she possessed such knowledge, raised brows in suspicion before responding. "Sovereign Patriots Of Freedom."

Sensing the topic made him nervous, she pressed anyway. "So, you're some kind of militia group operating out of, as you described, a compound?" she probed, halting her gait to look him in the eyes, and to kill more time before climbing back onto the hideous table.

"Something like that." Once more he pressed his hand against her back to prod her to resume walking.

"Hmm. So, Sharon Jeppson was killed because she wanted to, how shall I say, defect?"

"You know, you're one real sharp lady. Maybe too smart for your own good." He didn't say anything else.

Neither did Jewels.

Upon entering the exam room, Jewels flashed a nervous smile.

"Come on, Julia. Remember our deal. Time for you to get up on that table. I think you've milked this twenty-step walk about as far as it's going to go," he said, his voice frigid.

Jewels' face flushed rosy. The good doctor had picked up on her time wasting strategy. Her mind fluttered. Still, she refused to allow herself to be restrained, no matter what she had promised Callahan. She needed to concoct a plan. Fast.

"I said get up on the table. _Now_."

"Okay, I'm getting there. Just please don't yell." As if performing a triceps dip, Jewels placed her arms on the edge of the table to boost herself into a sitting position. Her feet dangled about a foot off the ground.

"Now lie back."

Leaning back, she swung her feet up, but at the last minute, thrust her flexed feet with all of her might at Callahan's groin.

Howling in pain, he grabbed his crotch and sank to the floor onto his knees.

Wasting no time, Jewels sprang off the table. Dashed to the closest medical cabinet, about ten feet to the rear of the room.

Drawers and doors clanked as she riffled through them. She tossed boxes of gauze pads, packages of disposable syringes, and plastic tubes onto the stone floor. Even lobbed several glass vials of medicine, shattering a few. She was a woman possessed, obsessed with finding medical tools suitable for use as defensive weapons.

Finally. A drawer full of scissors. Another with scalpels. Choosing a pair of scissors with a long straight shaft and grabbing a scalpel—any scalpel—which all appeared to have the same razor sharp edge, she armed herself.

With her right hand she gripped the scalpel in a defensive reverse knife-edge-out hold with her thumb planted at the butt of the scalpel, and in her left hand the scissors, clutched to stab. Whirling around on her heels, she evaded the glass containers she had inadvertently smashed, dashing past the crumpled doctor and toward the exam room door.

"Julia, don't leave." Doc reeled in misery as he sat on the floor. "Believe me, you don't want to do this. Don't try to escape. It won't end well for you."

Ignoring him, she darted out, closing the exam room door. Once in the extra wide hallway she surveyed the surroundings she had minutes ago cataloged in her mind.

To her right: three doors—all metal like the exam door—plus ahead a double-wide opening into an adjoining room.

The first door she knew was the bathroom, no need to bother with it. Speeding toward the second door she turned the handle, pushed it open: an office with no outlet.

Hurrying to the final door: a studio apartment of sorts. "Doc's quarters," Jewels mumbled which left the archway as the way out.

Maintaining a defensive hold on her weapons, she clutched them close to her breasts while entering the room that appeared to be a combination triage center and waiting area. She spied the metal door at the opposite end of the room and hastened toward it.

Once at the door, she cracked it wide enough to peek out with one eye.

The hallway was wide and long. Vaguely lit with fluorescent shop lights dangling from the ceiling. Quiet, except for the humming of the bulbs. The stone walls glittered from seeping water. The air smelled of mildew. Was this a basement? No. Seemed more like a medieval dungeon.

Opening the door wider, she slipped through. Once in the corridor it became apparent she was at the hall's end. "That makes the decision easier," she whispered, regarding which way to go.

The stone was hard. Uneven. Iceberg-like on the soles of feet, shooting pinches of pain up through her ankles like mild electrical shocks.

Pressing forward, multiple hallways came into view, all flowing into an intersection of sorts. Pausing and prancing in place like a jogger stuck at a stop light, she debated her choices. Right? Left? Or keep going straight?

Straining her eyes to see down each of the dimly lit passages, one grabbed her attention. About forty feet straight ahead she caught sight of a staircase. A hint of a triumphant smile edged across her tense face as she rationalized one would likely escape from an underground cavern by moving _up_ toward the surface.

Proceeding with light footsteps, she glided toward the stairs. Her arms raised into a high guard position, scissors slightly away from her face about nose level to block incoming blows and the scalpel cocked in the power position near her chin to strike.

Halfway to the stairs a burst of sunlight radiated through the opening, illuminating the stairwell and most of the hallway. Shrinking from the sunbeam into the shadows, she plastered her back against the damp rock wall.

Voices. Two men for sure—maybe more—standing in the open doorway gabbing.

A wave of clean air breezed over her, freshening the stuffy hallway. Jewels grinned. Sunshine. Fresh air. The door at the top of those stairs led outdoors. She _was_ on the right track to freedom and so close.

Laboring to hear their conversation, she caught bits and pieces. Something about "the bitch" and "blood everywhere" and some kind of a "struggle," followed by a burst of raunchy laughter.

A sinking feeling dropped her gut. They were talking about _her_.

"Better go check on our feisty package. Cooman wants to meet her," a man announced.

The voice rang alarmingly familiar. It was her kidnapper. _Hide!_ Retreating from the stairway she darted back toward the junction of halls. With any luck, one of the other corridors would lead to another exit.

Within mere feet of the crossroads she slammed on the brakes. A surge of footsteps drummed against the stone floor and intermixed with the hum of masculine voices. Echoes distorted the sounds. Were they coming from one of the tunnel-like hallways, or all of them?

Regardless, the poor acoustics foretold of the imminent arrival of _more_ men. No doubt in the employ of her kidnapper. Any moment she'd be trapped. What was she going to do?

Panic-stricken, she glanced about for options, eyeing the ceiling. Floor. Walls. That's when she saw it: a three-foot square door at ground level. Could she be so lucky a little door would appear in the middle of the dark hallway right where she needed it, at the exact moment she needed it?

Perhaps. But what was behind the door? A maze of water pipes? A panel of electrical boxes? Oh, please God, no. Let it be a storage closet. And let there be enough space to fit inside. Better yet, let it be the entrance to an escape tunnel.

Her eyes brightened. Hope soared.

The thump of her kidnapper's big boots pounding down the rock stairs reverberated through the corridor. Voices and footsteps coming from the other end of the hallway grew louder. More distinct.

Urgency escalated. It was now or never. Pitching her weapons into her left hand for safe keeping, she engulfed the wooden knob of the curiously placed door in her right hand. "Please, dear Jesus, let this be a closet." She sucked in a deep breath and flung the door open.

A puny hollow was revealed.

Jewels' heart leaped in celebration. She dove inside on her knees, skidding to a rough stop. Grabbing onto the bottom edge with her fingertips, she pulled the little door almost shut, leaving it open just a crack.

Her hideout was cramped. A cavity slightly bigger than a tipped over cardboard box from a new washing machine.

The floor was grimy. Granules of grit peppered the soles of her bare feet and ground into her shins, through her jeans. It was dark, but not so dark she was without sight. The walls were stacked rock like those in the hall. Cold radiated from them like the inside of a refrigerator. Large restaurant-sized tin cans of vegetables, beans, tuna, and stew were stacked floor to ceiling behind her. It felt and smelled like a cave. Though it wasn't an escape tunnel, or even much of a storage closet, it was a perfect mini safe house, for which she was grateful.

Milliseconds later an army of black laced-up boots rapped past the little door.

Once the slap of boots beating against the concrete floor faded, she repositioned her legs for comfort and dusted off the tiny rocks imbedded in her pants piercing her shins. She let out a long, silent sigh of relief. Her exhaling breath caused _something_ to sway in the air. Catching the movement out of the corner of her eye, she recognized the _something_ : a spider. Amazon-sized. Dangling dangerously close to her arm from the ceiling.

She gasped. Wanted to scream. Wanted to burst out of her hideaway. But pasted her hand over her mouth, saving herself from being discovered.

In numbed horror she looked up.

The spider was hovering at the edge of its web that stretched from the floor to the ceiling of the nook.

She held her breath. And her ground. Maybe if she didn't move, the eight-eyed monster would go away. Or at least relax on its web for a while.

The gargantuan hairy-legged spider, as if in her kidnapper's employ and knowing her deepest fear, proceeded to scurry around the perimeter of its expansive web. Advancing closer and closer toward her shoulder.

Driven by her will to survive in this kill or be killed situation, the intimidating fuzzy spider didn't have a chance against the jaws of surgical scissors, even in the hands of an arachneophobic woman. Wielding the razor-sharp shears with the precision of Edward Scissorhands, she julienned her latest instigator of terror.

Pinching her face in repugnance, she watched the cutup pieces of the big spider fall to the floor, like pigeon poop dropping from a high tension wire.

One of the severed legs twitched on the ground.

Recoiling at the sight, she flicked the chopped up body parts away with the tip of the scissors. Breathing deeply and slowly, she congratulated herself for defeating the eight-legged assailant and solving yet another hair-raising crisis.

But an additional and much bigger problem brewed. Moments earlier her kidnapper had announced he was headed to "check on our feisty package," an obvious reference to _her._ That meant one thing: injured Doc Callahan and the vacant exam table were about to be discovered. And when that happened, no doubt her kidnapper would be hellbent on finding her.

### Fourteen

**ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES EARLIER.**

FRIDAY. 6:55 A.M.

As usual, Belinda arrived at work early. She loved working for the newspaper and especially loved being Jewels' secretary.

In her happy-go-lucky way, she flittered through the office. Tidying Jewels' desk. Trimming and adding fresh water to the two-day old bouquet of flowers on the credenza. Commissioning the coffee maker to work, and turning on her computer.

From the fax machine she gathered the press releases that had come in overnight. Scanned the subject lines as she straightened the papers. One caught her eye: FEMALE COMPANION OF LATEST GRIZZLY ATTACK VICTIM MISSING.

"Hear ye, hear ye. The latest missing woman invalidates the theory that the killer grizzly only attacks men," she announced to an empty office. Adding in a lower tone, in defense of Jewels' hypothesis, "But what the hell do they know anyway? Can't even find the woman. Could have been killed by a pack of wolves. Or nabbed by some psycho."

Bored with the fax sheets, Belinda distributed them to the IN box of the appropriate staff and returned to her desk.

A message flashed on her computer screen: YOU HAVE NEW MAIL. The equivalent of _idiot lights_ in cars. The flashing message created a sense of urgency. Belinda hated that. Everything was always urgent. Always important.

Scooting her desk chair over to the keyboard, "All right. All right," she spouted to the computer, annoyance in her voice.

"YOU HAVE 37 NEW MESSAGES," the computer's gentle feminine voice announced.

"Thirty-seven," Belinda shrieked. Browsing the sender addresses, she stopped at number thirty-three. It had been sent last night by Jewels.

Double clicking the mouse on Jewels' message, she opened it. MAY BE GONE FOR A WHILE. PLEASE FEED GOMER.

Contorting her face with puzzlement, "Who's Gomer," she wondered, popping the piece of neon green gum she was chomping.

A few seconds later the message sank in. Her eyes widened and mouth dropped open. She stared at the screen. "Oh, shit!" She swallowed her gum then coughed. "Jewels is in trouble."

One hand massaged her throat to assist the wad of gum struggling to go down while her other riffled through the old fashioned Rolodex on her desk. "Thank you, Jesus," she praised upon finding the desired business card. Picking up the desk phone, she pounded out the number with her index finger.

Nervous habit caused her to scoop up a pen and tap it on the top of the desk.

One ring.

"Come on." Belinda turned the pen to use the tip like a knife to stab the top of her desk.

Two rings.

"FBI Special Agent In Charge Hines—"

"Thank God." Belinda hurled the pen across the desk to collide with a desktop speaker connected to her computer. "This is Belinda. Belinda Parker, Jewels' secretary?"

"Oh yes, and how are you today? Did you give Jewels—"

"This isn't social," she interrupted, twisting the phone cord around her finger. "Something's happened to Jewels."

"Happened? What do you mean?"

"She left me this special message—"

"Message?"

"Email. It said she was going to be gone for a while and I should feed Gomer."

"Gone for a while?"

"No, you don't understand. The message is _feed Gomer._ "

"Who the hell's Gomer?"

"Feed Gomer is a distress code. It means Jewels is in big trouble and needs help."

"I'll be right over." Hines disconnected the call.

ABOUT TWO MINUTES LATER.

"Everything okay, Belinda? You look like you've seen a ghost," he speculated, his tone curious.

"Oh, Howard. Jewels is in trouble. Really _big_ trouble."

His handsome features distorted into deep concern. "Talk to me." He parked himself in the visitor's chair next to Belinda's desk.

She gulped a swallow of air. "Jewels sent this coded email to me last night that she was in trouble, but I just got it this morning." Her voice quivered. "I called Agent Hines and he's coming right over."

"Did you call her house? Cell?"

Belinda negatively shook her head.

"You call her home, I'll try her cell." Howard withdrew his phone from his suit coat pocket, pressed the speed dial number he had designated for Jewels' mobile phone.

Using a Press land line, Belinda called Jewels' house.

After a few seconds, they both got her voice mail.

"I'm scared for her, Howard. Jewels wasn't right yesterday. I think something bad happened at the diner."

"You mean something more than her friend being murdered and dying in her arms?"

"Yeah. I got the feeling someone was following her. And I think she was scared. I mean really scared."

He leaned closer to her, his brows furrowing deeper. "Why do you say that?"

"Nothing in particular." Belinda jacked up one shoulder. "She just seemed nervous. Especially when we walked to the car. She kept looking over at Maverick and wasn't acting herself. I felt like she was overacting during our conversation to cover up how scared or worried she was."

"And you didn't bother to quiz her?"

Tears glistened her eyes. "No. I know I should have, but..."

"What's done is done." Howard rocketed from the chair. "I'm going to her house. I'll call you when I get there."

"Wait." Belinda ran after Howard. "Do you have a key?"

"Don't need one. I know the garage code," he called over his shoulder, dashing out the door.

TWELVE MINUTES LATER, ALMOST 7:30 A.M.

"Dear God in heaven." Howard placed his hand over his mouth as he gazed at the mutilated dog in Jewels' kitchen. "What the hell happened?"

Knowing his presence could be disturbing crime scene evidence ... or _adding_ evidence, he retraced his steps through the mud room into the garage. Couldn't afford to get tangled in bullshit police red tape.

Once outside, he dialed Belinda on his cell.

"Hello."

"Jewels' Humvee's gone and Boo-Boo's dead—"

"Oh my god."

Jogging to his Porsche 911 Turbo, he crawled in. Slammed the door. "Get over here right now. Then call Hines. Tell him the dog is dead and Jewels' vehicle is missing." He fired up his sports car.

"Me? I'll call him, but why don't _you_ stay there?"

"No," Howard stated emphatically. "I've got contacts. Connections who can help. But you gotta keep my name out of this. It's like I was never here. That's why I want _you_ at her house."

No response.

"Belinda, do you understand?"

"Ooookaaay."

"So your story is, since you couldn't reach Jewels by cell or home phone, you drove to her house. That's how you discovered the dog. Agreed?"

"Yes."

"Remember, you're doing this for Jewels."

" _Anything_ for Jewels."

Driving the sports car hard, Howard blasted down the private lane. "I've gotta go. I'll contact you when I can." He disconnecting the call, flying onto the highway.

From memory, he pounded a number into his cell phone.

After one ring, "How may I help you today?" a monotone male voice answered.

"This is a nine-one-one for Bradshaw from Dyson."

The man repeated, "Nine-one-one for Bradshaw from Dyson."

"Affirmative."

"Thank you," the man replied, disconnecting the call.

### Fifteen

**FRIDAY, 8:30 A.M.**

The word was out about Jewels and a formal press conference was in the making. In less than twenty-four hours, multimillionaire Julia Andrasy's name had appeared as a witness in a murder case, and now as a kidnap victim. Or worse.

But Jewels was much more than a mere multimillionaire to the community. To members of the media she was, at minimum, a highly respected colleague; an award-winning investigative reporter. To most everyone else in the area, Julia Andrasy was a dear friend and generous contributor to a variety of worthy causes. Hence, her disappearance was news. Big news. And attracted concerned well-wishers not only locally, but from the western United States.

Reporters swarmed Jewels' house. TV. Newspaper. Radio. Even a CNN helicopter.

Standing on Jewels' front porch the agent reviewed the tattered placemat in his hand. A sneer blanketed his face as he read the title, SPOF HIDEAWAY.

His mind drifted back to BOO-BOO'S DINNER MENU. A clever name for such an important file, he thought. It may have slipped past the average unsophisticated thief, but he was not the average thief, nor was he unsophisticated. He was one of law enforcement's brilliant minds. Not only had he deleted the map from her files, but wiped out the telltale history and the backup version. Effectively erasing any evidence the SPOF map had ever existed on her computer.

And as far as finding the original map, well, she could have been a bit more creative. More careful. She had left the china closet drawer slightly ajar, leading him right to it. Honestly, he had expected more from her.

Flashing a superior grin, he folded the white paper and stuffed it in his suit pocket. Discovery of the map would not be released to the public. It would be a secret. _His_ secret.

He peered out at the crowd.

They were restless.

It was time to conference with the press. Raking a comb through his perfect hair, he tugged at the knot of his red, white, and blue paisley print silk necktie before stepping to the edge of the porch.

He was why the crowd had gathered. Sporadic hush-hushing quieted the media mob.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Theodore Hines. I'm the Special Agent In Charge of the FBI at the Salt Lake office. It appears Miz Julia Andrasy has fallen victim to foul play."

"Why is the FBI involved? What happened to the local authorities?" a chunky man wearing a maroon Harley Davidson T-shirt shouted.

"The New Greensburgh Police asked for assistance and we're giving it to them," Hines replied. But that was a lie. He had waved his federal badge and snatched the case from under the locals' noses. Claimed Jewels' disappearance was related to a major federal case. One that was a matter of national security. The locals had no reason to question him or protest.

"Did you a find a body?" one female reporter blurted.

"No. There's plenty of evidence Miz Andrasy fought back. We're hopeful she's still alive."

"Word is, there's blood splattered all over the house. Is it hers?" another female shouted.

"I can't answer that question at this time."

"Is it true her dog's head was cut off?" a male voice quizzed from the sea of hungry reporters.

"It's true the animal, a golden retriever, was killed, but not decapitated."

A flurry of questions blistered Hines, reporters talking over one another in hope their question would be answered next.

Agent Hines waved his hands in front of him. "Please, please. One at a time." Pointing to a fat man wearing a black tweed jacket, "Do you have a question?"

"Has a ransom note been found?"

"No. And we don't think we'll see one. We don't believe Miz Andrasy's disappearance was motivated by financial gain. However we're not ruling it out."

"If not money, then what's the motive?" the fat man blurted out.

Hines ignored him, pointed to the young man standing next to the fat guy as an indication he would field his question next.

"Thank you, Agent Hines. Do you think Miz Andrasy's disappearance is connected to her friend's murder that happened yesterday? Perhaps even the motive for her disappearance?"

Hines shifted his eyes to the floor. Jingled the loose change in his pocket. Thinking. After taking a deep breath, he looked above the heads of the reporters, purposely avoiding eye contact. "We don't know exactly what happened yesterday or to what extent Miz Andrasy was involved. I can tell you, however, we haven't ruled out the possibility of a connection."

"I did some digging on Sharon Jeppson," an enthusiastic young reporter called out. "She seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth about two years ago until she cropped up yesterday at the deli, murdered. Do you know where she's been and why she surfaced after two years off the grid?"

FBI Special Agent In Charge Theodore Hines, frowned. Eyes narrowed. Leg stance widened. He leaned his body forward slightly toward the annoying reporter, exhibiting subtle aggressive body language as in indication that was all the answer the young man was going to get on the subject.

"So what are you doing to find Julia Andrasy?" piped up a pudgy Barbara Walters look-alike standing in the back row.

Nodding his head at her, he relaxed his stance a bit. "We have an APB out on Miz Andrasy's Humvee. This vehicle is highly customized and very distinctive. The locals would know it instantly. And before you leave, I would like each of you to have a color photo of Miz Andrasy's Hummer which will also be available to download from our web site. If anyone sees this vehicle, or anyone saw this vehicle between approximately ten last night and six this morning, they should contact me directly."

"Do you think she's still alive?" the Walters look-alike probed.

"We have no evidence to the contrary and certainly hope so."

A tall lanky man, pen and pad in hand, pushed his way forward. "What tipped you off that Miz Andrasy was missing?"

"Last night Miz Andrasy sent an electronic message to her secretary who discovered it this morning. It was a message of distress. Exactly what was happening to Miz Andrasy when she sent the message is unknown at this time."

A second flurry of questions bombarded Hines.

He held up his hands like stop signs. "Folks. Folks, that's all for now. Thank you."
Sixteen

FRIDAY, 0848 HOURS.

"Hey, Doc! How's our girl?" Tank called, bursting through the exam room door.

A deflated Callahan sat in a chair next to an empty exam table. His face doused in misery.

The room looked like it had been ransacked by a crack head in search of a fix. Cabinet drawers and doors open. Medical paraphernalia scattered all over the floor and across the counter tops.

Thrusting his hands on his hips and gazing down at him, "What the fuck happened, Doc?" Tank quizzed, annoyance in his voice.

Shaking his head, Callahan confessed, "I strapped her down, like you said. But then we got talking and she needed to go to the bathroom."

That's all Tank needed to hear. He knew what had happened: the bitch had tricked the marshmallow-hearted old geezer and escaped.

"Shit." He turned and sprinted out of the exam room and erupted into the gloomy hall. "Red alert. Red alert. Prisoner's escaped. Prisoner's escaped," he bellowed, running toward the _intersection_.
Seventeen

**Only the noise of the soles** of combat boots thumping against the damp stone floor could deafen the hammering of Jewels' heart. Abruptly the hurried pounding of heavy boots stopped. A meager army gathered outside the closet door that kept Jewels invisible. Instead of retreating into the darkness, she felt compelled to keep an eye on the group. She peered through the crack, but camo-clad legs and black lace-up boots were all she could see.

"Men, our escaped prisoner is a woman."

Jewels cringed. Knew that voice ... her kidnapper's.

Catcalls rose from the men like steam from a pressure cooker whose lid had just opened.

"Not that you need to know more details other than it's a woman you're looking for—"

"So we're looking for that Sharon skank," one of the men surmised.

Laughter erupted.

Snickering, Jewels' kidnapper clarified, "Nope. She's gone. Won't be back."

"Ahhh, I'm gonna miss that girly ass," a man noted, with a demeaning laugh.

"Ta hell with her ass," another man scolded. "She was _thee_ design wizard of our booby trap bombs and with—"

"Pay attention," Jewels' kidnapper interrupted.

The men fell silent.

"You're looking for a woman about five seven, long blonde hair, maybe a hundred-fifteen pounds. Her name is Julia. Julia Andrasy."

The men gasped in unison.

"That's right guys. She's the Commander's woman. So for chrissake, don't kill her and make sure you don't hurt her. She must be apprehended unharmed. But one word of caution: don't let the fact she's a pretty little dame fool you into thinking she couldn't cause you pain. She's as nasty as a grizzly caught in a steel trap, so be careful."

Scoffs and murmurs of disbelief rumbled through the gathered men.

"I'm fuckin' serious. This woman shot me. Even tried to rip my eyes out. And poor Doc Callahan, well, she pulverized his clusters."

Odd grunts of misery filled the hallway.

Jewels imagined eyebrows arching and faces grimacing to match the sounds.

"So watch your eyes and balls," Jewels' abductor warned. "She couldn't have gotten very far in this hippie complex, but she could be holed up somewhere. I want every nook and cranny searched. And when you find her, take her to the infirmary and wait for me. I'll be outside searching the compound perimeter."

_Every_ nook and cranny searched? Presumably including the one she was hiding in less than two feet from the searchers. Discovery was imminent. Jewels pinched her eyes shut. Held her breath. Crossed her fingers. Wished. Hoped. Prayed. If God or Lady Luck ever considered helping her, _now_ would be the time.

Once again the sound of boots 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 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, abductor lurking outside or not, maybe once free of the dungeon she'd find her Humvee. "And be gone like a bat out of hell," Jewels whispered.

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 pop her head around the corner. Take a peek.

Hallway empty.

Scurrying on all fours out of the cubby space, Jewels lunged to her feet. As a precaution, she 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.

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 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 yanked 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. "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 lazy whine as they rotated.

Jewels cringed, 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.

Spied her Hummer parked under a massive free standing awning with fifteen or twenty other four-wheel-drive vehicles 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 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, reminding her of Sharon's crude map. Would this route lead to the main road or near the lake Sharon had sketched?

If so, 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 or ...?

A half dozen men walked the far perimeter of the meadow, no doubt 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 bare feet, but she clenched her teeth and endured the pain. In another twenty feet she'd be there.

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

Jewels recognized the voice. It was her kidnapper's. Skidding to a halt, goosebumps sprouted. Heart flip-flopped. Where the hell did he come from? Seemed to materialize 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 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 Jewels 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 aimed the front sight at her skull.

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

"Fooled poor Doc Callahan," he snickered, yet in a tone that noted he was impressed with her cunning. "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,_ Jewels told herself. She didn't waver. 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 and whatever that meant.

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 when 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?"

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

"GRRRRR. 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 palm and clamping down his fingers.

_Code black!_ Twirling around, Jewels launched an aggressive counterattack. 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 and kill the bastard.

As Jewels had hoped, and despite his own words of caution regarding her tenacious nature, her counterstrike caught him off guard.

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 her Hummer.

"Jesus, God," he hollered, deep distress in his voice.

Jewels couldn't help herself. She looked back. Watched as he attempted to shoulder the rifle, but 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 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, to instead focus 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, her fingertips 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. She yanked the door shut and engaged 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 into the ignition.

The roar of the diesel engine coming to life heightened the frenzy of the small army 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 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. She 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 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 road leading into the depths of the forest appeared to be level with no ruts and constructed more of gravel than dirt.

Via the rearview mirror, a half dozen men came into Jewels' sight. Emerging from the dust cloud and still running on foot, they frantically hollered. Wildly waved their arms gesturing her to stop.

_Right_. Like she was going to stop for them. Erupting onto the crushed rock road, she fishtailed for a moment, recovered, and continued to gain speed toward the woods.

Then without warning the front end of the Humvee plummeted from view. Jewels' body was thrown back into the seat, momentarily ripping the steering wheel out of her hands. Bracing herself for impact, she stiffened her elbows pushing against the steering wheel. Pressed her back deep into the seat. Stood on the brakes with both feet and screamed in panic.

A split second later the hood of the Hummer crashed at a forty-five degree angle into a deep pit. The air bag exploded, but because she wasn't wearing a seat belt, Jewels' head plowed into the windshield violently bending her body in half over the steering wheel, as if spooning it.

Specifically designed to stifle the armored personnel vehicles of the feared MTAF—Militia Threat Assessment Force—from advancing should they ever attack SPOF headquarters, Jewels had unwittingly triggered the elaborate vehicle pit trap. The back wheels of the stalled Humvee were still on the road above, while the front end was buried in the earthen floor of the enormous rectangular hole.

After the initial impact, though dazed, Jewels realized the once distant shouting of the militiamen racing after her moments earlier were sounding louder. And closer.

Raising her head from the dash, she rubbed her paining forehead which felt like it had been squeezed in a vise. A sticky substance coated her fingers. "I'm bleeding," Jewels groaned in misery, noticing the red fluid on her fingertips before wiping them on her shirt.

Pushing her hands against the dash to peel her torso off the steering wheel, her ribs felt like a crow bar was prying them apart. Tears swam over her eyes. Biting her lip, she thrust herself backward onto the angled driver seat, which sent her body gliding toward the floor as if on a slide. As if sitting on a hack squat machine, Jewels propped herself up, leaning her back and head against the tilted seat.

The frenzied throng running toward her and shouting indistinguishable words motivated her into action. Still a bit foggy-minded and while holding the hack squat position, she reached toward the console. "Weapons, Jewels. Get your weapons." Wheezing in pain she rotated her upper body to retrieve her improvised self-defense tools.

"Gotta get out of here," she whispered, grasping the scalpel and scissors next to her heart like a Catholic cross. She had to run. But to where? The lake? Cabin? Except she was getting ahead of herself. Had to escape her stranded vehicle first.

Surrounded by a deep sepia tone of light, Jewels surveyed her surroundings. Shuddered. Felt like a grave. Daylight was filtered by rocks, soil, and timber that had settled between the exterior of the doors and the sheer earthen walls. _Coffin fill dirt._ The hood and most of the windshield were also buried by the materials used in the construction of the road trap.

Peeking in her rearview mirror, minimal daylight penetrated the tinted rear window.

"Shit! What a fuckin' mess! It's gonna take us forever to rebuild this," a man complained, breathing heavily. Pressing his nose against the rear window, he cupped his hands around his face for a better look inside.

Jewels closed her eyes. Played unconscious. Allowed her body to relax while maintaining a soft hack squat position to keep from sliding onto the floor. Not knowing what, if anything, the peeping Tom could see, she didn't want to risk him seeing her conscious.

Acting conked out was crucial to the successful relaunch of _DEFCON One_. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, the element of surprise would be on her side. Her enemies wouldn't know what hit them until she was long gone and out of sight. At least that's what she told herself.

The random murmur of footsteps snapping twigs and crunching leaves, peppered with manly grunts and muffled deep voices, pulsated throughout the inside of the Hummer. Then another vehicle arrived. Doors opened. Shut. More foot traffic. Voices.

"Has anyone done an assessment? Is she injured? Bleeding? Unconscious?"

Doc Callahan.

The group mumbled a negative response.

"That's the priority," Doc stated. "I need a volunteer to crawl in there and check her vitals."

"I can get her out," one of the men spoke up.

"Don't move her until we know the extent of her injuries. Pulling her out of that crippled vehicle could cause more damage, maybe even kill her."

"So what do you want, Doc?" the volunteer asked, his tone edged with annoyance.

"Just basics. Is she conscious? If not, is she breathing and does she have a pulse? Are there any visible signs of bleeding or broken bones?"

"Gotchya, Doc." The man's boots made a crunching sound against the forest floor as he stomped toward the Hummer. The rear door whined as he opened it.

Jewels remained inanimate.

Moments later the air filled with the sound of multiple vehicles converging on the site then skidding on the chunky gravel to a stop. "Get the chains," a man called out.

Jewels didn't recognize his voice.

"No worries, Doc. We'll have this peach out in a jiffy," the same man announced.

"Not until I get an update on Julia," Doc returned.

"Yes, Sir. We'll just hook 'em up and git 'er ready to tow out."

"Is she conscious?" Callahan called to the man who had barely climbed into the slouching H1.

"Not to her yet. Give me another second," the man responded with a huff.

Tuning out the clashing and rattling sounds of metal against metal of her Hummer being shackled for extraction from the pit, she prepared to be touched. _Don't jump, Jewels. Gotta give an Academy Award performance_.

The man grunted, awkwardly maneuvering down the two foot wide console spanning the back and front seating area. Twisting to face Jewels, he crammed his body between the front bucket seats on the console to lie on his side, his legs stretched out into the backseat.

Then it happened. The man brushed her hair aside, embedding two fingers against the left side of her neck.

Jewels remained perfectly still. Except for a steady pulse, she played a convincing stiff.

"She's unconscious, but got a strong pulse," the man hollered out to Doc pacing at the side of the vehicle.

Snaking his hand down the side of Jewels' neck and onto her chest, his fingers slithered inside the cup of her bra.

His touch was ovenlike. Skin rough like coarse grit sandpaper. _Don't give yourself away._ Jewels demanded of herself. _Don't move. Stay relaxed._

With fingers expanded wide, his hot palm encircled her breast and clamped down, tightening his grip like a flesh and bone version of the torturous medieval breast ripper. "Mmmm."

_Male chauvinist pig!_ Jewels wanted to yell and bust him in the chops, but forced herself to continue to play dead.

"Is she bleeding anywhere?" Doc quizzed.

"Some on her head."

"How's she's positioned?"

"Kind of slumped down behind the wheel, like she partied a little too much," the man assessing Jewels answered with a laugh.

"Start the engine," another man called to the guy mauling Jewels' breast.

"Wait a minute," Doc hollered. "I don't want her moved. She could have spinal damage."

"How about if I just nudge her body a little toward the door?"

Doc grunted. "Absolutely not."

"No worries, Buckshot, we got three trucks here. We can tow 'er out," the man who had been chaining up the Hummer yelled. "Just put 'er in neutral, then come on out."

"Right away," Buckshot responded, continuing to cop a feel a moment longer. After removing his hand from Jewels' breast, he labored to contort his body into a position to reach his right arm down between her splayed legs. Stretched to engage the clutch with his hand, while sliding the gear into neutral with his left. "It's ready," he reported, then wormed his body around to crawl out the back of the Humvee headfirst.

The Hummer lurched backward as the chains jerked taut. The monster vehicle was knocked around like a can in a paint shaker. Debris from the caved-in trap clawed the sides and top of the Alpha Wagon like talons from hell.

The careless bastards were beating the crap out of her dream machine.

Suppressing the urge to cover her ears and latch onto the steering wheel, she stiffened her legs and pressed her hands into the sides of the seat to reduce jostling while continuing to act unconscious.

Masculine cheers, whistles, and applause exploded as the Hummer leveled out on flat ground.

Swiftly rotating her body to the side, she tucked her knees high to her chest with her feet positioned toward the door. She flattened her back against the seat cushion. Grasping the scalpel in her fist in the classic ice pick hold with the blade facing outward, and scissors in her left hand primed to stab, she prepared for another battle. Maintaining a fake comatose state, she visualized the unleashing of _DEFCON One_ : _Door opens. Kick the closest man. Leap to a standing position. Slice and stab at the pillars of flesh. Sprint into the woods. Follow the forest road but run on the shoulder in case there are more concealed holes..._

The front driver side door swung open. A brutish man stood primed to nab her.

_Show time!_ Jewels' eyes flew open. Catapulting herself into an upright position, she thrust her flexed feet with all her might into the man's groin.

"Awwwwww." The man crumbled in half, his hands hugging his crotch.

Jewels flew out of the vehicle, storming the handful of men huddled near the Hummer's open door. Sawing the edge of the scalpel back and forth in front of her, she hacked at the barricade of brawn with the edge of the razor-sharp surgical tool. Jabs from the needle-sharp tip of the scissors in her left fist inflicted puncture wounds.

Just as she had imagined, her potent flurry of slashes and punches connected with body tissue. Parted the wall of muscle as the men growled in pain and retreated from the flesh damaging whirlwind. But armed with a razor-sharp scalpel and scissors or not, Jewels was no match for six men. Let alone six hand-to-hand combat trained fighting machines.

After the momentary shock of her aggressiveness, it only required two men to take her down fast and hard. One booted a powerful leg sweep toward the front of her thigh, hitting just below her left knee, tripping her.

Shrieking, her legs and arms churned midair to recover balance from a maneuver that was unrecoverable, even for the most skilled of martial arts competitors.

In the chaos she lost grip of her edged weapons, sending them flying into the tall grass ten feet in front of her. Milliseconds later she skidded across the side of the gravel road on her stomach. Dirt, tiny rocks and twigs poked and scratched her bare arms, stabbing through her giant-sized camo shirt. The impact compressed her lungs, stealing her breath.

Almost instantly after sliding to a halt, the thick knee of a second man stabbed the middle of her back. Holding her down, he seized her right forearm. Wrenched it against her back. Bent her wrist to force her hand upward toward her neck. The tactic was a pain compliance hold commonly used by law enforcement to coerce submission from unruly subjects. And it worked on Jewels as she lay miserable and powerless in the prone position.

A flurry of laced-up black combat boots rushed around her, halting in a circle by her head and kicking dust into her face. Pinching her eyes shut, she coughed in response to the powdered dirt enveloping her head and felt the bitterness in the criticizing eyes of her latest captors. A shiver riveted her body.

"Tank wasn't kidding when he said she was a she-grizzly," one of the men spoke up, prompting his cohorts to erupt in laughter.

_Tank?_ Jewels' mind scrambled. Was that her kidnapper's name? Surely not his real name, but appropriately described his gorilla size nonetheless. However the torment of her position, doubled by the throbbing of her aching ribs, overshadowed thoughts of Tank. "Please ... you're hurting me."

In agony, her mind bounced to the near future and her fate. After slashing her kidnapper and now some of his crew, she dared not imagine the horror of their retaliation, even if they were not _supposed_ to hurt her.

They probably wouldn't carve her like a Thanksgiving turkey or skin her alive, but water boarding may not be out of the question. Quivering in misery and fear, she gasped for air and wiggled for a molecule of relief from the pain.

Like her kidnapper— _Tank_ —her latest captor ignored her pleas for relief. "Hurry up with that, Doc," demanded the man with his knee drilled into her back.

Callahan kneeled next to her in the weeds. Bent over and cocked his head sideways to look Jewels in the eyes. Disappointment smothered his features as he wagged his head. "You should have listened. I _told_ you not to try to escape." He tore open the top of a small foil packet, removed an alcohol pad, and swabbed a wide area of her triceps on the arm cranked behind her.

"What are you doing? What is that?" Jewels cried, her eyes peering about wildly.

Straightening his body, he reached into his lab coat pocket. Retrieved a syringe. Removed the cap from the needle.

Twisting her head around, Jewels watched.

Flicking the top of the syringe, he pushed the liquid contents up the shaft until a tiny bit shot out the tip of the needle like a fountain spray.

"Wait. No. Please," she begged, squirming under the ferocious restraint of the man holding her down.

"Just a little something to calm you, Dear." Doc stabbed the needle into the back of her arm.

Jewels whimpered as he injected the contents of the syringe into her tense muscle.

The drug was fast-acting. There was no escape from its effect. Agonizing for a mere nanosecond before her body relaxed and went limp, Jewels plunged into a chemically induced state of unconsciousness.

### Eighteen

**FRIDAY, LATE MORNING.**

"Gee, thanks for the timely call back on the nine-one-one code," Howard sarcastically stated, reflecting on the multiple urgent messages he had left that morning, the first one four hours ago.

"Sorry, been busy." He laughed. "What can I do ya for?" he teased.

He paced the floor of his penthouse. "I want to know what you know about Julia Andrasy's disappearance."

"What? You think because you made a killing in the stockmarket and are now a big-time multimillionaire you're entitled to anything and everything, including classified information? Are you trying to buy me, Dyson?"

"Knock it off. You know this has nothing to do with money and everything to do with camaraderie."

"More like your dick," he corrected with a raunchy laugh, adding, "And you're shamelessly playing the old Navy SEALs mentor card."

"Whatever it takes." Dyson grunted, continued pacing. "Now are you going to tell me, or not?"

He sighed. "Fine, but you owe me. Big time."

"Name your price."

"I'll call you for a _favor_ one day, how's that?"

"Agreed. Now what do you know."

He lowered his voice. "She's been taken."

"For godsakes, Man, the whole world knows that."

Clearing his throat, "She's alive," he whispered.

Dyson perked up. Ceased pacing. "And?"

"And, have a delightful twenty-four," he flatly said, his voice at conversation level before disconnecting the call.

"Fuck." Howard knew the drill. The waiting game. Plans were set in motion. The next twenty-four hours were critical. He wondered about Jewels. Was she drugged? Tied up? Hurt in any way? Would she be happy and surprised to see him?

### Nineteen

**FRIDAY, 1612 HOURS.**

Head pounding. Ribs aching. Arms throbbing. Jewels awakened to feel pain just about everywhere. Even her cheeks hurt.

The wool blanket under her body felt rough and scratchy like a man's two-day stubble against her tender skin. Lying on a bed butted up to a corner and facing a damp stone and mortar wall proved to be a quick reminder of where she was: the underground SPOF compound.

To better survey her surroundings, she rolled onto her back. The fact she was able to turn was a relief. The good news: she wasn't bound to the bed. The bad news: her hands were restrained behind her back.

A snarl of agony spread over her face as she ab-crunched herself into an upright position. Sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment, she waited for the room to stop twirling. When her surroundings stilled, it became obvious she wasn't in one of Doc Callahan's brightly lit and clean medical rooms, but rather in what appeared to be a dreary prison cell.

The ten-by-twelve-foot windowless room had little to boast. Trickles of water dripped down the corners of the rock walls like a cave and smelled like a damp cellar. The bathroom area was open to the room with a toilet in the corner and a small stainless steel sink next to it. Above the sink a metal reflecting square was attached to the wall: the prison version of a mirror.

On the opposite wall, a twin sized bed with a heavy duty pipe-like headboard and footboard was fixed to the cement floor. Near the foot of the bed in the opposite corner, a rust-spotted gray metal door with no window and no inside handle. The only exit. A single sixty-watt light bulb encased in a protective metal cage, dangled from the eight-foot stone ceiling in the center of the room.

Aside from the occasional drip of water leaking from the corners of the ceilings, only the methodical thumping of her heart interrupted the mausoleum-like silence.

Her fingers were cold and numb and her shoulders ached from her hands being restrained behind her back. After a few moments of grinding her wrists against the metal shackles in a struggle for freedom, it was apparent handcuffs were relentless and unforgiving. That's when she decided her hands needed to be in front of her body. Not only for comfort and increased mobility, but for the ability to defend herself or rally an escape should the opportunity arise.

Having never been handcuffed before, the only exposure she had was from TV cop shows and movies where the suspect seemed to _easily_ slip his hands from behind his back.

"Okay, here we go." While seated on the edge of the bed, Jewels twisted her body and arms to the side and raised the right side of her buttocks, attempting to edge her hands underneath. The wild contorting and straining of her body sent a painful reminder of her aching ribs. Still, she endured the misery and wiggled around a bit more, trying to force her hands to clear her butt. A few failed attempts proved she must be going about it the wrong way.

"Try standing up." Rising to her feet she swayed. Stumbled. Fell back onto the bed.

The cot springs creaked.

She groaned in pain. And frustration. The effects of the drug Doc had pumped into her had not fully worn off.

After lying on her side for a few minutes to catch her breath, she sat up. Rose to her feet again. Though still a bit unsteady, Jewels maintained the standing position. Once confident she wouldn't crash back onto the cot again, she closed her eyes. Inhaling deeply and exhaling to induce a quiet mental state, she relaxed every muscle in her body, focusing on her shoulders. Then visualized success: effortlessly sliding her cuffed hands over her butt, down her legs to her ankles and stepping her feet behind her bound wrists. Her face flushed with happiness at the imagined results. Jewels opened her eyes.

"Let's try it for real." Almost as smoothly as she had imagined, her shackled hands slipped to the front of her body.

"Ahhh." She stretched her arms high above her head and arched her back, her shoulder joints and spine popping and cracking. Aching ribs aside, she felt pretty good. Perhaps it was the after-effects of Doc's drug.

"Time to check the damage," she said with a hint of hesitation, though determined strides carried her to the sink and imitation mirror.

The image reflected in metal caused Jewels to sprout a little smile. Her face was clean and hair had been gathered into a ponytail riding high at the crown of her head.

Rotating her head from side to side, she inspected her cheeks for possible damage.

None.

She pushed her bangs up her forehead, revealing a narrow adhesive bandage. "Must be from the wreck." Other than that, her features were unmarred. Didn't look half bad, considering all she had been through. Of course the enhancements of permanent eyeliner and eyelash extensions helped. All she was missing was lipstick. And a shower. And fresh clothes ... clothes! Her blue jeans were gone. Someone had undressed and redressed her.

Besides wearing a _fresh_ three-sizes-too-big T-shirt identical to the one Doc Callahan had given her earlier, she was now dressed in a pair of camo army pants, the kind with pockets on the sides of the legs. Though the pants were big, they weren't so large that they fell off when she walked. Good thing, because there was no belt.

Jewels forehead crimped in puzzlement. "Wonder why I didn't notice these pants earlier when I was sliding my hands down my legs?"

She shrugged and answered her own question. "Probably the drugs."

Wiggling her toes she noticed army green wool socks, which scratched like asbestos insulation on her feet. She'd never been a fan of anything wool, especially socks. "At least they're warm."

With potential bruising and clothing issues no longer a concern, she decided to freshen up. Cranking the single knob of the faucet to the right, she cupped her hands under the running water and splashed it on her face.

Jewels gasped, startled by the shock of cold water on her skin. If she wasn't fully coherent before, she was now. With her face dripping in frigid water, she scanned the tiny room for a towel.

Saw nothing.

Improvised with wadded toilet paper to dab her face dry.

The thump of footsteps in the hall drew her attention.

Tossing the makeshift facial towel into the toilet, she sprinted to the door.

_Code black_.

The element of surprise was on her side.

She laced her fingers together to create a _baseball bat_ out of her arms and crouched at the hinge-less side of the entry. When the door opened she would burst through swinging.

Though her heart hammered, she slowed her breathing. Listened. Anticipated the precise moment to attack.

Footsteps stopping.

Keys jingling.

Bolt unlocking.

Hinges whining.

Door opening...

Jewels exploded from the crouching position like a triggered booby trap. She swung her flesh bat at the face of the brick wall of a man in the doorway.

_WHACK!_ The man staggered backward.

Jewels assumed a combat stance and hammered a side kick into his gut.

"Awwwh." He clutched his stomach and buckled in two.

Hunkering down, she rammed the side of her shoulder near the edge of his, twisting his body and thrusting him backward. The bruiser hit the floor. Landed hard on his ass.

Jewels hurdled over his fallen body.

Herculean arms clipped her legs.

She crashed facedown onto the cold stone floor, her feet near his head.

His coal-shovel-sized hand clamped onto her ankle.

Quickly rotating onto her back, Jewels wildly kicked, clobbering his mighty forearm.

But he didn't relent his hold.

"Stop it." He latched his other hand onto her free ankle to halt her kicking assault.

Shooting up into a seated position, Jewels pummeled the man's head, chest, and shoulders with her fists. She angled her hands to strike with the cuffs. Hoped the metal around her wrists would provide a devastating impact similar to that of brass knuckles to coldcock the bastard.

"Stop fighting me." He plastered his solid body on top of hers, grabbed her wrists, and slammed her flailing arms hard into the ground above her head.

"Get off me." Jewels squirmed under his crushing hold.

He leaped to his feet. As if she were nothing more than a rag doll, in one swift and powerful move, he twisted her onto her stomach, encircled her waist in his arms, and hoisted her to a standing position pressing her back against his chest.

"Let me go!" She flung her cuffed fists back and upward, hoping to strike his face.

Growling like wounded wolf he subdued her efforts, forcing her arms into the powerful grip he had around her waist.

Despite his anaconda hold, Jewels didn't relent her battle. "Take your hands off me."

"Dammit, Woman. Knock it off." He hefted her back into the cell, her feet dangling in the air a good six-inches off the ground.

"Put me down." She pounded her stocking feet against his tree trunk legs. Wiggled her body. And slammed the back of her head into his face.

Hauling her kicking and screaming, he pitched Jewels onto the bed.

Her back smashed against rock wall. The impact forced a squeal.

Stepping to the foot of the bed, he planted his legs wide and folded his thick arms over his chest like an arrogant conqueror.

Disregarding the pain—and _Genghis Khan_ —Jewels rebounded into a sitting position, scrambled off the bed, and sprinted toward the open door.

His huge arm snared her waist and whipped her body back onto the bed. This time he didn't give her the chance to run again. He pounced onto her legs and exerted the force of one imposing palm to press her cuffed hands deep into the mattress above her head.

Her face contorted in frustration while tussling in the man's brutal grip. "Get off me, you jack-booted Neanderthal."

"Bravo, Sweet Cheeks. Bravo," a masculine voice with a strong southern drawl cheered from the doorway.

Silencing her verbal assault, but continuing to squirm, Jewels stretched her neck to see around the brute holding her captive to assess her audience.

In the doorway stood a medium-framed man, clapping. Appeared middle-aged. Cocoa brown hair sculpted into a flat top. A suntanned face flooded with deep rivers of wrinkles. Seaweed green eyes matched his camo clothes. Thin lips set in a permanent frown.

Jewels thought he looked like a typical jarhead; one of those intimidating, take-no-shit old school Marines. Great. Another testosterone-jacked-up jackass to add to her ever-growing cast of heavy-handed assholes involved in her kidnapping.

"Jack-booted Neanderthal," he chuckled. "That's a good one."

Watching Jarhead approach, Jewels ceased fighting, but her body remained tense.

His stride was confident. Aura reeked of leadership.

She speculated he was the one who had laid claim to her. "So, are you the Commander?" Her voice edged with impatience as she gasped to catch her breath from the battle she lost.

He eyed the guard holding her down. "Ohhh. Sweet Cheeks knows about the Commander?"

The Hercules clone shook his head in disagreement. "Not as much as she _thinks_ she does, Sir."

"Excuse me, but I don't think you know whom you're dealing with here." Outrage simmered beneath the surface of her every word. "My name's Julia Andrasy and I own the New Greensburgh Press. I have many very powerful friends, including friends in the FBI. So you better tell me who you people are and what you want with me."

Jarhead hovered at Jewels' bedside. Eyes narrowing, he scoured her face. "Sit her up, Watters."

The muscle man latched onto Jewels' forearms and yanked her into a sitting position.

Grimacing in pain, Jewels' brows wrinkled into a deep V. But like every other encounter with the men associated with SPOF, her misery garnered no relief from the ruthless grasp the powerhouse maintained on her forearms.

Jarhead bent at the waist. Made eye to eye contact with Jewels. Scratching his head and squinting, he pressed his memory. "Let's see. Five-foot-seven tall. One-hundred-fifteen pounds. Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-three measurements. Bleach bottle blonde. Thirty-four years of age. Born in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania. Married Robert Jay Andrasy fourteen years..."

_Say what?_ Jewels' breath caught in her throat.

Straightening, Jarhead paced a three foot area in front of her. "Now widowed. No children. Despite her husband's death some eighteen months ago, remains faithful to their marriage. A self-made multimillionaire, net worth estimated to exceed four-hundred-thirty-seven million—"

"Wait a minute." Jewels perked up. "Who the hell are you people?"

Ceasing to pace, Jarhead puffed out his chest as if posturing in a bar fight. "Now, now, it's rude to interrupt." He wagged a finger in reprimand at her.

Jutting her chin out in defiance, she constricted her eyes to a frigid stare. "Well, now, now," she mocked. "It's rude, sick, and wrong, to collect this kind of information on—"

"Shut up or I'll shut you up." Jarhead cocked his hand back as if to strike her face.

She braced for the blow. Turned her head, pinched her eyes shut, and clenched her jaw.

"Better put a sock in it," her captor warned, jerking her forearms a few times to further emphasize his advice.

Jewels opened her eyes and raised her head. Nodded at the guard, acknowledging his message had been received.

Jarhead clear his throat. Resumed pacing and yammering off the details he had memorized of Jewels' life. "An award-winning, highly respected newspaper journalist. Prides herself on reporting both sides of every story. Loves animals, especially her golden retriever named Boo-Boo Bear," he paused, smiled admiringly at Jewels as he rattled on. "Possesses near expert knowledge of guns, particularly handguns. Rarely goes anywhere without carrying a concealed Glock 21, .45 ACP loaded with Hydra-Shok hollow point cartridges..."

Jewels throat dried. Jarhead creeped her out. And his incessant pacing back and forth within a three foot square was driving her nuts.

"Owns an impressive collection of fully automatic weapons, one of her favorites being the belt-fed MG-42. Favorite vehicle is her custom H1 Humvee Alpha Wagon. Sometimes drives a Ferrari, and has been known to push it in excess of one-hundred-twenty miles per hour..."

Overwhelmed, Jewels hung her head. Felt like an unwilling guest on a hellish version of "This Is Your Life."

His rambling continued. As did his pacing.

"Vices include a heavy addiction to Diet Coke, fountain style preferred, and chocolate covered chocolate cake donuts. Doesn't smoke. Drinks alcoholic beverages sparingly. Is an accomplished horse woman, even considers herself a _cowgirl_ at times. Feels most comfortable wearing Rocky Mountain jeans, a vee-neck T-shirt and Skechers athletic shoes."

Jewels didn't know how much more of this verbal violation of her intimate life she could endure in addition to the muscle man squeezing her arms with such force she had lost the circulation in her fingers.

"Secretary's name is Belinda Parker—"

"Please, stop." Jewels choked back the tears, her heart spasming with fright. She felt sick. Weak. Faint. Her body started collapsing back toward the mattress, but the strapping man readjusted his viselike grip on her forearms, forcing her to remain upright.

Jarhead ceased pacing. Bending in half to face her, he planted his hands on his knees like a coach about to bestow critical advice. "Yes, Julia Andrasy, who the closest of friends call _Jewels,_ we _do_ know who you are and all about your FBI friends."

Jewels remained speechless. Mouth agape. Stunned. _How does he know so much about me? And why?_

Straightening, Jarhead thrust his hands on his hips and sucked in a deep breath. "Now just to prove we're not all _jack-booted Neanderthals_ , I'm going to remove your handcuffs."

The guard shot a look of concern at Jarhead. He shook his head in disagreement.

Paying no attention to the guard's input, Jarhead continued addressing Jewels. "Sweet Cheeks, it's important for you to understand removing the cuffs is conditional. You must act like the perfect, well-mannered lady I _know_ you are. That means no hitting. No kicking. No biting. Do you understand?"

_What's not to understand?_ Jewels bobbed her head in agreement.

"Good girl, Sweet Cheeks."

_Sweet Cheeks?_ A flash of annoyance flew from Jewels' eyes to Jarhead. Maybe if she called him _Honey Buns_ , he'd get the message. Then again, he might get the wrong message.

He swiveled his head to her captor. "Go ahead, Watters, take off the cuffs."

"General, are you sure?" the man answering to the name of Watters questioned.

"Her word is good," he replied with confidence.

Watters released his grip on Jewels' forearms, unlocked and removed the handcuffs, and slid his body off her legs. He slipped the handcuffs and handcuff key into his pants pocket and sat on the edge of the bed. Eyed her. His body tense, ready to assume control of her again if warranted.

"Thank you." She rubbed her wrists where the metal jaws had bitten into her skin.

Both men watched Jewels scoot herself toward the headboard, distancing herself from Watters at the edge of the bed. She leaned her back against the metal headboard. Tucked her legs up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her shins.

After a few silent seconds she addressed Jarhead. "It's apparent you've done your homework. You know a lot about me. However, I know very little about you, but I'll share what I do know.

"I know I'm at the compound of a militia group called the Sovereign Patriots Of Freedom. I know I have been spared severe injury or death because someone called the Commander wants it that way. And though you may _not_ consider yourselves jack-booted Neanderthals, based on my experiences so far, I must rigorously disagree."

Simultaneously the men raised their brows as Jewels' tone escalated into a fiery, forthright sermon.

"I've been kidnapped from my home. Had my car stolen. Been brutally restrained numerous times in a variety of ways. Gagged and drugged. And experienced the horror of watching my dog, the one you know I cherish, viciously killed right before my eyes."

Jewels paused, shaking her head and shrugging before adding, "So, from my point of view, all of that doesn't seem like anything someone who _wasn't_ a jack-booted Neanderthal would do. So, pardon me if I'm not at my social best. This is my first abduction and I'm still in the learning mode when it comes to kidnap victim etiquette."

The men exchanged glances of disbelief at the boldness and candor of Jewels' remarks, then returned their full attention to her.

Jewels sat motionless. Lips pursed, eyes focused at the end of her toes on a tiny moth hole in the army-green blanket.

"Are you quite through?" Jarhead asked, his tone oozing of sarcasm.

Still focused on the moth hole, Jewels nodded in agreement.

Jarhead responded to Jewels' nod by coming to a position of military attention. "Allow me to introduce myself."

The click of his heels drew Jewels' attention. Raising her head and dropping her arms to her side, she pushed herself up to sit a little taller.

"My name is General Rhett Cooman of the Sovereign Patriots Of Freedom."

General? Does that mean he's the Commander?

He dropped to one knee, gathered Jewels' right hand in his, and kissed it as if she were royalty.

Blinking wildly, Jewels' jaw slacked.

He smiled and winked. "And I'm at your service."

Not prepared for this kind of treatment or the abrupt change in his attitude, she didn't know what to say or how to react.

Cooman released her hand, rose to his feet, and pointed to the man seated on the bed. "This is Marshall Watters. He's the head of compound security, including the security of our _guests_. So you'll be seeing a lot of him."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss." Watters extended his thick hand.

Jewels surveyed the man who had thwarted her latest escape attempt.

Unlike others in the compound, Marshall Watters didn't wear camos. He dressed in black. A formfitting T-shirt molded to his torso outlined a well-defined six pack. Skintight jeans accented a small waist. And laced combat boots. _Executioner clothes_?

Marshall Watters' bulging arms, thick neck, and rippling chest told Jewels this guy's muscles had experienced higher education. At a federal prison, she surmised.

Appearing to be in his mid to late thirties, his face was lean and tan. Gobs of wavy dark brown hair. Miami Vice facial hair. Sparkling obsidian eyes. And he smelled good. A wickedly handsome combination that spelled _lady killer_.

Her eyes were drawn to a spot under Watters' right eye that looked like a dab of mud. After a few seconds she realized it was a black and blue mark in the early stages of blossoming. The result lambasting him in the face with her handcuffed fists.

"Julia Andrasy." She placed her hand in his for the customary handshake. "Sorry about the shiner." She motioned with her chin to his face.

"Happy to meet you, Julia, and don't worry about the bruise. Wasn't the first. Won't be the last."

For some reason, Jewels felt a special warmth radiating from this devastatingly handsome man's eyes. And from his touch. Maybe he'd turn out to be someone who could be manipulated to orchestrate an escape. At the very least, he was luscious eye candy.

"One big happy family," Cooman chuckled.

"Riiight." She forced a laugh.

Suddenly Jewels gasped in startlement. Her face drained of color. Semi-relaxed features tightened into terror.

Out of the corner of her eye she spied her kidnapper and Boo-Boo's murderer.

The mere sight of him unleashed panic mode. Eyes wide with alarm. Muscles choked in fright. Throat dried, she wheezed for air.

The hulking giant with a shiny bullethead and an aura that made one want to run, loitered outside her open cell door.

"Go away." Jewels scrambled to Marshall Watters' side.

Both Cooman and Watters acted surprised by Jewels' outburst until they saw _who_ was in the doorway.

"I won't let him hurt you." Marshall patted Jewels on the arm.

Cooman motioned with his hand for the man to enter. "Tank, I don't think you've been officially introduced to our guest, Julia Andrasy."

As the killer walked in, Jewels sought refuge behind Marshall's wide back. Clinging to his black T-shirt, she peeked over his shoulder. An involuntary tremor through her body.

Watters felt it, gave her another reassuring squeeze on the arm.

At the foot of the bed Tank towered over Jewels, his colossal hands on his hips. A dozen white bandages littered his body, including a wide one engulfing his entire right biceps muscle. An ugly cut running diagonally across his right cheek was patched with stitches, but no bandage.

"Thanks to you," he pointed to his face, "every time I look in the mirror, the fuckin' scar this thing's gonna leave won't let me forget what you did. Oh, and you see this," nodding toward his bandaged upper arm, "you sliced my brachial artery. Coulda killed me."

If I only had been so lucky.

"Lighten up, Tank," Cooman barked.

"With all due respect, Sir, it ain't your face or arm she did this to." He threw a salute at Cooman and daggers at Jewels before turning on his heel and stomping out.

"Tank's our strong arm," Cooman explained to Jewels, who remained huddled behind Watters' back. "I'm afraid the death of your pet is my fault, Miz Andrasy."

"What do you mean?"

"I sent an assassin to do a kidnapper's job."

"Oh."

"But, you're here now and that's what counts," Cooman said with a thin smile.

With her kidnapper gone and feeling less threatened by Cooman and Watters, Jewels' reporter curiosity surged. She crawled from behind Marshall Watters on her hands and knees. "You sent Tank to kill Sharon, didn't you?" She folded her legs underneath her butt and rested her hands on her thighs.

The general's seaweed eyes locked onto hers as he stepped closer. He leaned over and extended his hand toward her face.

Jewels reared back, fearing the intentions of his incoming hand.

Continuing to advance, he stepped closer.

Backpedaling, she stiffened her body and plastered her back and butt against the cold rock wall.

"Whoa, Sweet Cheeks." Cooman caressed the side of her face with the back of his hand.

Jerking her face from his touch, Jewels' eyes widened.

Rhett Cooman turned an analyzing eye on her. "Skittish, like a fine Arabian mare."

Pleating her lips, she knitted her brows. Anger supplanted her fear. Was this guy for real? First Sweet Cheeks, now comparing her to a horse?

Cooman studied her for another moment, then blurted a laugh. "Agree to have dinner with me Julia Andrasy and I'll answer whatever questions your curious journalistic mind may have."

"Dinner?" Her eyes shimmered with intrigue.

"That's the offer."

Jewels mulled it over. Why not make the most of an outrageously dismal situation? Dinner with the general would provide information-gathering opportunities. As well as a break from the hellhole of a cell for a while. And ultimately, maybe lead to escape.

Unable to beat her captors with physical force, maybe charm would prove more fruitful. It was charm, not combat, that convinced Callahan to remove the restraints, which almost led to freedom. Almost.

Agreeing to General Rhett Cooman's requirement to be on her best behavior bought her freedom from the handcuffs. Therefore, if it suited her motives, she could pour on the charm and he would be none the wiser.

Still, the idea of having dinner with the general fostered an uneasy feeling in her gut. She remembered what Doc said about the sex-deprived men in the compound. What if Cooman required a little _action_ after dinner? However Jewels was at his mercy, no matter what he wanted. Nothing she could do about that. At least not yet.

To help convince herself breaking bread with the enemy was the right thing to do, she recounted the old saying: _More flies can be caught with honey than vinegar._

Moreover, she reminded herself this kind of a one-on-one meeting was a reporter's dream. She was a reporter. An interview like this could do wonders for her business.

Finally, until Cooman had mentioned dinner, she hadn't realized how hungry she had become. Down right famished.

"General Cooman, you have a deal." She extended her hand.

"A handshake deal. I like that," Cooman complimented with an honest smile as he took up her hand. Addressing Watters, "Bring her to my quarters at..." he glanced at his wristwatch, "eighteen-hundred hours." Turning to Jewels, "That'll give you more than an hour. I'll send over appropriate dinner attire and have Watters escort you to a shower."

_Appropriate dinner attire? Shower?_ "Thank you." She forced her sweetest fake smile while her mind churned. _What have I gotten myself into?_

### Twenty

**FRIDAY, 1755 HOURS. IN HER CELL.**

It was apparent Cooman had hosted dinner engagements before for women under his control. He had thought of everything. Makeup. Hair dryer. Curling iron. Undergarments. Perfect size dress and shoes. Even jewelry.

A fashion maven, Jewels put it all together to create a smashing presentation. Makeup, expertly applied, covered the minor blemishes on her face and body from the bouts with Tank and his crew. Shimmering mauve lipstick added the finishing touches to enhance her natural attributes, creating an angelic Cover Girl look.

Jewels' voluminous breasts spilled over the plunging vee-neckline of the sexy sleeveless black cocktail dress only covering as far down as the middle of her thigh. Black satin four-inch spike heels made her long legs look even longer. Thin corkscrew curls dangled elegantly down the sides of her lightly bronzed face, adding a touch of rich softness to her long blonde hair twisted into a French roll.

"This could go either way, you know." She sighed, referring to her plan to bedazzle and charm the hell out of the general.

_TAP-TAP._ "Miz Andrasy, are you ready?"

Jewels recognized the voice: Marshall Watters.

One last time she looked into the reflective metal square, double-checking her teeth to make sure lipstick hadn't stuck to them _._

She stepped to wall opposite the door, the perfect spot for her to catch his reaction. If she could impress Watters, perhaps the general would be equally impressed. And if that happened, she could pour on the charm. Maybe get him to relax. Let down his guard. Share more information than he had planned. Perhaps even information that could lead to escape. Better yet, maybe he would turn a blind eye to her just long enough to _let_ her escape . Then again, that was probably pie-in-the-sky dreaming.

"Yes. I'm ready." She turned her body slightly to the side, raised her, arched her back, and placed one foot a little a front of the other to copy a sexy model pose.

The door swung open.

Watters' broad shoulders filled the frame. "Holy Mary, Mother of God, have mercy on me." He grabbed his chest like he was having a heart attack. His mouth dropped open wider and wider as his eyes roamed her body.

Jewels smiled. Twirled around. Modeled the dress.

"Jeez, you look fantastic."

"Thank you." She felt a blush reddening her face. "Take-me-to-your-leader," she requested in the best monotone alien impression she could muster, gliding toward him.

Such silliness got them both laughing.

She took up his arm. "Mister Watters, I must confess, I feel absolutely ridiculous."

His dark eyes locked onto hers. "Marshall. Call me Marshall. And no matter how you may feel, you look drop dead gorgeous."

Marshall escorted Jewels out of the cell into the gloomy corridor that spanned a good seventy feet ahead. She noticed her cell was the last in a bank of five cell doors that dotted both sides of the hall. Except for the click-clack of her high heels and the slap of Marshall's combat boots against the stone floor, the hall was quiet. Made her think someone should yell, _Dead man ... woman ... walking._

A shiver zipped her spine causing her entire body to quiver.

He glanced over at her as they continued the walk.

She eyed the cell doors as they strolled by.

"Uh, so how many other _guests_ do you have staying here?"

His lips twitched into a half smile at her sarcastic _guest_ comment. "One."

"Another woman?" Jewels' voice raised an octave.

"No. Just a member waiting sentencing."

"Sentencing?"

"The rules are black and white around here. Obey and you're fine. Disobey and punishment is swift."

They turned a corner.

Another gloomy hallway. The otherwise dark and lifeless corridor was brightened by classical music softly playing and a flicker of candlelight escaping from an open door about fifty feet ahead.

"What did the member do to be imprisoned?"

"That's information dispensed on a need-to-know basis and you don't need-to-know."

_Ouch_. Clearing her throat, she changed the subject. "That must be where you're taking me," she guessed, pointing to the open door ahead.

Marshall nodded. _TAP-TAP_. "General?" He poked his head into the room.

"Come in, come in."

Stepping aside Marshall waved his hand, gesturing for her to proceed.

Upon entering, Jewels' eyes were drawn to the bright light streaming from a half open door at the far side of the room.

The general stood in front of a mirror, his back to her.

After watching him climb into his jacket and fuss with his hair for a moment, she concluded he was primping for her. Inhaling a long but silent breath, she slowly exhaled and surveyed the rest of the area.

With a full size bed pushed against the far wall, Cooman's private sleeping quarters had been converted to a mini dining area. Dozens of ivory candles, strategically placed on top of the narrow walnut dresser and four-drawer chest crammed against the wall opposite the bed, produced an inviting ambience. And the only light except that shining from the bathroom.

In the center of the room, a card table in disguise. A fresh white tablecloth served as the background for plain white Corelle dinner plates and gold-tone flatware. A combination of pine cones and white and gold ribbons twisted into a pleasing configuration formed elegant napkin rings. A pine cone and ribbon centerpiece, matching the napkin rings, added color and charm.

Folding chairs, covered in white material, were adorned with white and gold ribbons. This guy had to be spending some serious television viewing time with Martha Stewart.

"Oh, General, this is lovely," she gushed, while thinking it _would_ be lovely under different circumstances.

The bathroom door fully opened. Cooman emerged. The crisp full-dress military-style suit, similar to something a U.S. Army general might wear, made Cooman look like he was a _real_ general in a _real_ army.

Jewels adored men in uniform. They look so hero-like. So honorable. But, lest she forget, this man was no hero. Certainly not honorable.

Cooman approached her.

Relax. Be charming. You can do this.

He took up her hand and kissed it.

Jewels didn't shrink away.

Cooman continued to hold her hand as he gave her the once over. "Miz Andrasy, you're beautiful." He smiled. "Stunningly beautiful."

She felt her cheeks radiating red. Thank goodness for poor lighting. She blushed easily. More easily than most. It was something she had never been able to control. One of the few things she was self-conscious about.

"Please. Call me, Julia." She flashed a shy Princess Di look, while feeling him undress her with his eyes.

"I now see, more clearly, why _he_ has chosen you."

_Chosen?_ Jewels had no idea what Cooman was talking about. But made a mental note of it for further exploration later in the evening when they talked.

Marshall, standing witness in the doorway up until then, apparently decided it was time for him to leave. "Uh, General? I'll leave you two alone, now. Let me know if—"

"Go. Go." Cooman waved a good riddance. "One more thing..." he called out, causing Marshall to halt in his tracks, "be sure to clean up her cell."

"Already planned on it, Sir." Marshall disappeared into the gloomy hall.

"Maid service?" Jewels asked, her tone playful.

"Not quite." He grinned. "Though I like _maid service_ better than shakedown."

"Shakedown?"

"For various, and perhaps even obvious reasons, our _guests_ are restricted access to anything that could be used to inflict harm upon themselves or another. Not even a toothbrush is permitted." Cooman slid out one of the chairs and motioned with a tip of his head for Jewels take a seat.

Puzzlement scampered across her face. "You're taking away my toothbrush?" She glided into the chair.

He tucked it under her. "Let's have dinner, then we'll talk."

Jewels smiled pleasantly. "I'd like that, General."

"Please, call me Rhett."
Twenty-One

**The no-frills,** stick-to-your-ribs pot roast and baked potato meal was a welcome addition to Jewels' stomach. Eating so much for dinner, she regretfully had to decline dessert: strawberry cheesecake. One of her favorites.

Dabbing her mouth with the napkin, she tossed it onto her vacant plate. "The meal was lovely and very delicious. Thank you, Rhett."

"My pleasure, Swee—" he caught himself, "Julia."

Leaning back into the chair and crossing her legs at the knees, she served him a look implying it was time to ante up to his end of the bargain.

Cooman dropped his napkin onto the empty dinner plate. Picked up the small remote control sitting next to his goblet and clicked it to kill the mood music, then rested his back into the chair. "Okay. What do you want to know?" He crossed his arms over his chest.

Contrary to what she had hoped, his folded arms read as a sign he could be guarded during their conversation. Was all this pretending to be the perfect dinner _guest_ for not? Unable to shake the sinking feeling it probably was, she pressed on anyway.

"How about we start at the beginning ...at least where this began for me yesterday?" She stroked the soda-filled water goblet for a moment before refining her question. "Sharon Jeppson. Tell me about Sharon."

"Not much to tell. She came to SPOF with her boyfriend. Stayed with us for a couple of years, then..." A twitch of his shoulders finished his sentence.

"Then? What?" She leaned forward. "She wanted out so you had her killed?"

Dark green eyes compressing, his face hardened as he parked his forearms on the tabletop.

Jewels sensed she was about to see the _other_ side of this man who had been so nice. Almost too nice, so far.

"No," Cooman responded with indigence. "We discovered she planned to rat out our plans to the U.S. Government. That's high treason. A crime punishable by death."

"She contacted me, not the feds."

"You don't _know_ she didn't contact the feds as well."

Cognizant her interview could be cut short if she pressed too hard, she changed the subject. "What is the mission of SPOF?"

Leaning back into his chair, his hands rested in his lap. "The world knows us as Jefferson's Warriors."

The color in Jewels' face drained. Her lips gaped. The stark horror of her predicament fell into place. She was in deep trouble. Real deep.

"We're doing God's work. Following Thomas Jefferson's footsteps. Trying to restore our country to the greatness he started. Each of us has taken an oath on our life to remain faithful to SPOF and obedient to our mission to expose the Evil One's hand. To open the minds of the people of the United States of America, so they can see for themselves the decayed state in which our country now exists."

Sounds more like a preacher than a man of war.

"Sitting up taller, he pounded his fist on the table. "We must get back to the Constitution! We must rid ourselves of the evil forces masquerading under the guise of the United Nations."

He lowered his voice to almost a reverent tone. "We aim to expose these conspiracies to the people, who will then join us in taking back our blessed country."

"I've followed this story closely—"

"Yes, we know." Cooman settled back into his chair.

"The Jefferson's Warriors I know are the most feared terrorist organization in America—"

"Militia, not terrorist," Cooman corrected, waving a finger at her.

"As you wish." Jewels nodded. "This _militia_ organization claims responsibility for its acts by leaving a thirteen-star American flag attached to a wooden flagpole staked in the ground. A copy of the U.S. Constitution with _Jefferson's Warriors_ scrawled across it in black marker is nearby. This so-called _trademark_ has appeared at the sites of all six bombings, including the landing dock of the Seattle Bainbridge Island ferry sunk a few months ago. Most recently, it was found at the police station explosion in Vegas where, thankfully, no one was killed.

"Collectively these attacks have resulted in a hundred deaths of innocent men, women, and children. Yet, in spite of such atrocities, the faces and identities of anyone linked to Jefferson's Warriors remains a total mystery to law enforcement."

A pleasant smile softened Cooman's face. His eyes appeared enthralled. Body relaxed.

Jewels' plan to charm him might be working after all. "Theories abound," she continued, her tone professional, facial features controlled, like a TV anchor woman. "Some say Jefferson's Warriors are everyday people who have everyday jobs, like car mechanics, waitresses, or bankers. This theory claims these so-called _ordinary_ people, who have met each other through church or their child's school or the Internet, have united to partake in one illegal action. Perpetrate one bombing and stop. Then the next group of everyday, ordinary people perpetrate the next bombing, then stop."

Jewels sipped Diet Coke from the sweating goblet before proceeding. "Far right wingers espouse Jefferson's Warriors stink of government. A conspiracy to give cause to abolish the Second Amendment and disarm law-abiding citizens. But the most popular theory is one that has turned Jefferson's Warriors into a bunch of folk heroes, with many believing because our country is so screwed up, Thomas Jefferson has come back from the dead to take matters into his own hands."

Cooman sat up straight, his seaweed eyes wide with excitement. "Yes, yes! I've heard them all before. And the reason: we are great fans of your paper. Your articles. _You_."

The news reporter in Jewels overpowered her common sense warning she should be more concerned about their fixation with her, than any other detail. Flexing her upper body across the table to position herself closer toward Cooman, Jewels lowered her voice. Locked her eyes onto his. "So, Rhett. Tell me, are any of these theories close to the truth?"

His eyes broke contact with hers to fix on her breasts.

Figuring he wasn't going to respond and very much wanting to redirect his attention away from her boobs, she leaned back and waved a finger. "I must admit, I'm most curious about how Jefferson's Warriors and the Sovereign Patriots Of Freedom have eluded detection for so long. It seems you must have an insider pretty high up in government."

Cooman raised his focus from her chest. "Yes. We do have someone very high up looking after us: God. We're blessed by God and have His help." Cooman inhaled deeply before adding, "And we take care of our own problems."

"Like Sharon?"

Cooman made a clucking noise with his tongue and cocked his head. "She took an oath. Swore on her life. We were just fulfilling our obligation to her oath."

"So does that mean no one can _ever_ leave SPOF alive?"

"You _are_ a smart lady."

Jewels' facial muscles twitched. "What about me? I didn't take an oath. Does that mean—"

He quieted her with a motion of his hand. "Your fate lies in the hands, the heart, and the wisdom of our Commander."

"Would that be God?"

Cooman erupted in belly-busting laughter.

_What's so damn funny?_ Jewels pressed her back against the chair and rested her hands in her lap. Bore the humiliation in silence.

He laughed so hard and so long, tears rained down his cheeks. Finally, he brought his hee-hawing under control and absorbed the tears in the rumpled napkin he scooped up from the used dinner plate. "I apologize, Sweet Cheeks. I thought you knew."

"Knew?" Jewels leaned forward. "Knew what?" The resentment in her voice doubled for the _Sweet Cheeks_ comment.

"That the Commander is a man—flesh and blood—who's the brains behind the Warriors. He operates freely on the outside. Never comes here."

Jewels sensed there was more to it than that. Much more. "And..." She tapped her long fingernails on the table, a perturbed look on her face.

"Um. How shall I say..." Cooman rolled his eyes upward like he was searching the top of his brain for the appropriate words. "The Commander has _chosen_ you."

"Chosen me?" She recalled Cooman had said something earlier about her being the _chosen one_.

"Yeah, Sweet Cheeks. He's chosen you to be his wife."

"Wife?" Jewels voice raised an octave. "Does this man who has _chosen_ me to be his wife, happen to have a name?"

"All in good time, Sweet Cheeks. All in good time." Cooman teetered back in the chair, balancing on the rear two legs.

Her mouth crimped in annoyance, she was unable to contain herself any longer. "Will you _please_ refrain from calling me Sweet Cheeks."

He rocked forward in the chair, planting all four legs on the floor. "Okay, _Miz Andrasy,_ I've answered plenty of your questions, now it's your turn to fess up."

"What do you mean?"

"First, where's the map Sharon gave you?"

"Uh, map?" She widened her eyes, pretending not to know what he was talking about.

He features hardened.

_Shit!_ He didn't buy her innocent act. She felt her face burn red.

"The handwritten map we _know_ Sharon handed to you at the deli," he said with a don't-fuck-with-me tone.

"Oh, that map." _I actually said that?_

He cocked a brow, impatience brewing on his face.

_Breathe._ "It's someplace safe."

"Uh-huh." He steepled his fingers and assumed a judicial expression. "And have you told anyone about it?"

"No." Her answer was honest, at least until tomorrow morning when the overnight envelopes were delivered.

"Fine," he responded with a long searching look at her face.

Out of nervous habit Jewels sipped on the goblet of Diet Coke diluted by melted ice.

Cooman broke the look of suspicion long enough to dip under the table for a moment. He came up with a briefcase. "Are you _sure_ you didn't tell anyone?"

Jewels fidgeted in seat. A poker face was something she never possessed. And, technically, she was not lying about telling anyone about the map. She flashed an improvised smile. "Please, Rhett, you've been honest with me, and I've been honest with you."

He raised a brow in a suspecting slant. "Really?"

She forced another smile and batted her eyelashes. Charming her way out was her only hope.

"Then what the hell do you call this?" He pulled an overnight express delivery envelope from the briefcase and flung it across the table like a Frisbee.

The stiff cardboard envelope landed on Jewels' empty dinner plate.

Jumping to her feet, Jewels scooped the opened envelope off the table. Peered inside, hoping not to find the map or the cassette. Both were there. _Shit!_ Had they found the second envelope too?

Cooman's face hardened into a mask of pure rage. He fixed his smoldering eyes on her. "Gonna turn us into the fucking F-B-I!" He hammered fist down hard on the table when he said "I." He leaped to his feet and kicked his chair across the room, hurling it into the stone wall.

The chair made a terrible clattering noise as it bounced off the wall and landed behind him on the floor.

Clutching the envelope to her bosom, Jewels recoiled at his violent outburst. Wide-eyed, she watched the veins pulsate at his temples. Face grow scarlet and pinched. Fists convulse with suppressed fury.

With a snarl on his thin lips, he zeroed in his eyes on hers, stomping toward her.

Was he going to bitch slap her? Unleash a full-fledge fist pounding? Jewels' fight or flight instinct lurched into overdrive, urging her to run and seek cover first, then to find an object for use as a weapon. But her vibes—that little voice within her yet to misguide her—told her to not run. Not to cross General Rhett Cooman. The former Green Berets could kill her with one hand if she gave him a reason. _Don't give him a reason._

Following her feelings, she resigned to silent submission rather than countering his aggression with evasive or defensive moves.

For each of his angry strides toward her, Jewels stepped backward, withdrawing until her back hit the corner wall. With nowhere else to retreat, she assumed a submissive posture. Shoulders rounded. Eyes lowered. Arms folded over her chest with the envelope in her clutch, waiting for the beating she believed was sure to come.

Mere inches from her face, Cooman stood toe to toe with her. The blasts of fury-loaded air shooting through his flared nostrils drowned the panicked pulse roaring in her ears. His onion breath rolled across her face and neck like the stench of an open sewer.

Her nose crinkled. Head recoiled.

After a few seconds of him staring her down, Jewels watched his bunched fists loosen. She was about to relax a little when his right hand thrust toward her face.

She raised the envelope up in front of her face like a shield.

His hand in midair. "Give me that goddamned envelope."

Jewels surrendered the envelope and maintained a submissive posture. No eye contact.

He ripped the envelope from her and tucked his hands behind his back, assuming an authoritative stance. "Miz Andrasy, you may consider this dinner over."

She looked up at him just long enough to send him a tiny, but sincere, smile of gratitude for sparing her from a beating.

"Shall we go?" He pointed to the door with his chin.

It wasn't a question, it was an order. She stepped into the dreary hall.

He locked a vise grip hand around her left upper arm and stormed down the hall, Jewels in tow. He walked so fast she had to jog to keep pace.

The barren hallway echoed Cooman's angry strides and Jewels' hurried click-clacks of high heels strumming against the stone floor. Occasionally she wheezed in pain, otherwise remained silent.

After a turbulent jaunt, they arrived at her prison cell.

He flung the open the door and shoved her inside.

Stumbling a few steps, Jewels wobbled on the high heels, but maintained balance. Turning back to face Cooman, she glared, resentment and mistrust radiating.

He stepped nearer.

Once again she felt his eyes undressing her. Holding her breath, she crossed her arms over her almost bare chest while slowly backing away from him.

"I don't want my men seeing you in that dress." He glanced at the folded pants and T-shirt on the cot. "Change into those camos immediately."

Cooman backstepped into the hall, his eyes fixed on hers.

She stood, quaking. Wouldn't dare venture an escape or move an inch. Cooman's temper scared her almost as much as Tank's foreboding presence.

He pulled the door shut, locking Jewels inside.
Twenty-Two

FRIDAY, 2330 HOURS.

General Cooman sat behind his desk and called over the shortwave radio in his office. "Big Bird, this is Little Bird checking in."

Seconds later: "How's Sweet Cheeks, and what the hell happened at her place? Phase One's a complete fuck-up."

He sighed. "Sweet Cheeks is fine, Sir. A little bruised and shaken up, but just fine. And the fuck-up? Well, that's my fault, Sir. Sent Tank."

"Bastard whacked Sweet Cheeks' dog. A gory slice and dice job," he noted with disapproval.

Well, if it's any consolation, he got sliced and diced too."

"What do you mean?"

Leaning back into his chair, Cooman propped his feet up on his desk. "It's a long story, but in short, Sweet Cheeks escaped from Doc by throwing out a charming line and he bit. Then she nabbed a scalpel and some scissors and sneaked her way outside.

"Of course, Tank was there to stop her. But when he put down the AR she went at him with the knife and scissors in hand. Windmilled him good. He's all slashed up. Severed his brachial artery and carved one helluva slice across his face. But he'll be fine."

"That's my girl," the Commander responded with enthusiasm, but quickly changed his tone to concern. "Better watch Tank. He's liable to seek revenge."

"Already on top of it, Sir. Assigned Watters to guard her."

"Watters? What's his background? Can he be trusted with her ... you know, not to take advantage and all that?"

"Regarding his background, it's in gun running. And hell yes, he can be trusted with Sweet Cheeks. If I had a daughter I'd trust him with her."

"Why? Is he gay?"

"God, no." Cooman burst into laughter. "Just lives by an impeccable _code of honor_."

"Hmph. An ex-con with a code of honor. Sounds like a self-righteous nut case. I don't want another psycho like Tank laying into her."

"Sir, Watters' only _potential_ problem isn't in his control."

"What are you saying?"

"I think women find Watters irresistible. You know, good looks, muscular, charming, witty, all the shit women go goo-goo over." On purpose he neglected to mention the instant chemistry he had witnessed between the Jewels and Marshall. Didn't want the Commander to worry about it.

"Hmph," he snorted.

Cooman sat up, leaning his elbows on his desk. "Hell, I sense Big Bird's feathers are a little ruffled 'cause he's thinking a _pretty bird_ is gonna roost in his nest."

"All right, all right. Got the message. So, what's my Sweet Cheeks doing now?"

"Just got done having dinner with me. I let her dress up. We talked."

"How _was_ dinner?"

"Damn, Sir. You know how to pick 'em. Sweet Cheeks is one helluva beautiful woman and a smart one too."

"How much does she know?"

"Clueless about you. Has no fuckin' idea who the Commander is, though at first she thought it was me," Cooman bragged, a hint of pride in his voice.

"You set her straight?"

"Of course, Sir," Cooman replied, his face suddenly serious. "Wouldn't dream of pretending to be you."

"Tell me about your dinner conversation."

"Not much to tell, Sir. I told her we were Jefferson's Warriors and admired her newspaper articles, but gave up no details on the workings of the group."

"And Jeppson? Did she ask about her?"

"Yeah." He chuckled. "Told her we were just fulfilling the woman's oath."

"And what about the envelope? Did you get anything out of her about that?"

"As expected, she lied at first, claimed she didn't tell anyone. Then I showed her the envelope. My God, you should have seen her face. Priceless." Cooman beamed a smile replaying the mental picture of the astonished look that had lambasted Jewels' pretty face. "I must confess, Sir," he lowered his voice, "I ended up being a little rough on her."

"Rough? You better not have hurt her—"

"Oh, not physically, Sir. Didn't lay a hand on her. I just scared her a bit with intimidation tactics."

"Did she give up anything else? And for godsakes there aren't any more envelopes are there?"

Cooman gnawed on the inside of his cheek. _Fuck!_ Hadn't thought about more envelopes.

"General?"

"Uh, Sir. No. I don't _think_ there are any other envelopes. I had her pretty scared, and our guys scoured her office, but to be honest, I didn't come out and ask her."

"Shit! Knowing her, she sent at least one more to someone else."

"I'll follow up, Sir." Cooman paused for a moment before changing the subject. "So how you holdin' up?"

"Tension's high." He let out a sigh. "But everything's under control. Just make sure there are no more surprises."

"Doin' my best, Sir."

"Okay then. It's time to implement Sweet Cheeks Phase Two. I want to take possession of her early evening tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Cooman dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. "I'm not sure—"

"That's not a problem, is it?" The tone in the Commander's voice demanded the right answer.

Cooman nibbled the inside of his cheek. _Fuck._ "No, Sir. Not a problem."

"Good. Work fast and clean."

"Will do, Sir."

"Over and out."

### Twenty-Three

**SATURDAY, 0100 HOURS.**

TAP-TAP.

Huddled under the scratchy army-green wool blanket, Jewels stirred. She had been sleeping soundly. The hearty meat and potatoes meal consumed a few hours before had settled in her stomach like a sleeping pill.

The creak of hinges bearing the weight of the heavy metal door as it opened awakened her. Groggy, she sat up.

A head popped around the corner of the door. "Miz Andrasy? Julia? It's Marshall. Marshall Watters."

Rubbing her eyes with her fists, she flashed a pleasant smile at the handsome guard. _Eye candy!_ Never too sleepy for that. And if she had to be held captive, why not by a good looking hunk of solid meat. "Morning already?"

No response. No smile. Nothing. He lumbered to the foot of the bed.

Jewels glimpsed at her wristwatch. "One o'clock?" Not one in the afternoon. No, it was early Saturday morning, she was sure of that. And something was wrong. Marshall's eyes seemed haunted by inner pain.

"Doc wants to see you." His voice a lifeless monotone, nothing like it was when he escorted her to Cooman's.

Uneasiness cascaded over her. "May I freshen up first, please?"

"Five minutes," he replied with a frosty bite, turning to exit.

"Wait. Marshall, what's wrong? Why does Callahan want to see me? It's one o'clock in the morning. What could be so important the doctor has to see me _now_?"

"Five minutes," he repeated, closing and locking the door behind him.

She used the toilet then splashed water on her face. Thought about the ridiculous hour, but mostly about Watters' chilly tone. Was he a psycho?

Jewels chuckled. "Dumb question, he works with psychos. Therefore he's a psycho by association, right?"

She'd known Marshall Watters for less than twenty-four hours and despite the way she had been introduced to him—handcuffed and waging war against his brute strength—she was drawn to him. His warm eyes. Comforting, almost protective, touch...

She didn't want to believe he was a Jekyll and Hyde character. No. Couldn't be. Besides, her vibes offered no indication of such.

It had been eighteen months since she had allowed herself to yearn for the touch of man. She was lonely and wanted to be touched. Needed to be touched. Craved to be touched. And desired Marshall Watters be the one to do the touching.

"Jeez, Jewels. You must feel deprived and desperate to even be thinking about a relationship with your enemy."

Memories of her beloved Robert flooded her mind. Guilt swamped her heart and soul. Damming the tears with a wad of toilet paper, she dabbed her face dry.

Robert was the past. This cell. Marshall Watters. Jefferson's Warriors. The Commander... Those were the elements of the present. And right now she had to focus on the present. On the pressing.

So why _did_ Callahan want to see her? To check her aching ribs? The cut above her eye? Even so, it didn't explain the odd hour, or the blast of frigidness from Marshall Watters. It was obvious he was detaching himself. But why?

The fumbling of keys against the metal door broke Jewels' train of thought.

"Time's up," Watters announced, swinging the door open. "Let's go." He motioned with his head toward the hallway.

Tucking the three-sizes-too-large camo T-shirt into the baggy fitting camo cargo-style pants, she glanced down at the scratchy green wool socks on her feet. "Do I need shoes or boots?"

"No."

"Oh. Okay." She raised her eyebrows in bewilderment.

"Come on." He gestured with hand toward the hallway.

Obediently she walked to the door and stepped into the hall. Slammed on the brakes and grabbed her chest upon seeing a gurney with open straps.

Marshall's powerful hand latched onto her upper left arm from behind. He jerked her backward, bouncing her body against his solid chest. "Don't make me hurt you."

Jewels' eyes rounded with alarm. No way was she going to _let_ him strap her down. Pushing away from him, she pummeled his chest with her free hand, struggling to break loose of his grasp.

"Dammit, Julia." He snatched the forearm of her swinging fist. Tightening the grip on her left arm, he forced her spine against his chest.

Wincing in pain, she stopped battling though her body remained tense, primed to engage in combat the moment the opportunity presented itself.

"You're gonna have to _trust me_ ," he whispered.

Looking over her shoulder up at him, her face melted into a you-don't-really-expect-me-to-believe-that grin as she studied his countenance. Logic told her he was one of them: a kidnapping, murdering terrorist. But her vibes told her to trust him. And so far her vibes had not been wrong. Therefore, she chose to trust him, relaxing under his grip.

Feeling her surrender, he sent her a reassuring wink, scooped her body into his arms and laid her onto the gurney. Reaching down, he pulled up the leather strap to buckle it across her chest.

Good gawd, what had she agreed to allow him to do? Panic eclipsed reason. She turned onto her side to roll off the wheeled cart.

Catching her shoulder, his powerful hand slammed her back flat onto the gurney and held her down. Moments later: _Click!_ The buckle of the restraint snapped shut across her chest.

"No! Don't," Jewels screamed, her voice high and hysterical. Flailing her arms and legs and thrashing her body about, she continued to shrilly scream. "No! Don't do this—"

He clamped his hand over her mouth, mashing the back of her head down hard into the padded gurney. "Shut up and stop fighting me, Julia." His eyes were narrow and scorching. Jaw set. Lips snarling. "I _have_ to strap you down. Do you want to be gagged too?"

_Gagged?_ She negatively shook her head, ceasing her berserk behavior.

"Then shut the hell up," Watters demanded, his hand still sealing her mouth.

Blinking, she nodded and surrendered to his hold. What else could she do? Despite his good looks, Marshall Watters _was_ a Jekyll and Hyde character after all.

He retracted his hand from her mouth and watched her for a moment, his hand poised to silence her again if necessary.

Consumed by regret, Jewels stared at the ceiling. How in the hell did she allow herself to get suckered into believing she could trust this guy—handsome or not—who was now strapping her down to a gurney like an insane person being prepared for shock treatment?

Uh-huh, insane! That was the key word. And that was what she was for trusting Marshall Watters.

After buckling the remaining two belts across Jewels' arms and waist and over her shins, he brushed away the straggling strings of tossed hair that blanketed her face.

She gazed up at Marshall whose features had softened, almost appearing caring. "What's happening, Marshall? Where are you taking me? What are you going to do—"

"Shhhh." He pressed a single finger on her lips. Leaned over and kissed her forehead.

_What the hell?_ Jewels blinked wildly. _Judas kiss_ , she concluded. This hunk _was_ a psycho, just like everyone else she had encountered so far in the compound ... with the possible exception of Doc Callahan.

As casually as pushing a grocery cart, he wheeled her down the murky hall.

Gazing at the ceiling, her senses were acutely tuned to pick up details. The sight of flickering, half-dead florescent lights sporadically coming and going among the non-pattern of grey and brown stones. The sound of the gurney wheels popping and skidding across the uneven floor. The touch of frigid fingers from the draft, molesting every inch of her body. And the smell of stale, damp air seasoned with fear—her fear—expanding to fill the hollowness between the corridor walls like a balloon on the verge of bursting.

Watters drove the gurney down hallways and around corners.

The peculiar layout of the compound reminded her of a crazy maze. Seemed appropriate that crazies would inhabit it.

He stopped at a door. Swung it open. Wheeled her inside.

"Hello, Mister Watters," greeted Doctor Callahan, as Marshall pushed the gurney into the expansive receiving room of the medical wing. He slid his hands into the pockets of the white doctor's coat and gazed down at Jewels. "And how's our charming ball-buster today?"

She stared at the ceiling. Didn't believe he expected, or deserved, a response to such an asinine question.

"Take her into the exam room." Callahan motioned with his hand toward the far door.

The gurney wheels rolled over the rough FLOWER POWER etching on the floor, pulsating Jewels' body like an old coin-operated vibrating bed in a cheap motel.

"General said I'm to stay while you do this," Marshall said, arriving at the exam room.

Callahan shook his head in agreement and nodded toward Jewels. "Probably a wise decision, since experience—painful experience—has taught me not to tinker with this little keg of dynamite."

Marshall laughed. "Yeah, Doc. Guess she let you have it." He grabbed his crotch and painted a face of pain to mock Jewel's brutal strike at Callahan.

"Why am I here? What are you going to do to me?"

"Don't worry, Honey." Callahan smiled and patted her shoulder. "Just need a little blood."

Jewels' eyebrows shot up an inch. "Blood? Why do you need _my_ blood?"

"Because you gotta be made dead," a caustic voice boomed from the exam room entry.

_Tank!_ Her muscles tensed. Heart leaped into her throat. That baritone voice had become all too familiar. Raising her head off the gurney, her eyes confirmed her audio conclusion.

Marshall whirled around, faced Tank. "What the hell?"

"Whoa, Buddy." Tank spawned a halfhearted smile and waved his hands in front of him as to call off an impending fight. "Cooman sent me to collect the blood so I can do my job."

"Job?" Jewels squirmed under the restraints. "What job needs my blood?" Her voice degenerated into a childlike whimper.

Tank's eyes brimmed with devilish excitement. "The Commander wants to take possession of you tonight."

"Possession? Tonight?" Jewels' eyes darted to Marshall for an explanation, but Tank started up again.

"Before the Commander can take you, we have to implement Phase Two. That's the part where folks think you're dead."

"Dead?" she echoed, her voice strained.

"That's right, Baby. Dead." Tank rapidly rubbed his hands together indicating eagerness. "To make everyone think you're dead, I need blood. _Your_ blood. I'll smear it all over the inside of your Humvee." He gestured a smearing motion in midair. "Leave pieces of your torn T-shirt here and there. By the time I'm through, it'll be such a fuckin' mess, authorities will conclude you've been murdered. And once you've been assumed dead, law enforcement will back off efforts to find you."

Jewels' heart thumped in her chest. She knew Tank spoke the truth.

"You see, as long as the cops think you're alive, there's a sense of urgency about the case. But as soon as they figure you've been killed..." Tank let an evil sneer finish his sentence.

Jewels shuddered and closed her eyes. It was true. Once the cops assumed she was dead, the harried rescue campaign would be relegated to a greatly scaled-back effort to recover a corpse. Worse yet, whoever the Commander was would be _taking possession_ of her, as if she were chattel. Couldn't allow that to happen. Had to throw a monkey wrench in his Phase Two operation.

However being strapped to a gurney cut her options to almost nonexistent. Her only alternative was to launch a verbal plea. An attempt to appeal to whatever goodness or sense of justice these men may have in them.

Tank didn't have a decent bone in his body. No need to waste efforts with him.

Attention cutting back and forth between Doc Callahan and Marshall Watters, Jewels pleaded her case.

"Come on. You guys know this whole Commander taking possession of me is a crazy scheme. Surely in your hearts you know this is wrong." She tipped her head in Tank's direction. "You two are nothing like that psycho maniac."

A demonic grin grew on Tank's face. He folded his muscular arms over his thick chest, clearly enjoying the scene.

She continued her pitch to Callahan and Watters. "I sense you two are good men, with good hearts and know the difference between right and wrong. So why not do the right thing? Return me unharmed to my home, my life. Your morals will thank you. You'll sleep well at night. And as a token of appreciation for you doing the right thing, I'll announce you two were my heroes. I'll further express my gratitude in the form of a five million dollar reward to each of you."

Marshall and Doc exchanged glances at the part about five million bucks a piece, knowing full well she had the means to dish out that kind of money.

Callahan hung his head. "Miz Andrasy, I don't deserve the praise you've given me, but it means a lot to me that you think I have that kind of goodness inside."

Behind Marshall's back Tank played an imaginary violin and made sappy faces. Occasionally he dabbed invisible tears from his eyes, mocking the syrupy scene.

Callahan glared at Tank, who looked like he was ready to erupt into wild laughter any minute.

Turning to Jewels, Callahan shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dear." He bit his lip and reached for the needle.

Jewels focused her attention on the man standing at her side. "Marshall, _please_. I know you, especially _you_ , don't belong with this group of radical wackos. Help me. Don't let them do this to me."

Marshall's face pinched with tension.

Were her words tugging at his heart? She hoped so. "Remember, Marshall Watters, you said I should trust you..." she wiggled under the restraints, "and obviously, I did. I trusted you, Marshall, because you said I should. Please don't make me regret believing in you. Don't let them do this to me. Please, _pleeeease_ help me. Don't let—"

"Enough." Marshall clamped his hand over Jewels' mouth, his face molded into stone.

Jewels blinked with surprise.

Tank blurted out a maniacal cackle. He slapped an open hand on Marshall's shoulder. "I underestimated you, Watters. You're good. Fuckin' masterful. Actually convinced the bitch she could trust you."

Marshall smirked. Raising his hand to his mouth, he folded his fingers and huffed on his nails, then buffed them against his shoulder gesturing, _damn, I'm good,_ while keeping his other hand locked over Jewels' mouth.

Embarrassment trampled her heart and soul. How could she have been so stupid? So gullible? Unfortunately, she knew damned well how: Marshall Watters' handsome face and studly body, that's how.

"Tank." Callahan motioned with a nod of his head for him to approach Jewels. "To draw the blood I need her right arm. The strap across her shoulder and the one at her waist needs to be released. Will you hold her down while I do that?"

"Be glad to help ya, Doc," Tank responded with perverted enthusiasm.

Once the straps were loosened, Jewels contorted her body and jerked her arms launching a valiant, but pitiful, battle for freedom from Tank's viselike grip which, once again, proved her resistance worthless.

Seconds later Jewels' right arm was strapped onto a long thin board with the veins from the underside of her elbow exposed for Callahan's needle. The straps from the gurney were fastened across her shoulders and waist, engulfing her left arm.

Doc began drawing the blood.

She initiate another futile squirming battle against the restraints and struggled to voice another plea, but Marshall's thick hand remained an effective gag.

Under the doc's watchful eye, the large plastic bag filled. He turned his attention to Marshall. "Since I'm taking two pints, she's going to become weak. Under these circumstances, I think it's best to keep her here so I can observe her for a few hours."

"No problem, Doc. You do whatever is necessary to keep her healthy."

"Just remember to keep the bitch restrained," Tank reminded Callahan. "And, Doc, don't be tempted to take Miz Millionaire up on her offer, or I'll have to visit your daughter." He scratched his shiny bald head. "Uh, what's her name? Alexis?"

DOCTOR LEO CALLAHAN'S temples pulsated with rage as he tried to ignore Tank's comments. Deep inside, he wished he could kill the bastard, but knew if he did, there would just be another Tank-like character waiting to fill the void.

No, there would be no helping Julia. He had to remain loyal to SPOF. Do anything and everything requested of him. His daughter's life depended on it.

THE BLOOD RETRIEVAL PROCESS lasted about fifteen minutes, during which time Jewels' had physically surrendered to the situation, no longer twisting and turning under the confines of the restraints. Didn't even put up a fight when Doc removed the needle and repositioned her arm at her side, binding it to the gurney.

When Marshall finally lifted his hand from her mouth, she remained silent.

Allowing her eyelids to glide shut, Jewels replayed the actions leading to her latest predicament. Berated herself for the obvious: the handsome, no-good, dirty rotten scoundrel Marshall Watters had played her for a fool.

Tears meandered down her cheeks as she promised herself never to trust Marshall Watters, or anyone else associated with this bunch of crazy militiamen, again ... no matter what her vibes told her. Never again. _Never_.
Twenty-Four

SATURDAY, 5:00 A.M. JUST BEFORE DAWN.

The FBI helicopter touched down on the temporarily closed highway. FBI Special Agent In Charge Theodore Hines slid out. Dressed in an expensive brown pin-striped suit, yellow silk shirt and red necktie, he looked like he just stepped off the pages of a Harrod's magazine ad.

Shielding his head with his hands, he ran slightly hunched to buck the whirlwind of the helicopter blades.

Seconds later, the chopper departed.

Patting down his feathered hair, he straightened his suit.

"Special Agent Hines?" a husky Salt Lake County deputy inquired jogging out to meet him. In his late twenties and pudgy-faced, he wore a brown and gold deputy uniform. A wide black belt with the standard police-issued equipment sagged under his overflowing belly.

"Where's the vehicle?"

"Over there." The deputy pointed with his flashlight. "About two-hundred feet down that dirt road. We confirmed the Hummer is registered to Julia Andrasy."

"Anything inside?" Hines asked, walking rapidly.

The deputy had to occasionally jog a step or two to keep up. "Blood. Lots of blood. On the windshield. All over the seats. On the floor. A real blood bath."

"A body?"

"No, Sir. Not in the vehicle or anywhere around it, at least not as far as we've been able to ascertain." Pausing, he added, "Looks like the vehicle hit something somewhere else, though. The driver's air bag has been deployed and the front end's pretty banged up."

"A deer?"

"No. Don't think so, Sir. Didn't see any blood or hair, which is usually easily seen with the naked eye when an animal is hit. I'm sure your CSI's will be able to tell you more once they check it out at your lab."

"Thank you, Deputy. I can take it from here." Hines dismissed the officer with a nod of his head.

The burgundy metallic Alpha Wagon was parked in the middle of one of the dirt ranch roads that branched off the rural highway.

Telephone poles, tumbleweeds, and sporadically scattered tufts of sage brush surrounding the earthen road glowed in a salmon hue as the first rays of the morning sun peeked over the mountain.

With flashlight in hand, Hines surveyed the vehicle. Reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief, he covered his hand before opening the driver side door and peering inside.

Blood was smeared all over the windshield, extra heavy on the passenger side, looking like a gruesome finger painting Charles Manson might have been _inspired_ to create. Vital fluid dripped down the back rest, gathering in a thick pool on the passenger front seat. Crimson blobs splattered the passenger door, dash, and console. The driver side was saturated with blood as well.

"Fuck. A goddamned blood bath," he mumbled, covering his mouth with the handkerchief to filter out the sickening odor of the coagulating juice of life. Leaning over the seat to inspect what appeared to be a mutilated women's T-shirt, the distant sound of a helicopter approaching startled him. Made him rear back. Touch his body against the blood-streaked interior of the open door. Leaping away like he had been electrocuted, he inspected his suit. "Goddammit." A small amount of blood had transferred to his suit coat and pants. Unacceptable. But he had more pressing issues to deal with, like that helicopter.

Scanning the sky for a sign of the aircraft, he sprinted toward the county deputies and waved wildly. "I don't want fucking reporters around here."

"Sir," a deputy called to Hines. "The rest of your team." He pointed to the incoming helicopter.

"What the fuck?" No one from _his_ team was expected. Jogging to meet the helicopter as it landed, Hines intended to ward-off the unwanted assistance.

The black unmarked aircraft touched down on the closed highway. Three men wearing black suits, white shirts, and black ties exited.

With folded arms, he waited for the men in black to approach him. When they were within earshot, he held out his FBI badge at arm's length. "Excuse me, guys. This is a restricted area. FBI investigation."

"Special Agent Hines," the tall clean-shaven man, with the air of a mafia hitman about him, coolly surmised. "This investigation is now under our jurisdiction." He fished into his jacket pocket for credentials.

"And who the fuck are you?"

He presented his photo ID. "Lieutenant Commander Warren Bradshaw, Militia Threat Assessment Force."

Hines scrutinized the man's identification. "This is bullshit."

Flipping closed his identification and stuffing it into his suit pocket, Bradshaw flashed a superior grin. "We report directly to the President of the United States. So unless you want to be reassigned to a file clerk position, I suggest you gather your FBI credentials and vacate the area. We've already got a man at your office gathering your hard copy notes and computer files. If we need anything else, we'll call you."

Hines' face flushed with indignation. Fists balled into white knuckles. "Fuck this bullshit." He turned to one of the Salt Lake County deputies on the scene "Give me a ride to Salt Lake and double-time it," Hines demanded, stomping toward a county cruiser.

The MTAF agent raised a battery operated megaphone to his lips. "Attention officers. Please return to your vehicles. Keep the highway closed and remain in your vehicles for further orders. If you are not involved in the road closure, you are dismissed. Thank you."

Hines sat in the front seat of the cruiser, waiting for the officer yammering to a fellow deputy across the roadway. A sly grin skimmed his otherwise stressed face. "They don't have the map. Won't get the map." He patted his jacket pocket where the placemat was stored.

His grin widened and face relaxed as he recalled MTAF's zero-contact media policy. They were a secretive organization who relied on other law enforcement agencies to make nice with the media. The MTAF didn't hold press conferences or issue press releases. Information was dispensed to the public by the agency who had lost the case, and always at that agency's earliest convenience. Which meant FBI Special Agent In Charge Theodore Hines would determine the specifics doled out to the media.

"As far as the world's concerned, I'm still in charge of Jewels' case." He let out a maniacal cackle.

The public wouldn't learn of the MTAF's involvement until tomorrow. At the earliest.
Twenty-Five

SATURDAY, 0537 HOURS.

"We only get one shot to defect," the leader whispered to the three men huddled in a tight circle just inside the door of one of the empty cells. "The bitch of it is, with Julia already here, the risks are even greater and the timetable for us to take action has just been moved up."

"Let's take her with us," suggested the man keeping an eye out in the hall as lookout.

The leader sneered. "I thought about it, but—"

"Come on, we deserve a _play thing_ ," another man added, waving his brows.

The group served up guarded chuckles.

The lookout gazed into the hall. Still all clear and quiet.

"Forget, it. Not only will she slow us down, but I guarantee the Commander will be relentless in his pursuit of us to get her back. And you know the kind of resources he has, not to mention his one-track mind."

The men bobbed their heads in somber agreement.

One of the guys cleared his throat. "Okay, when do we do this?"

"Before the Commander arrives."

Eyes widened in the group. "That would be today," one man blurted. "Shit. I'm not sure we're ready."

The leader shrugged. "Ready or not, if we're gonna do this, we gotta do it today. We'll have to force a distraction."

"Huh? A distraction? What kind of distraction?"

"Leave it to me," the leader said with a sly grin.

"How will we know?"

"Oh, you'll know. It will be obvious." He turned on his heel and slipped out the prison cell door.

### Twenty-Six

**SATURDAY, 0700 HOURS.**

TAP-TAP.

"How about a warm shower?" Marshall cheerily asked, popping his head around the edge of the cell door he had just opened.

Jewels was awake. Had been most of the night since the vampires stole her blood then had the gall to return her to the prison cell and advise her to "get some sleep."

Right. Like _that_ was going to happen. Sitting on the bed and leaning against the corner of the wall, her knees were tucked up under her chin. Ruminating, her eyes were fixed on an odd colored stone in the ceiling at the far corner of the cell.

Marshall's voice stirred a single blink. Jewels was angry. Pissed royally. Not so much at Marshall or any of the other deviants in SPOF, but at herself for choosing to trust him. What a fool. She wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

He stepped into the cell and stood at the foot of the bed. "I'm sure you'd like to freshen up and take a hot shower."

She glared monstrously at him.

"No ulterior motives. I promise," he claimed with a full throttle smile, blatantly attempting to charm her.

"Fuck you."

He recoiled in surprise. "Whoa-ho, Miz Andrasy. Mighty heavy words for a lady who doesn't swear."

"Fuck you," she snapped again, her squinted eyes staring fiercely back at him.

Watters sucked in a deep deliberate breath, easing onto the edge of the bed.

Black panic choked her body as images of his speculated heinous intent invaded her mind. With wide eyes darting about and short fast breaths, she compressed her body into the wall to further distance herself from him.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

_Ha! Like I believe you._ Convinced he harbored some diabolical scheme, she lurched off the bed and ran toward the open cell door.

He snatched her forearm, whipping her butt back down on the mattress. "Wait."

Despite his intense hold crushing her arm, the sincerity in his tone compelled her to bridle her instinct for survival which was screaming _DEFCON ONE_.

"I'm sorry. Truly. I _am_ sorry. There was nothing I could do this morning."

"Riiight." Jewels yanked her arm free from his grip. Compressing her lips and fixing her eyes at the floor, she massaged her paining arm.

"You have every right to be upset over the blood collection episode. But you must admit, you weren't hurt. Nothing _really_ happened."

The audacity of him to say such a thing!

He placed his hands on her shoulders, turned her toward him, and tapped a finger under her chin, lifting her head to gaze into her eyes. "As God as my judge, I promise you, when it comes down to something really important, you can count on me to help you, _Jewels_ ," he said, emphasizing the name by which only her friends call her.

"Pfft! You're after the money." She jerked her head away from his fingertip.

Marshall rocketed into a standing position, clenched his teeth and balled his hands into white-knuckled fists. "No, Julia. I don't want your damn money."

Studying him, confusion swamped her mind and heart. No matter how hard she worked to maintain the emotional wall she built to keep him away, it was crumbling. Rapidly

Marshall rubbed the back of his neck. Regret for coming across so harshly absorbed his tough-guy exterior. After a moment he dropped to his knees, taking up her hand. "I want you to know that you _can_ trust me."

Never having felt so drawn to anyone—save Robert—as she was right now to Marshall Watters, Jewels' mind was a jumbled mess. And her vibes, those damned vibes, were once again urging her to trust him. Trust him! "I want to believe you. I want to trust you, but—"

"Then do," he whispered, gently placing his index finger over her lips.

### Twenty-Seven

**THE LONG HOT SHOWER** felt good. Marshall Watters _had_ told the truth. No ulterior motive. Just a refreshing shower and clean clothes; woodland green camos, several sizes too large. And this time, her very own pair of combat boots were included with the _ensemble_. Of course, at least two sizes too big and without laces. Apparently shoelaces, along with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and hand towel, were among the forbidden items for SPOF _guests_.

Having returned to her cell about an hour ago, she glanced at her watch: 8:00 a.m. A smile of satisfaction blossomed on Jewels' face as she plopped onto the bed. Within two hours her remaining overnight-shipped envelope would be delivered to Jodie Clarkston, who would surely mount a rescue operation. And with any luck at all, by eight o'clock tonight, she would be lounging in the comfort of her own home.

Remembering the day was Saturday, her positive thoughts for a speedy rescue flickered. It was possible Sheriff Clarkston would not be in her office until Monday morning. If that was the case, she wouldn't receive the map and the tape recording in time to rescue her before the Commander _took possession_ of her later today.

Crashing onto her back on the bed, knees bent, feet flat against the mattress, she stared at the rock ceiling and twirled strands of her long hair around her pointer finger, mentally plugging away at keeping hope alive.

Marshall Watters could be her secret weapon. When something was _really_ _important_ he said he would help her. Would Marshall consider the Commander's _taking possession_ of her to be one of those _really important_ times?

Regardless of what her vibes were telling her, the voice of reason supplanted hope with skepticism. "Better not put all your eggs in the Marshall Watters' basket."

The jingling of keys outside her cell door fractured her course of thought. "Marshall?" She leaped to her feet. An undeniable thrill teased her emotions in anticipation of seeing him again.

"Not hardly," a masculine voice grumbled.

Not who she had expected, but recognized the voice nonetheless. Goosebumps splattered her flesh. Her heart pumped spastically. Standing rigid with fear, she watched with bulging eyes as Tank's slithered into the cell and closed the door behind him.

He rubbed the stitches on his cheek, his face solidified in resentment. "Time for some pay-back, Bitch."

She elongated her spine and stretched her neck to take on a towering posture and mustered an authoritative command. "Leave. Now." She extended her arm and pointed her finger toward the door.

Tank amplified his evil grin. "Tough girl. Good. I like a challenge."

"Leave right now, Tank." She thrust her hands on her hip. "If you don't, I'll scream and the proverbial cavalry will come."

"The proverbial cavalry?" He laughed. "Go ahead. Scream all you want. Nobody'll hear you."

"Marshall, will." She stepped backward, her face playing snitch to the gut-curdling fear she had been struggling to conceal.

"Don't think so." He licked his white teeth with his big pink tongue. "Watters has been called away. A special meeting off site. So it's just you and me."

"What do you want?" Jewels inched toward the sink, her back plastered against the stone wall.

"Thought you'd never ask." Spawning a dirty smile, he retrieved a three foot length of rope from his hip pocket. Slowly wrapped the ends of the rope around his hands and jerked them wide, plainly for added psychological effect.

It worked.

Jewels manifested the classic physical signs of primal fear: arms crossed over her chest and rounded shoulders. Flared nostrils. Wild-eyed. Chattering teeth...

"How about we start with a little T and A?"

"T and A?" Jewels edged closer to the sink.

Tank's face sprouted a nasty smirk. "Tits and ass ...yours."

"General Cooman said you guys weren't supposed to hurt me. You can't do this," she protested, raising her voice and standing a little taller to shed some of the base fear devouring her inside and out.

"Fuck Cooman," he said with a wave of his hand. "Besides, you owe me, Bitch." He rubbed the stitches on his face while stuffing the rope back in his rear pocket.

"Help! Marshall! Help," Jewels screamed to the top of her lungs, her voice raw with terror as her eyes darted back and forth in search of something—anything—that could be used as a self-defense weapon.

Nothing.

Tank rushed her. Smashed her back into the stone wall with a powerful blow of his shoulder into hers.

The impact knocked the air out of her. Her body descended the wall like an unstoppable mudslide.

He grabbed a healthy handful of Jewels' long hair and yanked her face close to his. "Ain't gonna shoot me, cut me, or try to rip my eyes out this time, Bitch." He dragged her by her hair on her knees toward the cot.

"Ooooouw!" Jewels scratched at Tank's bandaged arm while scrambling to gain footing.

He released her hair.

Toppling backward, her legs buckled under her butt.

"You are a fiery bitch." He slapped his open hand across her cheek.

Pitched to the ground by the brunt of the wallop, her face plowed into the cold cement floor. Tiny bits of gritty dirt imbedded in her cheek.

Clamping his enormous hands around her ankles, he towed her to the bed.

The uneven surface of the rock floor battered her arms, butt, back, and head, unleashing an instant monstrous headache.

Latching onto her right arm and leg, he heaved her onto the bed, the springs creaking from the force of her body being hurled onto it.

Sucking in a deep breath, she yelled at the top of her lungs, "Marshall! Hellllp! Hellll—"

Tank belly flopped on top of Jewels' body and smothered her screams with a thick hand over her mouth.

Jewels launched a kicking and punching attack against his mountainous body, focusing her fist pounding efforts on his bandaged arm. Maybe she could burst the brachial artery and...

Her fierce assault forced him to remove his hand from her mouth to block her frenzied slugs with his forearms.

Jewels lunged her head upward, sank her teeth into his muscular arm, and bite down hard.

"Aaaaahhhhhh."

His flesh felt clammy. Tasted salty. Smelled sweaty. The urge to puke tickled the back of her throat. She coughed. Eyes watered. Still hung on. His warm blood oozed down the side of her cheek and trickled into her mouth. Her stomach convulsed into a dry heave.

He grabbed a handful of her hair by the roots and jerked her head back.

Intense pain caused the automatic release of the pit bull bite she had locked onto his arm.

Dismissing the grip on her hair, he let her fall onto her back, head on the pillow, and plastered an open hand across her left cheek.

Jewels shrieked. The blood on her lips from Tank's arm splattered the rock wall.

He wound up to hit her again, this time from the right side, but she blocked the rap with her forearms folded in front of her face. "I like a bitch with some fight." He let out a fiendish chuckle and pinned her arms above her head with his left hand.

Fists balled, Jewels yanked her arms and contorted her body, fighting to break his hold.

A second smack delivered to her cheek ratcheted down her combativeness.

Jewels moaned.

Tank spawned an evil smile of satisfaction. Delivering one swat at a time, he continued to slap her. Left cheek. Right cheek. Left cheek. Right cheek. Left cheek. Her head rolled back and forth like a Slinky on a seesaw.

Teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, her eyes drifted shut. Resistance faded to zilch.

"Oh, no you don't. You're not gonna faint on me." He halted the methodical slapping to rapidly flick his middle finger on her cheek, drawing her back to consciousness.

Gasping, her eyes floated open.

He released her arms.

Conscious, but exhausted, Jewels' head felt like it had been turned into kneaded bread dough. Cheeks stung as if seared on a hot grill. Just as before when Tank abducted her from her home, any physical efforts she expended in self-defense were no match for his overpowering strength.

Feelings of hopelessness and doom threatened to kill the few shreds of courage she had left. Yet she battled the urge to succumb to defeat. The fight instinct, though dim, still sparked within. "No." Her voice barely audible.

He watched her. His knees straddled her waist. Hands pressed into the mattress at the side of her shoulders.

"Leave me alone." The volume in Jewels' voice increased to a whisper. Enough strength had returned she flatten palms against his solid chest and pushed.

Amusement brightened Tank's face as he allowed her to paw him.

"Get off me." Her voice just below the conversation level, she exerted more force against his body with her hands.

"Gooooood." Tank leaned back to rest his butt on his heels.

Jewels' mental determination to fight, along with her physical strength, was returning.

Pulling one of the four pieces of rope from his hip pocket, he held it in front of her face and tugged on the ends.

"No, please..." Terror gobbled her up inside and out.

He latched onto her right arm and circled the rope around her wrist, jerking it tight and knotting it.

The sharp pinch sent a sudden surge of panic—and energy—through her body. "No." Jewels exploded into an upright position and wrenched her arm free of his hold. Fingers forged into talons, she churned her hands in midair, raking at the stitches on Tank's face.

The mixer beater motion of her hands turned the dangling end of the rope tied around her wrist into a whip. A few lashes landed across Tank's forehead and his Mike Tyson nose.

"Awwwwwh!" He captured her two fleshy claws in his giant hand. "So you wanna play rough." He belted her across the face in a retaliation.

Jewels' entire upper body was thrown back to the pillow. Her face burned like a styptic pencil on a shaving cut. Lactic acid buildup in her muscles from her frenzied attack caused her arms to feel bulky and heavy. Powerless to resist, all she could do was scream for help. "Marshall! Marshall!"

Tank fastened the loose end of the rope tied around her right wrist to the leg of the bed.

Holding her breath, she listened. Hoping. Praying the sound of rushing footsteps would flood her ears.

Nothing. Only an occasional creak of the bed springs and Tank's rhythmic heavy breathing.

He coiled the second piece of rope around her left wrist. Knotted it.

Jewels winced in pain, unable to mustered no more resistance than a feeble old woman. Her mind swam in a bog of frustration. _God will get you!_ she remembered the crotchety nun warning. Maybe the Sister was right. God's wrath was being bestowed by way of a satanic mortal beast.

Surely not. God wasn't to blame, yet He sure could help. Thoughts of divine intervention were overshadowed with hope of rescue by the earthly Marshall Watters.

Tank watched Jewels as her tears of torment rained down her cheeks, around her ears, and puddled on her hair. After a moment, he stood up, wrenched her left arm out to the side and above her head and prepared to bind it to the other post of the bed.

"Help! Somebody! Marshall!"

Tank smirked. Wound the end of the rope around the post.

Jewels closed her eyes and prayed. For strength. For the ability to endure whatever this maniac had planned. And most all, for help.

_Help?_ Who was she kidding? A surge of tears spilled from her closed eyes. Help wasn't coming. This was Gehenna for her mortal being. Hell in real time...

Her visions of perdition were interrupted by the real world sound of flesh walloping flesh. Jewels' eyes flew open.

Tank wavered at the side of the bed as if standing in a dinghy on choppy water. Once his stance solidified, he rubbed his jaw and side of his neck. He turned his body to face his attacker. "Watters."

_Marshall!_ More tears. This time tears of relief. "Thank you," she whispered to God.

"Get the fuck out of here, Tank." Marshall parked his hands high on his hips. He glanced at Jewels, concern filled his eyes.

"Marshall, help me. Please help me." She tugged on the ropes.

Tank extended his hands to his side as a gesture of peace. "Awh, come on, Watters. Don't be greedy. Why not share the pretty little bitch with a fellow patriot?"

"Forget it."

Tank responded with a fast knuckle sandwich in his face.

Marshall staggered backward, reclaimed his footing, planted his legs in a combat stance, fists high, ready for war.

Tank grinned. "Let's see. I outweigh you by a hundred pounds or more, but you SEALS will put up one helluva good fight no matter the odds."

"Damn straight. You know we live by the motto _the only easy day was yesterday_."

"Semper Fi." Tank chuckled and mirrored Marshall's stance. "Come on Watters. Put your tough guy motto aside and do this the easy way. Turn around and leave—"

"I already said forget it."

"Fine, we'll do it the hard way." He narrowed his dark eyes and rolled his fists in front of his chest in a slow speed bag motion indicating hand-to-hand combat would be forthcoming. "There's only one way this is gonna end and that's with that bitch gettin' a lesson she'll never forget."

While the ex-SEAL and ex-Marine exchanged heated words, Jewels had gained renewed strength. She balled her hands into tight fists and contested the ropes with all her might.

After a few hard pulls, the rope binding her left arm relinquished its hold to the bed. Tank hadn't finished securing it!

With her left hand free, she pushed herself into a sitting position. She checked on raging the battle.

Marshall was hunkered down, ready to tackle.

Tank charged. Plowed his forearms into Marshall's chest, driving him rearward into the steel cell door, his head snapping back. The whiplash of his skull collided with the metal door generated a terrible-sounding thud.

Jewels worried Marshall could lose. As soon as she was free, she would assist him fight by kicking Tank in the kidneys, biting him on the leg, jumping on his back to choke him, scratching is eyes out...

Temporarily abandoning thoughts of aiding Marshall, she concentrated on picking the knots in the rope around her right wrist. After shattering two acrylic fingernails and deciding the knots were too tight to pick, she opted for attempting to loosen the other end of the rope; the one binding her to the bed.

She dug at the knot. Broke another nail. Made zero progress. Even tried to pick the knots with her teeth. Nada. "Come on." Just then an idea eclipsed her mounting frustration. "Slide the rope down the leg to the bottom and lift the bed to freedom."

Scooting her body close to the wall and leaning over, she stuffed her free hand down the small three-inch gap between the bed and the wall to see if it would even fit.

Though a tight squeeze, her fingertips reached the floor. "Okay," Jewels whispered in triumph. "Now let's see if the leg can be lifted."

Retracting her hand, she craned her head, straining to determine the construction of the leg. The bottom the shaft was crimped and flattened out, like an old-fashioned three-pronged Christmas tree stand. There was a hole in the center of the flat part so it could be fastened to the floor by a screw, but nothing was holding it in place.

Jewels' heart swelled with hope.

She inched the rope down the leg. Progress was slow. Minimal. Tank had fastened the rope around the metal leg tighter than around her wrist. Still, she persevered, driving the rope toward the floor while enduring the frightening grunts, groans, and growls of the two battling titans.

A horrible noise froze her actions. It was a gruesome sound, like a live trout being bludgeoned to death with the lead-end of a fish whacker.

Then silence.

As quickly as the battle began, it ended.

Jewels hesitated to glance over her shoulder to see which man was left standing.

Finally she looked.

Lip bloodied, Tank towered in triumph over a knocked cold Marshall Watters lying in a heap by the door.

"Marshall! Marshall." Instinct catapulted Jewels toward his side. But her tethered hand spun her back to the bed. Three of the four bed legs had been anchored into the rock floor. She wasn't going anywhere.

"Your boyfriend _won't_ be helping you." Tank mopped the blood from the corner of his lip with the tail of his shirt as he gazed at her sitting near the top of the bed.

A _code black_ situation again. What could she do? Her mind scrambled for options. _Injury trumps strength. Injury trumps strength_.

Tank wiped his blood splattered hands on his pants. "Where were we?" He lumbered to the cot and bent over her.

_Cock and lock._ She pushed her back against the mattress and coiled her knees into her chest. Flexed her feet. Aimed for his bandaged arm.

The instant he was within striking distance, she unloaded a flurry of frenzied kicks at the target.

Bullseye!

He grabbed his arm and retreated out of range of her kicks. "Fucking bitch."

Jewels reloaded. Feet ready to fire another blistering round.

Tank shimmied his shoulders and shook his arms, as if shedding snow from a winter coat. He eyed her. "That was pretty good." A hint of approval leaked from his voice. "But I took care of your former Navy SEAL boyfriend..." he pitched his head at Marshall conked out on the floor, "so I can take care of you." He pounced on her drawn up legs.

Jewels shrieked. The impact of his weight forced her entire body to rotate toward the wall, legs pressed together deep into the mattress. She hammered the fist of her free hand at his face.

Using the side of his body to hold her down, he snatched her arm, jerked it toward the corner of the bed.

"Noooo!" She wigged her body and tugged her arm. "Marshall! Help me!"

He wrapped the loose end of the rope cinched around Jewels' left wrist to the bed leg, once again knotting it. This time inescapably tight. Leaning his body against her hips, as if in a moment of relaxation, he gazed at her lying there.

Every muscle in her body tense. Face twisted in frustration. Fists tight. Breaths labored.

So much for cocked and locked. So much for injury trumps strength. So much for help from Marshall Watters. Jewels hated to admit it. But it appeared she was screwed. Not just figuratively, but soon to be literally as well.

"Ah, yes. That's what we were doing before we were so rudely interrupted." Tank spawned a villainous grin and drew another length of rope from his back pocket. Dangled at her.

"Pervert!" She spit in his face.

"Got to get ya some manners. Shoulda fucked ya and maybe that mutt of yours, too, when I had the chance at your house." He wound the rope multiple times around her right ankle. Knotted it.

"Marshall! Wake up! Marshall!"

"Wake up, Marshall," Tank mocked in high-pitched, sniveling singsong as he drew the remaining piece of rope from his pocket to wrap it around her left ankle.

"Help! Marshall! Help."

Using the weight of his body to keep her legs in check, he forced her bunched up legs to straighten, binding them to the edges of the metal footboard. Once her legs were secure, he rolled off her. Stood up. Parked his hands on his hips and watched her.

Jewels fought the ropes. Kicked, jerked her arms, and twisted her body, struggling to break free. But her energy was wasted.

The rope was strong. Knots unforgiving. Bed solid.

"You're one spunky broad." Tank jumped on top of her, his knees straddling her waist. "So is it true..." he loosened his belt to unzip his pants, "you're a bitch with old fashioned values. Never fucked another man except your husband?"

A rhetorical asinine question. A virgin when she married, Robert was the only man she had ever made love with. Yet Tank's tone implied her lack of premarital sex was shameful.

Sucking in air hard from the battle she had waged against the ropes and lost, she turned her head toward the wall, staring vacantly in silence.

"Damn! Lucky me. So I'll be only the second man you've ever had. You know what they say, once you've had black you'll never go back." He bellowed a sinister laugh and with one might yank, ripped her muumuu-sized T-shirt in half.

"Stop it." Jewels tussled the restraint of the ropes and squirmed under the mass of his body.

"Got this far the other night at your place." Tank caressed her tan breasts spilling out of the black lace bra.

"Get off me! Leave me alone." Her limbs constricted as far as the ropes would permit.

Tank squeezed her pumping breasts.

"Marshall! Wake Up! Marshall! Pleeeeeease—"

"Shut the fuck up. You're givin' me a headache with this Marshall bullshit." Tank pinched her breasts harder.

"Marshall! Marshallllll!"

He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and wadded it into a ball. "I fuckin' told you to shut the fuck up, you stubborn bitch." He stuffed the balled-up hanky into her mouth.

Coughing, almost vomiting, she saved herself by pushing the wad of cloth out of her mouth with her tongue. "Marshall! Help me!"

"For crissakes, woman." Tank stripped the leather belt off his pants and scooped up the wadded hanky she had spit out.

Jewels continued to plea for Marshall's help.

"Let's see you spit this out, you feisty little bitch." Tank jammed cloth ball into her mouth to create a _stuff gag_ then adding an _over-the-mouth gag_ by wrapping the belt across her mouth, behind the back of her head and around to her face, buckling it over her mouth. He had created a classic _layered gag_ : a series of gags placed over each other to effectively quiet the victim, but not without the high risk of her choking to death.

The coppery tang of blood filled Jewels' mouth; blood from the force of the wide leather belt crushing her tender lips against her teeth. Tank was right, she would never spit out this gag. Sobbing, she closed her eyes in dread.

"Eyes open, Bitch." Tank thumped her cheek with the tip of his finger.

In numbed horror she watched him draw the Leatherman multipurpose tool from the sheath on the side of his belt, configuring it into scissors.

"Gonna have a titty-twistin' blast." He sliced open the front of her bra and peeled it away to reveal her bare breasts.

Tank was crazed. Jewels' muscles tightened. "God, please don't make me go through this," she begged beneath the brutal makeshift gag.

Tank re-configured the multi-tool into pliers. Clicked them open and closed. He gazed at her perfect round breasts, his eyes crinkled in mirthfulness. "Like I said, 'titty-twistin' time."

Jewels clamped her eyes shut, attempting to prepare for the kind of pain she couldn't comprehend until the torturing began. "Marshall, please wake up. Please."

_THUMP!_ It was a sickening, gruesome sound like sledgehammer pulverizing a fresh turkey carcass.

Jewels' body flinched. Eyes flew open.

Marshall's fist had pounded into the side of Tank's ear hitting the mastoid bone; a classic boxing knockout blow.

A nanosecond later Tank crashed on top of Jewels. Eyes closed. Body motionless.

A shrill shriek escaped her brutal gag.

Milliseconds later, she felt Tank being pulled off her by his legs. His limp body landed on the stone floor with a hard _thud_. Stretching her neck forward, she strained to see what was happening on the floor next to the bed.

"Julia. Jewels, are you okay?" an exhausted-sounding Marshall Watters called from the floor near the foot of the bed where he had dragged Tank.

"I'm okay. I'm okay." She nodded her head up and down. Tears of relief showered her smiling cheeks.

Marshall crawled on his hands and knees to Jewels' side. At the sight of her bare breasts, he peeled off his T-shirt and covered her chest with it.

"Thank you," Jewels mumbled, the hanky stuffed in her mouth and leather belt buckled over her mouth impeding her words.

Kneeling at her bedside, Marshall gazed at Jewels, his body weaving back and forth. The spaced out look on his face warned he had not fully recovered from the fight with Tank.

Afraid he would pass out before she was free, Jewels tugged on the ropes to attract his attention. Motioned to her bound wrists with her head."The ropes. Please, untie me."

Marshall's face compressed. He stared at her for a moment. "Oh. Got it. Untie you," he said with a fleeting smile while oddly nodding his head. "I'll have you through ... by ... uh, out of those in a jiffy." Clumsily he retrieved the switch blade from his pocket.

Speech slow and choppy, he sounded drunk. Jewels worried he had suffered a concussion and may pass out any second.

Still on his knees, Marshall leaned against the bed and propped himself up on the mattress with his elbows. As if in slow motion, he began sawing the rope binding Jewels' left hand making about as much progress as one would using a butter knife to cut steel wire.

Preoccupied with images of freedom, Jewels didn't pay much attention to Marshall's lack of progress. Once liberated of the ropes, she planned to throw her arms around Marshall Watters' neck to thank him for rescuing her in the nick of time. Maybe even add a kiss or two figuring, given the circumstances, that was about all she dared do to express gratitude to her hero.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Tank pushing to his feet, rising like a devil from the depths of hell.

Jewels' eyes rounded to half-dollar size. "Behind you! Behind you," she screamed, her words a jumble of unintelligible gasps and shrieks due to the layered gag still doing an excellent job of inhibiting her voice.

Marshall ceased sawing the rope, focused her wrist. Examined it. Apparently thinking he had accidentally cut her flesh.

_Shit! Marshall isn't getting it._ Jewels upped her efforts. Wildly pitched with her head toward the bottom of the bed and thrashed her body against the mattress while continuing to grunt and squeak garbled incomprehensible noises and madly point with her fingers—as best as she could with her hands still bound to the headboard—at Tank who was creeping toward Marshall.

Finally, Marshall glanced over his shoulder. He pushed himself to his feet and turned.

Tank bulldozed a steely fist into his gut.

Marshall buckled in half, dropping to his knees.

Tank finished him off with a violent kick to his jaw with the toe of his boot, hitting boxing's coveted _sweet spot_.

Marshall's head twisted and whipped to the right. He let out a long deep groan and crashed onto the floor on his side. Once again, knocked out.

Victorious, Tank stumbled to Jewels, pliers still in his hand. He snarled, showing his teeth covered in crimson film. "Time for payback, Bitch."

In desperation, she battled to escape her bonds, focusing her efforts on the rope around her left arm Marshall had started to cut. She tightened her fist, stiffened her muscles, and cast her entire body weight behind each powerful jerk of her arm.

But Marshall's knife hadn't weakened the rope enough to relent its hold and the gag was suffocating. Her nostrils flared. She sucked air in and out. A mixture of saliva and blood oozed from under the brutal muzzle.

A demented look glazed Tank's face. He grabbed Marshall's T-shirt off her chest. "Fucking boy scout." He tossed the shirt onto the floor. "Now, I'm gonna _really_ give you fuckin' pain."

Despite her never-give-up combat mindset, lack of oxygen and zapped muscle strength forced her surrender.

Crawling on top of her, again Tank straddled her hips between his knees. "Maybe I should gouge out your eyes, like you tried to do to me."

Jewels wagged her head back and forth. Begged him not to hurt her, but, of course, her pleas were unintelligible. Not that it would have mattered if he could have understood her.

He opened the pliers and lowered them toward her left breast. "Maybe I'll twist off your nipples first, then—"

"Don't think so." Marshall delivered a double-fisted rabbit punch to the base of Tank's skull, dropping him to the floor. "Illegal in boxing, but fair play with you."

Still a bit unstable, Marshall stepped over the fallen deviant and scooped up his T-shirt Tank had discarded onto the floor. Once again covered Jewels' exposed breasts. "I promise, I'll take care of him this time for good."

Rolling Tank over onto his stomach with his foot, Marshall cuffed his hands behind him and dragged him out the door by his feet. He hustled back to Jewels' side and knelt next to the bed. "First things first." He unbuckled the belt gag and removed it.

Jewels spit out the bloody handkerchief ."Thank you, Marshall. Thank you so much."

He picked up the corner of the shirt covering her breasts and dabbed the bloody saliva from her cheeks and around her mouth.

Jewels smiled. Her heart soared. Marshall Watters was her hero. Her savior.

"Sorry, I wasn't quite on my game the first time Tank knocked me out." He sliced through the rope binding her left hand.

"You _did_ seem a little woozy."

"Second time's the charm." He liberated her right hand and moved down to her legs.

Holding Marshall's black shirt over her breasts, she sat up. Eyed her hero as he freed her right foot. Unable to help herself, she ogled his naked upper body. Lean and muscular chest. Broad V-shaped back. Ripped abs. Small, firm waist. Ballooning biceps. Chiseled triceps...

Marshall glanced over her shoulder at her. "I'm going to—"

"What?" She blinked rapidly and swallowed hard. Her face heated up. _Busted!_ He caught her leering at him.

Marshall grinned. "I'm going to have to leave for a while to take care of Tank." He cut through the last rope binding her to the bed.

"Leave? Now?" A mixture of fear and disappointment swept her face.

"You'll be fine. _Trust me_ , Jewels." He rose to his feet. Padded to the prison cell door and turned back to face her. "Don't worry. I _will_ be back." He thrust his arms in front of his body to flex his chest and arms in the classic bodybuilder _most muscular pose_ and winked at her, before closing and locking the door behind him.

Blowing air through pursed lips, she let out a silly giggle. Allowed her body to fall backward onto the bed. Bunching up Marshall's shirt, she covered her face with it. Inhaled. Relished his scent that acted like an aphrodisiac, moistening her panties with sexual slush.
Twenty-Eight

**RECOVERED FROM MARSHALL'S** muscle show, which had almost given her a spontaneous orgasm, Jewels slid out of the bra Tank mutilated. Slipped Marshall's shirt over her head and darted to the sink, gulping water from her cupped hands.

The cool refreshment snaked its way down to her stomach, soothing her parched innards.

She clucked her tongue to the roof of her mouth and distorted her face at the taste of blood while fighting the compulsion to throw up.

"A toothbrush and toothpaste is what I really need." Such items were taken for granted _on the outside_ , while those basic necessities were deemed prison luxuries requiring approval and supervision by the powers that be. In the absence of rudimentary oral hygiene products, she opted to gargle a few times.

After quenching her thirst and gargling one last time, Jewels splashed cool water on her face.

Immediately gasped in pain. The water burned her cheeks like cayenne pepper on a sensitive tongue. Up to this moment she had avoided looking in the reflecting square. However, the pain on her cheeks drew a vision of her possible frightening appearance as a result of Tank's slaps. Her eyes, lips, and jaw were probably swollen. Complexion blotchy red littered with blooming black and blue marks and maybe a few scratches.

Fearing the battered boxer-like face that might stare back at her, Jewels stood in front of the shiny metal square, eyes shut, building the nerve to look at herself. "You can do this, Jewels." She sucked in a deep breath for courage, exhaled, and opened her eyes.

Her mouth dropped at the sight of her reflection. She leaned closer to the square and touched her cheeks with the tips of her fingers.

The image staring back at her was not the one she expected. Aside from a few tear streaks, her face appeared normal.

How was that possible? No marks. No cuts. Lips weren't even swollen. For second time, no less?

She closed her eyes in gratitude, thanked God for her good fortune and Marshall Watters for coming to her rescue.

With her thirst and curiosity satisfied, Jewels traipsed back to the bed. Sat on the edge. Picked at the knots on the pieces of rope still attached at her wrists and ankles.

As she worked to loosen the gnarl, her mind wondered about Tank. Just thinking about his demented plan of revenge set off an involuntary shock through her spine, jolting her entire body.

She shifted her thoughts to a more pleasing vision: studly Marshall Watters, whom she owed a lot. Perhaps her life.

Tank's rape attempt must have been one of those _really important_ times Marshall spoke of ... one of those times when he _could_ be trusted. One of those times when she could _like_ him. A lot.

Taking a break from picking the knots for a moment, Jewels scooted her body to lean against the stone wall and closed her eyes. Allowed her mind to wander.

Thoughts of Marshall Watters circulated those clichéd _warm fuzzies_ inside, unleashing her sensual goddess within that purred like a house cat and roared like a tiger. Her nipples constricted. Femininity moistened. A firestorm of erotic tingles electrified her body.

_Stockholm Syndrome_ suddenly lit up across her mind. "Oh my gawd," Jewels blurted, her eyes wide as feelings of guilt and shame demolished her lustfulness. She crossed her arms over her chest in embarrassment and speculated aloud. "Could I be falling into the psychological trap of bonding with one of my captors?"

About six months ago she had researched a story involving three women held hostage in a bank during a botched robbery. After an intense police standoff lasting about six hours, one of the three women ended up siding with the robber and attempted to help him elude law enforcement.

Investigators concluded the woman had succumb to the phenomenon where kidnap and hostage victims acquire an emotional attachment to their captor ... and it happened to her in less than six hours.

"That's _not_ going to happen to me." She thrust her fists into the mattress at her sides and sat a little taller. She recalled from her article that four conditions had to be present for a victim to become susceptible to Stockholm Syndrome.

Jewels _had_ to know whether or not she was a viable candidate. She scanned her memory for the specifics.

"Kidnapper must have his victim in some sort of life-threatening situation." She rolled her eyes. "Well, gee, that's a no-brainer. Have that one for sure." She raised her index finger to signify one.

"Victim must not be able to escape; life depends on captor." Surveying the dreary jail cell, she raised a second finger. "Not that I haven't tried to escape, or that I won't continue to try to escape, but as my situations stands now, I'm two for two." Her stomach knotted.

"Captor shows kindness as well as violence, increasing victim's sense of being totally dependent on captor." She thought of Marshall Watters. He had shown his willingness to manhandle her, strap her down, gag her. Yet, he had also shown kindness and goodness, like when he let her shower and brought her fresh clothing and, of course, when he rescued her from Tank. Then there was his promise to help her when the situation was _really important_.

Shaking her head, she sighed. "That, too." Finger number three went up.

"Victim focuses on survival, clings to captor because he has complete power over her. When the captor doesn't use his power, victim feels grateful. Hence the captor becomes a _good guy_ in the victim's mind."

Hanging her head, Jewels bobbled it up and down slowly as finger number four rose. "More than once I considered Marshall Watters my hero," she conceded with a hint of disappointment.

That cinched it. She _was_ a prime candidate for Stockholm Syndrome.

She pondered her situation. Reasoned the first step to combating a potential problem was knowing you have one. Or in this case, recognizing you may be _susceptible_ to one. Now she knew. Now she could guard against it.

"Never forget Marshall Watters is one of _them_. One of the _bad guys_ ," she whispered, vowing not to allow herself to become another victim helplessly caught in the psychological trap of capture-bonding. No matter how good looking, charming, and sexy he appeared.

Resuming her knot picking, Jewels loosened the final loop on the last piece of rope; the one around her left wrist. Her watch appeared from under the unraveled coils: 8:58.

"Less than one short hour ago I was at Tank's mercy." The stark horror of how close she had come to gruesome torture, and perhaps death, sinking in.

Her mind leaped to Marshall. His heroics were not a mishmash of innuendo and wishful thinking. What he did was indisputable. Tank's revenge was thwarted _only_ because Marshall Watters had come to her aid.

"Psychobabble," Jewels scoffed. "Maybe this so-called psychological phenomenon of trauma-bonding, is a bunch of hooey," she ventured, shaking off the Stockholm Syndrome possibility.

She massaged her throbbing wrists and ankles, noticing her skin was turning colors. A telltale sign of the furious, yet pointless, battle she had waged against Tank's ropes. Jewels figured the matching deep purple _bracelets_ around her wrists and ankles were destined to brand her for the next week or longer.

Lips curled in disgust, she tried to imagine how in the world she'd cover those ugly marks. How many new long sleeved blouses she'd have to buy. And how many, if any, of her current collection of dress boots would match the new blouses.

Her mind detoured to the household chores needing to be done and business requiring follow-up at the office ... as soon as she returned home later that day.

Jewels understood there was a fine line between positive thinking and denial. Worrying about such trivialities meant she was teetering on the brink of denial. She didn't want to surrender to the notion she would not be rescued before the Commander came to take her away and do the good-god-only-knew-what with her. Yet, she knew if she succumbed to doom, the fire inside giving her the courage to press forward, to foster hope, to fight for freedom, would be lost.

The jingling of keys outside her door snuffed her mental analysis. Was Tank returning to finish the job? Terror strangled her mind and body. Tucking her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her shins. Held her breath, unable to keep her lips from trembling.

The door swung open.

"Marshall!" Jewels leaped off the bed and ran to him. Threw her arms around his neck, squashed her free-flowing breasts against his hard chest, and hugged him with all of her might. "Thank you for saving me." she whispered, suppressing the impulse to nibble his earlobe and swallow his waist between her legs.

"Hey, I told you I'd come back." He patted his hand between her shoulder blades before peeling her hands from around his neck. He looked her square in the eyes. "Jewels, we have to talk. This is important."

She wiped her hands on her pants to dry the nervous sweat from her palms and looked up at him.

"It's Tank. He's going on trial and Cooman wants you there."

"A trial? Now?"

"Yes. Right now, so you better slip on your boots. And I brought you another bra." He handed it to her and turned his back to give her privacy.

Preoccupied with the news of a trial, she wasn't the least astonished at having received a black lacy bra to replace the one Tank destroyed. Though she did notice Marshall was wearing another black T-shirt. Damn. She wouldn't mind if he never again wore a T-shirt in her presence.

She slipped into the bra, crawled back into Marshall's extra large T-shirt, and wiggled her bare feet into the combat boots missing laces. "I'm ready."

He spun on his heel to face her.

"This is what I call a _speedy_ trial," Jewels said with a joking tone, her eyes glistening.

Marshall frowned. "This is serious, Jewels." He grasped her elbow to escort her into the hallway.

Embarrassment heated Jewels' face. Clearly her comment had been inappropriate, though she didn't know why. Yet.
Twenty-Nine

SATURDAY, 0942 HOURS.

Jewels' two-sizes-too-big boots clip-clopped against the stone floor as Marshall marched her past several occupied theater-style rows of folding chairs toward the front of the cafeteria that doubled for a meeting hall. Or courtroom when necessary.

A large black desk and two metal chairs, positioned to face the crowd, were elevated on a portable wooden stage rising about three feet above the main floor.

General Cooman sat behind the desk. Appeared to be wearing a black judicial robe. A walnut gavel and sound block lay in front of him on the desk.

The judge, Jewels assumed.

Leftover breakfast foods had been stashed. Dishes rinsed, and loaded in the commercial dishwasher. And the stainless steel buffet tables had been emptied, cleaned, and pushed next to the restaurant-quality stove, oven and refrigerator on the far side wall. The cafeteria turned courtroom was silent as a funeral parlor. No one whispered. Or smiled.

Marshall escorted Jewels up the plank steps and motioned for her to have a seat in one of the two chairs positioned in front of the judge's desk, but off to the side.

Squirming in the cold metal chair, Jewels cleared her throat.

Marshall sat next to her. Without looking at her, he rested his hand on her arm. Squeezed. Not a tender, reassuring squeeze, but a threatening you-better-not-do-that kind of a squeeze. The kind of squeeze a parent might give a child impolitely staring at a strange-faced dinner guest.

Reading his tacit message, she stared forward. Perfectly still. And silent. Like everyone else in the room.

While doing her best to imitate a granite statue, Jewels observed that all of the men in the room, about twenty total, were well armed. In addition to their sidearms—a semi-auto of some type—each had a rifle either slung over his shoulder or across his chest. It appeared the preferred weapon of this militia was Colt's AR-15. Reminded of her own Colt AR-15 HBar locked in her gun safe at home.

All the men in the room were dressed identically. Woodland green battle dress uniforms, a military cap that matched the BDUs, and shiny black combat boots that laced up to the middle of their calves. All of the men, that is, except for two: Marshall Watters and Doc Callahan.

The reason Marshall didn't carry a gun was because he was a prison guard, Jewels figured. But why would he wear a black T-shirt and black pants instead of camo clothes?

Hmmm. Black. Prison. Maybe Marshall Watters wore black for intimidation value. Maybe he wanted prisoners to fear him. To think of him as an executioner. The leader of a death squad...

Jewels shuddered involuntarily.

Marshall felt it. Looked at her. Widened his eyes and tilted his head slightly as if seeking an explanation.

She shrugged it off and focused her clothing analysis on Doc.

Next to the cafeteria entry, Callahan stood wearing stereotypical doctor garb: a white lab coat, dark dress pants, and a stethoscope around his neck. Made her think of Peter guarding the Pearly Gates on Judgement Day.

Wanting to let out a gut-bellowing burst of laughter at the absurd analogy, she bridled the urge given the grave circumstances. Thinking about Doc, she acknowledged a tinge of fondness had blossomed in her heart for Leo Callahan. His hands were healing hands, not killing hands, which was why he wore a _white_ lab coat and didn't pack a gun.

Chaos erupted in the hall from a yet-to-be-seen source. Commotion. Shouting.

Jewels recognized the shouting voice. It was Tank's. He was angry. Arrogant. Spewing every foul word she ever heard. The racket of chains being dragged on the floor filled the air.

From seemingly out of nowhere, like an apparition materializing, Tank became visible. Thick chains dangled from his neck to his hands, to his waist and legs. He looked like modern-day Frankenstein of sorts.

Gawking wide-mouthed, a speck of righteous satisfaction blossomed in Jewels' innards. The bastard was deservedly chained like a monster.

From the doorway of the cafeteria, Tank surveyed the room. His dark eyes focused on Jewels. He peeled his lips back, baring his teeth.

Jewels' heart leaped into her throat. She gulped a bubble of air.

Suddenly he burst into a leg-iron restricted sprint toward her. Hands stretched out in front ready to grab. "I'm gonna fuckin' cut your fuckin' eyes out. Fuckin' slice and dice your fuckin' face. Then fuckin' fuck your brains out. You no good, filthy, cunt, bitch."

Jewels' eyes went full moon. Before he could advance to within arms' reach of the stage, she catapulted out of her chair. Scrambled over Marshall, blasting him so hard he fell backward out of his seat. She dashed to the three foot open space between Cooman's chair and the back edge of the stage and crouched down.

Tank buck-jumped onto the stage in front of Cooman's desk and pounded several hate-filled punches at it. The chains binding his arms crashed against the metal desk.

Jewels hung on to the back of the Cooman's chair and peered over his shoulder. Watched as the strength of four men heaving the chains locked around Tank's neck was required to halt his attack and drag him off the stage.

Tank's beady eyes bulged. A purple glow washed his ebony face with rage. The hideous wound on his cheek cracked beneath the stitches. Oozed blood. "Get out here, you fuckin' cunt. Get out here. Right now, Bitch."

The guards muscled Tank back toward the door.

Cooman lengthened his neck and glimpsed behind him at Jewels cowering at the back of his chair. "It's okay now, Miz Andrasy. You can come out."

Seeking confirmation it was safe to relinquish her hiding spot, she glanced over at Marshall standing near the front of Cooman's desk. Presumably poised to engage Tank and protect her had the guards not been able to control him.

Marshall strolled over and offered his hand to help her up. "Come on, it's safe."

Jewels accepted his hand. As she rose from behind the general's chair, her eyes were drawn to Tank standing back by the door. Heavily restrained, and now gagged with a rubber ball similar to what he had used on her she supposed. How ironic.

Jewels reclaimed the seat on stage she had moments ago fled.

Marshall sat next to her.

Cooman pounded the gavel, signifying court was in session. "It is hereby ordered that Gerald Whitlock, also known as Tank, have his eyes gouged out with a hot poker for crimes committed against Miz Andrasy, who shall have the privilege of performing the punishment."

Jewels swiveled her head between Cooman and Tank. She shot to her feet, fists thrust downward at her side. "No. I can't. I won't." Hysteria radiated through her voice.

Cooman's seaweed eyes narrowed. "Is it not true you had intended to rip out Tank's eyeballs when he attacked you at your home?"

Panic stole Jewels' features. And mind. "Well, yes, that's true but, that was—"

"Here's your chance." Cooman's eyes skewered her with a penetrating chill. He turned to Marshall and the guards holding Tank. "Take them to the _disciplinary room_."

Marshall rose. Grabbed the backs of Jewels' arms.

"No!" Jewels waged war against Marshall's powerful grip.

He pulled her close to his chest and held her securely. "Stop fighting me," he warned, his voice low. "Otherwise the general's going to order you cuffed and gagged. And I'll do it."

Despite Marshall's earlier heroics, Jewels believed he _would_ slap her in handcuffs, clamp her mouth shut, or do to her whatever was ordered. Having that knowledge as her motivation, she surrendered to his hold.

"Do you have her under control?"

Marshall intensified his grasp on Jewels' arms, jerked body rearward, slamming her back against his chest in an obvious display of his overwhelming power.

Jewels' head snapped back. She let out a startled whimper. Though her muscles were tight, she refrained from resisting him. Avoiding a gag and handcuffs trumped any desire to combat his fierce hold.

"You see, Sir, no problem." Marshall marched Jewels down the steps, off the stage, and toward the cafeteria door.

"Punishment to be executed immediately. All are ordered to attend. So let it be written, so let it be done," Cooman stated with great authority. He banged the gavel, signifying court was adjourned.

Despite her dismal circumstances, Cooman spouting the catchphrase, _so let it be written, so let it be done_ , reminded her for classic "The Ten Commandments" movie and the actor who played Ramses. _Crappy Yul Brynner impersonation_.

### Thirty

**1007 HOURS, SPOF DISCIPLINARY ROOM.**

"You bastards." The prisoner struggled with the guard binding his hands behind his back. "You're all nuts. Insane wackos. This isn't what I signed up for and I'm surprised you're buying into this bullshit," he growled at the two other men standing guard, AR's aimed at his chest.

After the guard finished tying his hands together behind his back, he attached a long thick rope around his wrists, tossing the free end over a steel beam that spanned the ceiling of the twenty-foot width of the _disciplinary room_.

Grease Monkey was being prepped for the _strappado_ , deemed the most painful and terrifying form of torture of the twenty-first century. Even worse than water boarding.

With the rope over the beam to act like a pulley, upon Cooman's order, the prisoner would be hoisted up by his bound wrists and suspended in the air. The fact his arms were _behind_ his body would result in the dislocation of his shoulders. For extra pain, if so ordered by Cooman, weights would be added to his dangling feet.

Commotion in the hall.

"Tank's here." One of the guards motioned for the other two to open the door.

Cooman entered, surveyed the prisoner, and smirked. "You'll have entertainment and then an audience for your own punishment."

Marshall held Jewels by the back of her arms guiding her inside.

Widening her eyes at the sinister vibe of the area, her attention was drawn to the prisoner standing across the room with his hands tied behind his back. Presumably the other _guest_ Marshall had mentioned.

Like everyone else, he was dressed in woodland green camos. Broad shoulders and a thick chest stretched the T-shirt across his pecs. His body was solid and compact, reminding her of a badass football player. With his head drooping, thick messed up black hair concealed his face.

Opposite the prisoner, a bank of a dozen folding chairs were lined up in two rows near the wall next to the door where Jewels stood. A variety of metal shackles dangled from anchors in the stone wall to her right. Also to her right, but closer to the folding chairs, a thick wooden post with massive eye-hooks imbedded near the top was cemented into the corner. Whipping post, she concluded.

A hostile-looking wooden table, about the size of a double bed, sat in the center of the room. It, too, was dressed with numerous massive eye-hook anchors near the edges. Next to the table on the floor, a bio gel fueled fire bowl heated a fire iron.

Shivering at the ghoulish sights around the room, Jewels focused her attention on the prisoner.

He raised his head. Glanced over at her.

Jewels did a fast double-take. "Kirk?"

His eyes bugged. "No, dear Jesus, God! Jewels."

Cooman, Watters, and the guards exchanged perplexed glances.

Jewels lurched toward him, but Marshall held her back. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Sharon was his squeeze," Cooman coolly stated. "We'll be helping him keep his oath as well."

"No!" Jewels shook loose of Marshall's grasp and dashed across the room toward Kirk.

Marshall bolted to run off after her, but Cooman grabbed his shirt, stopping him.

She threw her arms around Kirk's neck and hugged him. After a moment she pulled back, gazed into his familiar warm eyes, and caressed the side of his whiskered face. "I'm so sorry, but I think it's my fault Sharon's dead." She broke down and buried her head in his shoulder.

Kirk shook his head. "It's _not_ your fault, Babe." He kissed the top of her head and rested his head on hers.

"Oh, Kirk," she cried, wrapping her arms around his waist, her body engulfing his.

Abruptly he raised his head and pitched his body forward, shoving her away from him.

Staggering back, Jewels gazed at him. Lips quivering, hurt decimating her face. "I'm sorry. I didn't know Sharon and you—"

"You always were a no-good trouble-making wench."

Jewels didn't believe her ears. "You don't mean tha—"

"Get this fucking tart away from me." The guards snatched Jewels by the arms and toted her across the room, back to Marshall.

Everyone but Jewels realized Kirk was trying to protect her. By distancing himself, he hoped they could not use him as leverage to coerce her into agreeing to do god-only-knew-what.

Back under the control of Marshall's firm grasp above her right elbow, Jewels buried her face in her hands and softly sobbed.

"Secure him." Cooman nodded at the prisoner.

The guard jerked the pulley rope, forcing Kirk's arms upward. In response to the pain, he bent his body forward so his torso was parallel with the floor. Groans of misery escaped between his ground teeth.

The guard watched Cooman, who nodded for him to proceed to the next level. The guard yanked on the rope.

"Aaawwwwh, God." Kirk rose up on his tiptoes.

"No! Please stop, Rhett," Jewels begged.

Cooman nodded at the guard to tie-off the pulley, leaving Kirk in the painful position, but not yet to the point of dislocating his shoulders. He looked at Jewels "Who is this guy to you anyway?"

"She's just a fucking wench. Nothing. A bimbo from high school." Kirk's voice a blend of anger and misery.

Lips quivering, Jewels' head drooped, eyes focusing on the floor. "He was my boyfriend." Unable to endure watching Kirk be tortured, she raised her head to gaze at the general. "Please, don't hurt him. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't hurt him. Please," she begged, knowing full well she could never gouge out Tank's eyes as Cooman said she must, but perhaps her concession would buy time to save Kirk. And escape together.

A broad smile parted Cooman's creviced face. "Very well, Sweet Cheeks. But we'll see, won't we?"

Jewels looked over at Kirk, her eyes locked on his. She mouthed, _hang in there_. An unintentional pun.

A slight smile momentarily parted Kirk's tortured face.

"Bring Tank in," Cooman ordered. Eyeing Marshall, he gestured with his head for him to usher Jewels to the _witness chairs_ lined up along the wall.

"Let's have a seat." Marshall gestured with his hand toward the folding chairs.

Tank created a ruckus. Combatted the guards dragging him into the disciplinary room. Despite his vigorous resistance, his efforts were pointless and he remained subdued.

Jewels relished the sight. Her kidnapper was a getting taste of his own medicine. _How does it feel, asshole?_ she wanted to yell, but kept the comment to herself.

Continuing to fight the guards and yell beneath the gag, Tank was slammed on his back onto the thick wooden table. His arms and legs chained spread-eagle.

Terror inched up the back of Jewels' throat. The blood drained from her face. Would she be forced to gouge out Tank's eyes with a hot poker? What would become of Kirk if she refused? What would become of _her_ if she refused?

Doc Callahan entered. Sat next to Jewels. The rest of the compound members filed in one at time, filling the seats. The last three men to enter leaned against the wall next to the door. All the seats had been taken. Cooman stood lingering near the edge of the punishment table.

The two guards standing on either side of Kirk kept their rifles trained on Tank's chest. The guard who had bound Kirk, strolled over to the fire bowl. Stirred the rocks with the poker. Raised it up. Showed the general the glowing red tip.

Cooman nodded.

The guard set the poker back in the fire bowl and returned to Kirk's side.

Jewels shuddered.

The general addressed the witnesses. "Gentlemen, Lady, two deeds of justice need to be executed.

First, Gerald—Tank—Whitlock, for the sexual crimes committed against Julia Andrasy is sentenced to have his sight taken by means of a hot poker jabbed into his eyes by his victim, Julia Andrasy.

"And second, Kirk—Grease Monkey—Kirkland, has been sentenced to the strappado until death for treason."

"No!" Jewels leaped to her feet, her hands balled into white-knuckled fists at her side. "You said you wouldn't hurt—"

"Watters contain her," Cooman ordered.

"Settle down and sit down, Julia." Marshall rose to his feet and latched onto her left forearm.

Jewels whirled around, plastered her fist on the side of Marshall's head, just below his ear, distracting him long enough for her to break free. Bolting to the fire bowl, she grabbed the red hot poker. Waved it in front of Cooman's face. "Cut Kirk down."

The general recoiled from the glowing heat of the fire stoker and fanned his hands out to his side in surrender. "Whoa, Sweet Cheeks."

"Now." She inched the burning tip closer to his face.

"Cut him loose," Cooman commanded, squinting at her like a pissed off Clint Eastwood character in one of his famous Spaghetti Westerns.

All of a sudden, the two armed guards with the ARs pointed at Tank's chest, marched to the table. "Hands up, everyone," the one guard ordered, scanning the barrel of the rifle around the room, while the other guard liberated Tank from the chains binding him to the torture table.

What the hell?

Everyone froze, except Tank, who sat up, removed the ball gag and rolled off the torture table toward Jewels. "These things suck." He tossed the ball gag onto the floor near her feet and rotated his jaw to stretch out the muscles.

"No shit, Sherlock," she sassed with a snarl, feeling untouchable behind the glowing rod.

Tank snickered, eyeing her. "Next time, I'll strap that thing on you so tight," he acted out tightening strap with a quick thrust with his fist, "I'll make sure it strangles you."

Jewels swallowed hard. The red hot poker wobbled in her tremoring hand. Why did she have to open her trap and piss him off?

"Sir..." One of Tank's liberating guards shoved a Beretta model 92 into his hand. "It's loaded."

Tank stuffed the semi-auto into the front of his pants. A predatory expression ripened on his face. His big white teeth glistened under a smile of malicious delight. Eyes shifting back and forth, he surveyed the room. His plotting gaze rested on Jewels.

Backing up toward the door, Jewels waved the poker at Tank. The glow of the tip waning.

Cooman scowled at Tank. "What the hell's going on?"

" _She_ was the last straw." Tank pointed with his chin at Jewels. "The oath's been broken. I'm leaving and so are they." He tilted his head toward the three men who had been guarding Grease Monkey. He looked at Marshall. "Why don't you join us, Watters? I know _you've_ got issues with this place."

Staring back at him, Marshall stood in front of the chairs, legs planted wide, arms folded over his chest. Didn't reply.

"Well, don't say I didn't offer," Tank chuckled.

Inching ever closer to the door, the hot poker in front of her, Jewels eyed Kirk.

Relieved of his bonds he stood erect, rubbing his wrists from the brutal ropes. His face stony. _Kill_ written all over it. Yet when his eyes met hers, his features softened. "Thanks, Babe," he whispered, winking at her.

Tank shifted his attention to Jewels, who was about to disappear into the hallway. He stomped toward her. "And where the hell do you think you're going?" His eyes icy. Jaw set.

Pivoting on her heel, Jewels dashed into the hallway. But wasn't fast enough.

"Gotchya." Tank snagged her arm and wrenched her back into the disciplinary room.

"Nooooo!" Jewels launched an all out kicking assault while wildly swinging the iron poker about to strike his face and body.

Tank whipped her around in front of him and locked her neck in the crook of his arm. The back of her head pressed against his dense chest. He smashed the barrel of the guard's Beretta F92 semiautomatic handgun into Jewels' temple.

She dropped the not-so-hot poker. Her hands grasped Tank's substantial forearm. Forced to stand on tiptoes to keep from strangling, she dug her fingernails deep into his skin, attempting to peel the vise of flesh from around her neck. But her efforts proved useless. His arms were thick and solid like legs, strength crushing like the coil of a man-eating serpent.

Marshall and Kirk bolted toward Tank.

"At ease, boys, or I'll splatter her brains all over these walls."

Marshall and Kirk halted in their tracks.

"You've got a couple of heroes." He crowed a devious laugh while twisting the barrel of the gun into Jewels' right temple.

Moaning in pain, she shuddered in dread. The icy steel barrel felt like the dark finger of death.

"Here's the deal." Tank inched backward toward the door, Jewels in tow in a strangle hold. "Anybody shoots at me or my team, I kill her. Anybody follows me or my team, I kill her. Anybody fuckin' moves," he tipped his head at Watters then at Grease Monkey, "that means you two heroes as well, I kill her."

Shifting her body, Jewels squirmed for a position to breathe more easily. Didn't find one.

Tank constricted his arm, tightening the noose of flesh around her neck.

"Plleeease...." She clawed his arm. "I-I can't breathe."

Watters took a hurried giant step forward.

Tank responded by cocking the hammer on the Beretta.

Watters froze. "Wait. Settle down, Tank." He held his hands out in front of him signaling stop.

"Don't fuckin' tell me to fuckin' settle down. I said you move, she dies." He pressed the gun harder into her temple.

Clamping her eyes shut, Jewels gasped, face warping in agony.

Watters bit his lip. "You're strangling her, Tank. She can't breath. Give her some air, Man. For chrissake, just give her a little air."

Tank didn't let up. Dragging Jewels to the doorway, he quick peeked into the hallway. "Let's go," he said to the turncoat guards, who immediately jogged out the door.

Kirk took a step toward the door as well.

"Not you." Tank aimed the Beretta at his chest and pulled the trigger.

Fire belched from the gun. The deafening noise reverberated through the stone walls.

Jewels screamed. Increased her pointless fighting.

Tank maintained his garrote hold.

Kirk stumbled backward clutching his heart. Blood leaked between his fingers.

"Killing that whore of yours was my pleasure," Tank bragged to Kirk. "As is taking care of you." He shrugged. "Consider that bullet a mercy killing, which beats the hell out of the days of torment you were destined to endure."

Tears flowed as Jewels watched her high school football player boyfriend collapse into a cadaverous heap.

"Cooman, throw your keys over here," Tank demanded. The general had keys to every room in the compound. Although the disciplinary room was never locked. It had been fitted with a special heavy-duty deadbolt, should the need ever arise to prevent entry. Or exit.

General Rhett Cooman didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't say a word. Just stared coldly and defiantly at Tank.

Again Tank jammed the gun hard into Jewels' temple.

Escalated misery blistered her face.

"If you don't want the bitch's fuckin' brains all over this wall, you better throw me those goddamned keys. _Now_."

"For godsakes, General, throw him the fucking keys," Marshall beseeched.

Cooman lobbed the keys toward Tank.

The bundle landed on the floor about two feet in front of his toes.

Looking at Callahan seated on the chair closest to the doorway, "Pick 'em up real slow, Doc, and drop 'em nice and easy in my hand," Tank instructed, flicking his chin toward his hand with the gun in it. Keeping an eye on Callahan, Tank twisted his hand palm up to create a little pocket for the keys, while maintaining the barrel of the gun planted in the side of Jewels' head.

Callahan did as Tank instructed, placing the keys in Tank's hand.

"Thanks, Doc."

Doc turned to sit back down.

"Not so fast Callahan."

The doctor froze.

Tank focused his attention to the remaining militiamen. "I'm gonna lock you boys in this _playroom_." He surveyed the entry. "It shouldn't take you more than a couple of hours to beat down this solid steel door."

"Now here's how we're gonna do it." He dipped his head toward Callahan. "Doc will slowly close the door as I back into the hall. When the door closes all the way, I'll lock it. Then my team, the bitch, and I will be gone."

"Whatever you want." Callahan walked to the entry and placed hands on the handle, preparing to follow through with Tank's dictate.

With Jewels' neck securely tucked into the crook of his arm, gun ground into her head, Tank began stepping backward.

Callahan pushing the door more toward complete closure with each of Tank's rearward steps. With inches to go, Tank stopped, poked his head and shoulders in, dragging Jewels in with him. "Remember, if I see one of you fuckers following us, the bitch dies."

Whimpering, her eyes met Marshall's. "Please, help me." She choked back tears. Understood despite her plea, Marshall couldn't help her. If he tried, Tank would kill them both.

Pursing his lips, Marshall stood motionless.

"Boo-hoo." Tank pulled a mock tearful face. He locked his beady eyes onto Marshall, stuck out his tongue and licked Jewels' cheek.

Cringing, she jerked her head.

Marshall's balled fists convulsed with rage.

"Say goodbye to the pretty little bitch." Tank crowed a wicked laugh, disappearing into the hall.

As planned, his team had already vacated the premises to rendezvous at a designated location out of state at a much later date.

Callahan followed with the door. Snapped it shut.

Tank pitched Jewels across the hall.

Crashing into the wall with her shoulder, she managed to clumsily maintain her footing.

He shoved the key into the doorknob. Turned it to engage the latch. Then with one mighty twist of his wrist, he sheared the key shank off in the lock.

The milliseconds Tank had consumed to jam the lock was ample time to grant Jewels a head start. She had no idea where she was going. Just away from Tank as fast a possible. And, with any luck, maybe out the door and into the woods toward freedom.

Rushing down the hall, the big combat boots echoed an attention-attracting clomp-clomp with every step.

"Get back here, Bitch," Tank howled, bolting into a full gallop after her down the murky corridor.
Thirty-One

INSIDE THE DISCIPLINARY ROOM.

Amplified by the hollow stone corridors, muted sounds of the unfolding chase permeated the thick walls. The beating of frantic feet. Tank's screaming fits of rage and frustration. Jewels' random shrieks; an opera in unadulterated terror.

The fourteen men locked in the room huddled in three small groups, brainstorming solutions. Watters and Cooman stood alone, both near the door.

Rubbing the back of his neck and nibbling on his lip, Marshall paced. "Shit! She doesn't have a chance. We need to help her."

Grim-faced, Cooman nodded. "You're right, she _doesn't_ have a chance. But we need to worry about helping ourselves. I don't want to imagine what's going to happen when the Commander finds out we fucked over any and all plans he had with his dream woman."

A man cleared his throat in an obvious ploy to draw attention. "Excuse me. Excuse me, Sir?"

Cooman shot an annoyed look into the crowd.

A shorter man emerged from the clump of green, black, and tan uniforms dotting the torture chamber.

Cooman's brows knitted at the sight of the janitor. "What do you want, Briggs?"

"Sir, I thought you'd like to know I have a spare set of keys to the entire compound, including this very door," he stated, almost arrogantly, jingling the keys in his pocket.
Thirty-Two

**GALLOPING THROUGH THE DIMLY** lit corridor, the harried clip-clop of Jewels' feet picking up and putting down the big boots reverberated through the hallway like a homing beacon. This was never going to work.

A branch in the hallway was coming up. Should she keep the course running straight, or turn?

Not seeing anything but more inky hallway ahead, she decided to take her chances with the turn and rounded the corner. Another gloomy hallway appeared just like the one she exited.

Time to ditch the speed-draining, noise-making footwear. Not wanting to stop, Jewels slowed her gate. Whipped the boots off one at a time with a forceful heave-ho kick that sent them flying down the hall a good ten feet in front of her. Practically landing on top of one another, the footwear created an eerie-looking heap in the middle of the creepy hall.

Although the boot flinging took a mere millisecond, she figured that might be all the time Tank needed to run her down.

Sure enough. "Bitch," she heard him yell behind her. _Too close_ behind her.

Ramping up speed, Jewels sprinted down the oppressive stone hall. Arms pumping. Hands slicing air. Bare feet rapidly slapping against the cold stone floor. Legs striding long, powerfully, and fast.

Before long, an opening came into view, presumably leading into another hallway. Maybe _this_ was the way to the stairs. To the outside. To freedom. She blasted toward it. Around the corner Jewels sped.

After a few strides, much to her chagrin, the creepy hall looked familiar. _Too familiar._ Her heart sank. Hope vanished. It was the dead-end prison wing.

And Tank was closing the gap.

Even knowing she was speeding toward an eventual impasse and was nowhere near the only exit she knew out of the compound, Jewels kept running. Closer to her cell. Closer to the stone wall with nowhere to turn.

What should she do when she reached the end?

At this point, she had no idea, but wasn't slowing down. A few more strides.

Tank's fingertips skimmed the length of her spine.

Jewels pushed herself to increase speed, but there was nothing more to give. Her legs were operating at full bore. Lungs felt as if they were about to explode.

His hot breath swept across her back.

A split-second later, _WHAM!_ He attacked.

Dispatching a croaky scream, she tumbled to the ground. Her right shoulder absorbed the brunt of the tackle, acting like padding for Tank's heavy body as they skidded across the gritty rock floor to a sliding stop. The pain in Jewels' shoulder was excruciating.

They both lay for a moment, neither moving except for flaring nostrils, gaping mouths, and rapidly rising and falling chests as they sucked in much-needed oxygen.

Tank was first to move. "Gotchya," he whispered in her ear, peeling himself off her crushed body. Springing to his feet, he stretched, aging bones crackling.

Groaning in misery and still breathing hard, Jewels' body was a crumpled heap of pain.

"Get up." He bent down and grabbed her wrist.

Slow to obey his command, Jewels struggled to her feet. "Why don't you just get it over with and kill me now?"

Disappointment rolled over Tank's mean face. "I'm sorry to hear you've given up."

She flicked up her shoulders. "What the hell. We all have to die sometime." She grimaced in pain. Felt Tank's dark eyes studying her. Figured he wondered if her new attitude was real or a ploy.

"Come on." Tank latched onto the her right arm, marching her deeper into the corridor of prison cells.

"Why does it have to be _that_ arm." Jewels looked up at the ceiling. A comment meant for God's ears. Good thing her words weren't intended for Tank because he ignored them.

Towing her back to her prison cell, he pushed her inside.

Stumbling from his forceful shove, she almost careened into the footboard of the cot, but at the last minute regained her footing and saved herself from wrapping her body around the metal piping. She rubbed her throbbing right arm and shoulder and stood at the side of the bed. Turned to face him.

He pointed to the mattress. "Get on the bed." His tone quiet. Calm.

Sucking in a deep breath, Jewels rolled her eyes, widened her leg stance, and folded her arms in defiance. It seemed the nightmare was about to begin. _Again._

"Sit the fuck down," Tank ordered, this time exercising his brute strength to force her onto the cot with one powerful thrust of his palms into her shoulders.

The mattress springs creaked as her body hit them hard with a violent bounce.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jewels wanted to cry, but couldn't. Wanted to conjure up a plan for escape, but couldn't do that, either. Maybe she was too scared. Or too tired. Or just too emotionally and physically drained.

Whatever the reason, Jewels was placid in the presence of her latest captor: her kidnapper and the murderer of Boo-Boo, Sharon, and Kirk. She supposed her name would soon be added to his list of murder victims.

Bending in half for eye-to-eye contact with Jewels, he reached for her cheek.

She recoiled, squinted, and gritted her teeth in anticipation of the penetrating slap that was, no doubt, forthcoming.

"Hmph." Tank caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.

Warily, she opened her eyes one at a time. Confusion drenched her face.

"Let's call a truce," Tank offered with a genuine smile.

Radically, Jewels blinked. His words didn't compute.

Standing up straight, he wiped his palms on the thighs of his pants. Surveyed her. "What you did back there in the disciplinary room with that poker and getting Cooman to release your boyfriend...." his voice trailed off as if in deep thought. "You've got a fearless lion heart."

Jewels raised her brows, looked at him. It almost sounded as if it were painful for him to say that, or maybe he just wasn't accustomed to seeing the positive in others or doling out compliments. "Thank you."

"I have to know, would you have stuck that hot poker in my eyes?"

She gazed wide-eyed up at him. Felt compelled to give him an honest answer. "No, not with you helplessly chained down." She shook her head. "But I would have, if I could have, in self-defense when I thought you were going to kill me."

"Fair enough. I figure if I leave now, lock you in this cell..." he lifted his shoulders, "well, we'd be even."

"So this means you're not going to torture, rape, and kill me?" She cringed at the sound of her own words.

"You _are_ direct," he chuckled.

Jewels gnawed her lip. Verbalizing those thoughts was ridiculous. Even worse was posing them as a question to a bona fide assassin.

Tank's shiny bullethead nodded in agreement. "That's right." His attention was suddenly drawn to the door, as if sensing the need to leave while he still could.

"Well ... thank you," Jewels replied with a cautious smile, thinking this was a side of him she had never seen: compassionate.

Quickly turning his head back to her, he glared. "Don't be thanking me, _Bitch_."

Jewels' face painted sullen. _That_ was the side of Tank she knew.

Striding to the door, he looked back at her. Rubbed the ugly stitches marring his once perfect-complexioned cheek. "You still owe me and I _will_ collect. Maybe even some of that five million you offered Watters and Callahan. And for sure, I want that sweet ride of yours, so get that Humvee restored for me."

Jewels wrapped her arms around herself and scrunched up her shoulders. Tank's revenge wasn't over.

He dug keys out of his pocket. "Assuming you survive the Commander, someday, Julia Andrasy, somewhere, somehow, I _will_ return. You _will_ pay. Revenge _will_ be mine," he promised, again rubbing the mangled flesh on the side of his face before closing and locking the cell door.

Jewels sighed with relief. She dropped her head onto the pillow, curled her body into the fetal position, and wrapped herself in the moth-eaten wool blanket spread across the bed. Shut her eyes. Didn't think of escaping. Or screaming for help. Physical and mental exhaustion had tamed her fight. All she wanted was to sleep and awaken from this nightmare to find herself in her own bed, pain-free with Boo-Boo curled up at her feet.
Thirty-Three

1022 HOURS.

When janitor Briggs opened the door, Marshall was poised to be the first man out. An AR-15 he had commandeered from one of the men was slung across his back. His face was painted in random black stripes and olive green shapes for camouflage. One of the men happened to have a couple sticks of NATO jungle paint in his pocket and passed them around for those who wanted it. Figured Tank and his defectors had absconded with Jewels into the surrounding woods where they'd have to track them.

As the head of SPOF security, Marshall was ordered by the general to lead the search for Jewels.

"Remember," Marshall cautioned the men, " _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 in 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..." he glanced at his wristwatch, "thirteen-hundred hours. We'll meet in the cafeteria. Good luck, Gentlemen." He slipped 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 fell silent, Marshall jogged toward the intersection. After traveling several feet, he realized his boots made too much noise. Swiftly 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 glimpsed around it. Noticed about halfway down the corridor, something on the floor. Jewels? A stab of anxiety pained his gut.

Sliding the AR off his back, Marshall 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. Inched down the corridor, keeping an eye out for any sign of life from the little heap on the floor. Or of Tank from the shadows.

The closer he converged on the mass, the more it became apparent it _wasn't_ Jewels. It was a pair of boots.

Every few seconds Marshall 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, Marshall grinned. Jewels 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, Marshall proceeded down the passage. Before crossing each doorway, he checked if the door was locked. If it was, he moved on, figuring Tank wouldn't have taken the time to shuffle through the keys. If the door was not locked, he cleared the room before proceeding.

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.

He shut his eyes for a moment to think. 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 bound to the corners of the bed. Naked body beaten and bruised. Tortured. Raped. Butchered. Dead.

Tightening his grip on the AR, he sucked in a deep breath. Scooted around the corner and slinked 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 onto his back, Marshall dug the cell key out of his pocket, shoved it in the lock, and readied to unlock the door. Suddenly 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.

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. A blanket covering her entire body up to her chin.

Slipping the AR back around his shoulder, Marshall crept into the cell.

Lying so still and quiet, he feared Jewels might be dead. However 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?"

She groan. Her face distorted, revealing she was experiencing pain.

He shook her a little harder. "Jewels." His voice raised an octave, volume increased.

Jewels' eyelids fluttered open. Her big blue eyes focused on his face. Terror consumed her features. She screamed bloody murder. Backpedaled as fast as she could, plastering her body against the stone walls. Holding her breath, eyes wide with alarm, she clenched her fists against her chest, just under her chin. Body trembling.

He latched onto her upper arms and pressed her shoulders against the wall. "Julia, relax."

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

He snared 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 any moment. Her chin quivered.

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 realized the problem: _his face_. He released the hold on her wrists. 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.

He returned her hug. "I'm sorry I scared you. I forgot about the paint."

"Doesn't matter. I'm okay now that you're here." She nuzzled her cheek into his shoulder as they embraced.

"I'm sorry about Kirk."

"Thank you."

"I think he was a pretty good guy. I can't imagine what attracted him to joining SPOF."

She tightened her grip around his neck as if for added comfort. "He _was_ a good guy." Her voice crackled.

The sound of running footsteps echoed in the hall.

Marshall hungered for Jewels. 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.

Jewels widened her eyes and gaped her mouth, clearly confused by his abruptness. Sniffling, she settled back on the bed. Leaned against the wall, crossed her legs, and draped the blanket around her shoulders.

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

"Julia'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 answered.

"Not a bad idea, but I'll bet he's disabled it. Regardless, go for it," Marshall approved with authority.

"Yes, Sir," the men replied in unison.

The pounding footsteps resumed, distancing themselves from Jewels' cell.

Once the men were gone, Marshall planted his hands on his hips and eyed Jewels. "So, where's Tank?" His tone detached. Businesslike.

"I guess he left," she surmised with a twitch of her shoulders, letting out a little gasp from pain.

Marshall picked up on it, knelt next to the bed. "Are you hurt?"

She glanced at her shoulder and rubbed it. "Not too bad."

Arching a brow, he slanted his head in disbelief. "Jewels, tell me what happened to your shoulder." His tone empathetic but demanding. "What happened after Tank dragged you into the hall and shut the door?" He slid his hand onto her knee, lightly patting it to comfort her.

Sucking a long breath, she exhaled forcefully. "Well, not much _happened_. When the door shut, Tank threw me down. I jumped up and started running. A couple minutes later he caught up. Tackled me." She tilted her head at her right shoulder. "That's how I got this."

"Go on." He patted 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 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." She picked up the corner of the blanket and 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. She bit her lip and intensified the twisting of the corner of the blanket around her finger.

"But what, Jewels?" Marshall's face pinched with concern.

Voice quivering: "Uh, Tank said he would come back sometime in the future to get me for cutting his face." She erupted into tears and buried her face in her hands.

Marshall scrutinized Jewels. 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, Marshall 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.
Thirty-Four

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 pounded 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 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 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 removed his lounging size fourteen feet from the desk top. His hawk-brown eyes glanced down at the floor. Milky white face 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 there to work, she stopped 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."

"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.

She was capable of solving larger crimes. But in farm country, aside from reffing the occasional spat at high school athletic games between agitated parents, or simmering down the drunken rampage of eighty-seven year old Bud Payson driving his old John Deere through his neighbor's wheat fields, the opportunity never presented itself.

She poked her head around the corner of her office door. "I'm Clarkston. Sheriff Jodie Clarkston."

The delivery man—a mere boy—shuffled to her office door. He wore baggy khakis that hung low, hovering at the peaks of his buttocks. An oversized brown and hunter green striped T-shirt flowed around his upper body like a garbage sack. He handed her the envelope and rammed an electronic device with attached pen at her gut. "Sign here."

Clarkston scanned the towheaded kid. Transplant from California, she concluded. She signed the screen and handed the boy a dollar tip.

Snatching up the buck, the kid nodded a _thank you_ and skipped out the door.

The building groaned again.

Her young deputy, the one she had caught daydreaming with propped up feet on the desk, popped his head into her office. His eyes were wide, the size of quarters. "What is it, Sheriff? What's in the envelope?"

"Don't know yet." She tapped the office door closed in his face with the tip of her boot. He was a nice enough kid, but he was just that: a wet-behind-the-ears _kid_. Didn't have the patience for him today, especially not now. Not with the special delivery letter. Could this be the big break she had been waiting for? The one that would get her out of the sticks and into the big city?

For months, she had submitted her application and resume for consideration as a homicide detective to dozens of counties and cities across the country. Nothing. Maybe this would be her lucky day. She noticed the return address. "Shit. New Greensburgh." Disappointment eclipsed hope. "I didn't put my application in there. Or did I?"

Curiosity about what _could_ be inside the envelope was devouring Sheriff Jodie Clarkston like a voracious flesh-eating disease caught on a time-lapse camera. Yet fear of disappointment made her hold onto the unopened letter a few moments longer. Plopping into the rickety swivel chair behind her desk, she pressed the letter to her chest. Basked in the notion the contents of the letter could be the beginning of a new career. A new life.

The building groaned.

Clarkston snapped out of her daydream. She had forgotten about Lilly. There would be hell to pay.

Not bothering with a letter opener, she ripped off the top of the envelope and dumped it upside down. Waited for the contents to drop out as if it were a birthing process.

First a mini cassette tape. Then a crudely drawn map.

Jodie gazed at them as if they were magic beans.

_TAP-TAP._ The office door whined as it opened. Lilly's head protruded.

Lilly Rochester was a lesbian, but she didn't have _the look_. To an outsider, she and Jodi would seem to be an odd couple if there ever was one. Her hair was long and flowing, slightly curled and dyed a rich, deep red; the color of bricks. She wouldn't be seen in public without makeup: mascara, eyeliner, eye shadow, and pale pink lipstick. And always wore jewelry. Big hoop earrings. Bangle bracelets. Dainty chains. Even when the occasion was a camping or fishing trip.

Short and slim, Lilly was five-foot-two-inches, one-hundred-four pounds. She wore a pastel pink _Hard Rock Cafe Salt Lake City_ sweatshirt bloused out over tight-fitting blue jeans. Size six hiking boots with bright pink laces completed the thirty-six year old's outfit. "Jod, are you ready?" Annoyance in her voice.

She waved her hand for Lilly to enter her office. "Uh, I received an express overnight delivery. I think I've got something kind of important here." Clarkston pointed to the cassette and map on her desk.

Lilly entered, shut the door behind her, and parked her butt on top of the desk. Eyed the contents of the envelope. "What is this stuff? Who's it from?"

"Don't know on both counts."

Looking at the paper for a moment, she tossed it back onto Jodie's desk. "A kid sent you a map, huh? To what?"

"Don't know that either."

"For godsakes, Jod, how about doing a little police work. Play the frickin' tape."

Clarkston looked up from her desk. "So you won't be sore with me. I mean, if we go to the cabin later?"

"Hell no. This looks more exciting than trying to outwit a few dumb trout."

SHERIFF CLARKSTON PUSHED the play button. Dialed the volume to maximum.

"Hello. This is Julia Andrasy. If you're hearing this tape, it's because something has happened to me..."

The women listened as Jewels' recorded voice revealed the details of her bizarre adventure. Beginning with the urgent phone call from her friend. Then to the fiasco in the diner where the friend passed her a map with SPOF scrawled across the top. Warned her not to trust _the old times._ Made her promise not to give the SPOF map to the police before dying of a stab wound to the gut. And ending with someone in a green Ram pickup following her.

"You now know as much as I do at this point," Jewels' recorded voice concluded. "Please take it from here. Find who murdered Sharon Marie Jeppson. No doubt, it has something to do with the map. And, please..." Jewels' voice quivered. She cleared her throat. "Please, find me."

Silence.

Jodie and Lilly stared at the recorder, their faces ashen.

"Oh, one more thing..."

They both flinched as Jewels' voice blared through the speakers again.

"Remember Sharon's dying words of warning, _Don't trust the old times_. I haven't figured out what that means yet. Hope you have better luck. I thank you now, in advance, for everything I'm sure you're about to do to help me. God bless."

The tape continued to turn a few more minutes, void of words. When it reached the end, the PLAY button clicked off.

Lilly was the first to speak up. "Here's your chance, Jod. Show the world what you've got. It's obvious Julia thought..." she caught herself referring to Jewels as if she were dead, made the correction, and continued, " _thinks_ very highly of you and your police skills."

Jodie pushed her hair up her forehead, remembering how she first met Jewels. It was seven years ago at the Republican Party convention. Jewels was a state delegate and Jodie was making a bid for the Sheriff's seat of Westmoreland County. Though Jewels was not in Jodie's county, she took a special interest in Jodie when the subject of guns and gun control became the topic of discussion. Jodie professed her belief in punishing criminals, not law-abiding citizens with punitive laws. She also stated she believed a well armed society, coupled with a swift and appropriate justice system, were the best ways to deter crime. Jewels then offered to help Jodie with her campaign. And help she did. Not only by donating funds, but volunteering time.

Jewels and her husband were at Jodie's house election night and had celebrated into the wee hours of the morning the sweet victory of unseating the four term incumbent.

Jodie fondly reflected how her sexual preference was a non-issue to Jewels. Never came between their friendship. Or respect for one another.

Lilly rubbed Jodie's shoulders. "She's betting her life on you, Jod. On your detective skills."

Jodie had been following the news about the disappearance of her millionaire friend. But until now, hadn't given much thought to working on solving the case herself. The envelope changed that. Her perspective was different now. Jewels had confided in her for help. And help she would get.

"What are you gonna do, Jod?" Lilly finished the neck rub before retiring into a chair.

"I'm gonna find Jewels." Jodie pounded her fist on the desk top.

Lilly beamed. Hadn't seen Jodie this alive since ... well, she couldn't remember when.

"I guess I should start by contacting the FBI guy who's heading the investigation. What's his name?"

"Uh, Hines, I think. Theodore Hines."

Searching through her law enforcement directory, Clarkston found his number. Dialed.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

"You've reached the FBI, Special Agent In Charge, Theodore Hines. Leave your name, a brief message, and I'll call you back." _BEEP_.

"This is Sheriff Clarkston. It's about eleven-ten Saturday morning. I just received an overnight delivery envelope from Julia Andrasy with a map and an audio cassette tape. Please call me immediately. I would like to coordinate rescue strategies with you."
Thirty-Five

11:13 A.M.

FBI Special Agent In Charge Theodore Hines sat at his kitchen table nursing a cup of black coffee. Pouring over the information on the Andrasy disappearance, he fretted how the MTAF bastards had swiped the case out from under his nose.

The little black beeper tucked in the pocket of his starched crisp white shirt vibrated. Someone left a message at the office.

He called his office on his land line. Pressed the code to retrieve the message. Listened. His eyes narrowed, lips compressed. "Goddammit." He slammed down the phone. Rose.

Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his navy blue Armani suit pants, he paced the floor. Thinking. His red and white striped tie swung back and forth around his neck like a pendulum ticking away precious time.

He dialed the number the sheriff had left.

"Westmoreland County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Baxter—"

"Sheriff Clarkston, right away."

"One moment, Sir." He put him on hold. Sappy elevator music pumped into his ear.

"This is Sheriff Clarkston."

"Agent Hines."

"Wow. Quick message return. Were you in the office?"

"No. Just got paged. Have you listened to the tape?"

"Yes."

Covering the mouthpiece of the phone with a cupped hand, he turned his head away from the phone. "Shit."

"Excuse me? What did you say?"

"Nothing. Sneezed."

"Oh, God bless you. Uh, as I was saying—"

"Does anyone else know about the tape?"

"No."

"Good. Sheriff, it's important I meet with you immediately and it's imperative no one knows about this. And I mean no one. Not your best friend, even if that happens to be your dog. Miz Andrasy's life may depend on it."

"Certainly. I understand."

"Good." He glanced up at the digital clock on the microwave. "Meet me at my office in Salt Lake in forty minutes."

"I'll do my best."

"Oh, yeah, and what kind of car will you be driving?"

"A white Ford Expedition with a light bar on the roof."

"Fine. Remember, don't tell anyone about this. And don't mention you're meeting me." Hines hung up.

Rapidly massaging his hands together for a moment, he punched numbers into the phone.

After six rings: "Hello?" The man's voice was thick with sleep.

"Wingate. Get your ass up. I need the chopper."

"Hines? Is that you?"

"Fuck no. It's your fairy godmother," Hines retorted, throwing his free hand up in frustration. "Hell yes it's me, you jackass. See you on the pad in fifteen minutes."

SHERIFF CLARKSTON'S OFFICE.

"Anal retentive prick," Jodie mumbled in response to Hines' rude hang-up.

"What's the deal?" Lilly asked.

"Wants me to drive to Salt Lake. Meet him at his office. Doesn't want anyone to know about the map or tape and he doesn't want me to tell anyone I am going to meet with him."

Lilly's brows pinched. "You didn't tell him I heard the tape and saw the map?"

"Hell no."

Lilly stared at the door, thinking. "Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

"What?"

"That he doesn't want you to tell anyone you're going to meet with the FBI."

Jodie shrugged. "Not really, I mean under the circumstances. You know, Jewels _is_ one of the rich and famous."

"Whatever. Still seems weird to me." Lilly wiped imaginary dirt from her hands onto her pants.

Dropping the map and cassette tape back into the envelope, she tucked it under her arm and faced Lilly. "Hon, I gotta go. Would you mind if I have Baxter drive you home?"

Lilly smiled thinly. "Nah. I'll be fine. You go catch the bad guys and save your friend."

Jodie thanked her, pecked her on the lips, whispered, "I love you."

"Love you, too," Lilly shouted as Jodie vanished from the room.

LILLY WAS ABOUT TO HIT up Baxter for a ride home, but at the last minute didn't. Strolling to the overstuffed executive chair behind Jodie's desk, she collapsed into it. A gnawing feeling in her gut wouldn't let her cast the thoughts of the tape and the FBI man's bizarre behavior into her mind's shredder.

Snooping through Jodie's desk drawers, she found a tablet and pen. Jotted down her thoughts.

Julia Andrasy SPOF Map Tape FBI Theodore Hines Secrets Murder Kidnapping Don't trust the old times

Then she sat doodling with the words. She scribbled over the top of the _dore_ part of _Theodore_ and was drawn to study it. Came up with nothing.

Goofing off, she pretended to be an FBI agent. Twirling around in Jodie's chair with the end of the pencil to her mouth like it was a CB microphone in her hand, she announced, "This is the F-B-I. We know everything about everyone because we're control freaks and I'm the head freak, Theeeooo Hiiiines."

Suddenly she stopped twirling. Sat straight up in the chair. Her eyes bulged. "Oh ... my ... god. Sharon wasn't saying don't trust _the old times_ , she was saying, don't trust _Theo Hines_!"

Lilly sprinted out of Jodie's office. "Get Jodie on the radio, right now," she screamed to Baxter, who had settled back to loafing behind a desk, reading a western novel.

He jumped to his feet. "What's up?"

"Just call Jodie now." Lilly wildly gestured with her hands. "Her life could be in danger."

Baxter dashed to the radio. Hailed Jodie's call sign.

Nothing.

Tried again.

Still nothing.

"HEAD OUT TO WESTMORELAND County." Hines adjusted the headset to cover his ears.

"Well a happy and cheery fuckin' good morning to you, too, Theodore," Wingate mumbled, stuffing the last bite of bagel into his chubby jowls.

Markus Pratt Wingate was Theodore Hines' confidant. Long time partner. Best friend. And crime buddy. At age forty-four, Wingate had been Hines' sidekick in the FBI for the last thirteen years. The two rose to the status of national crime-solving celebrities by orchestrating elaborate crimes, then _solving_ them.

They'd approach hardened criminals, stooges, Hines called them. Propose a crime. Say it was government authorized. Promise the stooges if they pulled it off they'd receive a lifetime pardon from all crimes and a big bucks payoff.

The stooges fell for it every time.

After a few months of building the stooges into a crime wave that terrorized society and stirred the media into a frenzy, Hines and Wingate would betray the stooges. Set up the next crime, then crash it. Go in with guns blazing. None of the stooges ever survived, leaving Hines and Wingate the sole voices of what went down.

The result was always the same: heroes with benefits galore. Awards. Special dinner parties in their honor. Lucrative contracts for speaking engagements. And promotions. Name the position and it was theirs. They practically owned the FBI. Of course they wanted—needed—to stay in the field. It was the only way they could continue their highly rewarding crime-solving scam.

Wingate gulped the last swallow of black coffee and tossed the paper cup on the helicopter floor. Running his stubby fingers through his thinning salt and pepper hair, he cranked the helicopter. "Up, up and away," he sang as they took off.

Hines sat behind Wingate. The high powered precision rifle, complete with scope, flash suppressor, and silencer, was almost assembled. He had been trained in police sharpshooting, including from an aerial platform. He had held the FBI's one-shot kill training record until two years ago when a former Marine Corps sniper shattered it. Nonetheless, Theodore Hines lived by the police sniper's motto: _Be prepared to take a life to save a life_ ... especially since that _life_ he was saving was usually, in one way or another, related to his own. Despite the sharpshooting mission, he wore an expensive, hand-tailored business suit like a CEO of a Fortune 500 company.

Wingate, however, was the exact opposite. A slob. And a cheap dressing one at that. He wore a purple and white striped dress shirt made of material that wrinkled easily. The tails hung out over black polyester pants hiked up over his sizeable belly and cinched with a worn black fake leather belt.

"So what's the gig?" Wingate inquired.

"Just taking care of loose ends."

"Who you shootin' today?"

"A small-time sheriff."

Wingate whistled. "Takin' down one of our own. Must be pretty important."

"Aren't they all?"

Wingate chuckled

"Keep your eyes peeled for a white Ford Expedition with lights."

Wingate nodded at Hines' instruction.

Their flight was void of conversation for six minutes, then, "Hines. Eleven o'clock."

"I'll be a son of a bitch. You got her. Fuckin' hawk eyes." Hines beamed at the sight of the white SUV barreling down the vacant road in the near distance below. He double-checked his safety harness and slid the door open. Steadied the rifle on a bipod. Peered through the scope. "Get me closer."

"You got it." Wingate maneuvered the helicopter closer to the SUV. "There's a narrow bridge with a steep drop off about two miles ahead. Might be a good place for an _accident._ "

Hines gazed through the scope at the suggested target area. "Oh yeah, fuckin' perfect and still not another car in sight."

"Approaching countdown," Wingate announced. After a few seconds: "Five. Four. Three. Two. Show time."

Hines pressed the trigger.

They watched as the SUV swayed on the road. Hit the shoulder. Launch. Roll end over end into a spectacular swan dived off the bridge, crashing onto the jagged granite boulders below.

Moments later, an explosion. A fireball belched into the sky. Black smoke billowed.

"No one could have survived that."

"Now's not the time to cut corners. I want to double check," Hines demanded.

Wingate flew the chopper close to the wreckage.

Hines scoped the fiery heap of crumpled steel for signs of life. Saw a mangled body. "Congratulations on another successful mission," Hines said to Wingate, arrogant triumph in his voice. "Take us home."

DEPUTY BAXTER CONTINUED to call Sheriff Jodie Clarkston on the CB radio to no avail.

Lilly couldn't reach her via her cell phone either. An ominous impression blackened her soul. Something bad had happened to Jodie. She _felt_ it.

If FBI Special Agent Theodore Hines was crooked and somehow involved in Jewels' disappearance, who else might be connected? Could he have contacts with the locals?

Warily, Lilly glanced over at Baxter, whose voice was going hoarse from calling Jodie non-stop over the CB for the last half hour. Could _he_ be involved?

Probably not.

Still, she couldn't take any chances. Nonetheless, it was imperative _someone_ be told about what she suspected of FBI Special Agent Theodore Hines. But who could she trust?

After a moment of pondering, Belinda Parker, Jewels' secretary, surfaced in her mind.

"Let me know if you reach Jod," Lilly said to Baxter before closing the office door and dialing the New Greensburgh Press.

"DO YOU KNOW ANYONE WE CAN TRUST with this information and who will also know what to do with it?" Lilly asked, after relaying the story about the overnight express envelope and the subsequent events that followed.

Belinda was silent for a moment. "Yes, I think I know the perfect person who can help. Is it okay if I call you back later, after I talk to him?"

Lilly's face pinched tight with impatience. "Certainly, but hurry. Please hurry."

"HOWARD, IT'S BELINDA, can you talk?"

"What's up?"

"I just found out, through a very reliable source privy to some incredible evidence, that Theodore Hines might be involved in Jewels' disappearance. And because he's FBI, we don't know whom to trust or what to do."

"Belinda, I need specifics. I need to know everything your source told you as well as have access to this evidence—"

"Uh, I don't think she has the physical evidence anymore, but she can tell you want she saw and heard."

"Okay. I'd prefer to meet with you and your source in person as soon as possible."

"So you can help?"

"Make the necessary arrangements to meet me, with your source, within the next hour if possible at—"

"Consider it done."

He cleared his throat in obvious annoyance to her interruption. "As I was about to say, let's meet at Kate's Diner in the parking lot."

"Meet in the parking lot? Uh, okay."

"Call me back the second you talk to your source."

"Will do."

"Oh, and Belinda—"

"Yeah."

"Keep this on the QT. Don't mention it to anyone else. Understood?"

"Absolutely. Oh, and Howard?"

Disgusted: "Yes?"

"You never called me back yesterday."

"You know when I'm working on a story, I can't be interrupted."

"A story? You're treating Jewels' disappearance like a story?"

Howard chuckled. "Come on, Belinda, you know a good reporter is also a great detective. And that's the mode I'm in right now. Have a little faith."

"I'm sorry. I know you care for Jewels ... _a lot_." Her tone inferred more than a mere business relationship.

"That obvious, huh?"

Belinda forced a laugh. "Yeah. At least to me. I see the way you _look_ at her."

"Just remember to call me when you and your contact can meet. The sooner the better."

"Got it. Kate's. A-sap," Belinda confirmed, disconnecting the call.
Thirty-Six

SATURDAY, 1215 HOURS.

Finishing the last bites of the protein bar Marshall had given her to suffice for both breakfast and lunch, Jewels sat on the edge of the bed in her cell. Rolled her shoulders. The side Tank had smashed was feeling better, though stiff and aching like a bruise.

For the last twenty minutes her mind had been focused on Kirk Kirkland. He and Sharon a couple? And members of a radical, covert domestic terrorist group? "I guess you really never know people." Her tone oozed with disappointment and body sagged in negativity.

"You gotta snap out of this," she said to herself. "You can't help Sharon or Kirk now, so you better think about helping yourself." Flushing thoughts of departed friends from her mind, she sighed. Shut her eyes. Imagined Sheriff Jodie Clarkston opening the express envelope, listening to the tape, and deciphering the map.

Envisioning herself picking up life where it left off less than two days ago, Jewels saw herself puttering around the house and handling business at the office.

To keep a favorable edge on life, Jewels practiced visualization and positive thinking. Even walked on hot coals once. Figured if she could walk on fire, she could do anything.

Jewels also subscribed to the _see-it-when-you-believe-it_ philosophy of life, written about by many authors including Dr. Wayne Dyer, Esther and Jerry Hicks, Deepak Chopra, and Rhonda Byrne.

Basically, it went like this: if one believed in something strongly enough, and took the appropriate action, one could _manifest_ the desired outcome. And right now Jewels desired to be out of this prison cell, free of the militia wackos, and enjoying the comfort of her own home and all her life was before SPOF.

The click of a key in her cell door snapped Jewels out of her positive trance. She raised her eyelids. "Well there's Jodie with the cavalry now."

The door swung open. The image was familiar, but not Jodie and the cavalry. "Marshall Watters," Jewels cheerily greeted. Rising to her feet she noticed he had a pair of combat boots in his hand. Probably the ones she had dumped in the hall when she was running away from Tank.

"Cooman wants to see you. Now." Marshall's face was drenched in tension.

"Oh. What for?" she asked, an upbeat tone to her voice. Despite her dismal situation, the earlier positive thinking exercises bestowed Jewels with a hopeful heart.

Marshall wrinkled his forehead in suspicion. "Don't know. Probably not good, though." He dumped the boots onto the floor.

Jewels tipped her head toward the boots and clasped her hands over her heart like they were some great surprise gift. "For me?" She flashed a sexy smile.

A bewildered expression skidded onto Marshall's face. He nodded in agreement.

Almost eagerly, Jewels slipped into the two-sizes-too-large combat boots still missing laces. She looked up at him. "I guess I'm ready."

Marshall took up her arm and, once again, escorted her out of the cell and down the creepy hallways that seemed to be nothing short of a maze. Her loose-fitting boots clip-clopped against the cold stones.

"Jeez. This could be habit-forming," Jewels joked, smiling and batting her eyelashes at him as she rubbed his solid arm and leaned her head against it.

He frowned. "What kind of weed have you been smokin?"

She winked. Smiled broadly. "Just high on life." Of course, what Marshall didn't know, and what she wouldn't reveal, was Sheriff Jodie Clarkston was on her way to rescue her. It wouldn't be much longer before she was saved and the entire bunch of SPOF lunatics would be locked in real prison cells never to see the light of day. Perhaps with the exception of Marshall Watters. Would be a shame to have that hunk wasting away behind bars.

Two armed guards stood at each side of the doorway to Cooman's office. One nodded at Marshall as he passed by.

Upon entering, Jewels felt the heaviness of the air sagging with bad news. Suddenly on high alert, she stood taller. Tensed. Inner smile fizzled.

The room was less than inviting. Stacks of ammunition leaned against the one wall, while a semicircle of eight or ten folding chairs were arranged on the other side of the room. The general's desk was positioned opposite the door. A single chair covered in green cracked vinyl was parked in front of his desk.

Marshall guided her to the beat-up chair facing the general's desk. Pointed for her to sit.

Rhett Cooman looked turbulent. Scowling at Jewels, the muscles in his jaw twitched. "Who else did you send an overnight letter to besides the FBI?"

She shook her head in denial.

Cooman hammered his fist on the desk. Wagged his index finger at her. "And don't even fuckin' _think_ about lying to me."

Jewels glanced down at her wristwatch: 12:24. Jodie should have received the overnight express envelope over two hours ago. If the general was this upset, she _must_ have received it. So what was the harm in telling him what he already knew?

She cleared her throat. Fidgeted in the chair. The brittle vinyl pinched her butt. Felt like she was sitting on coarse steel wool. "Yes. I did send one to someone else."

Cooman glowered. "Who? I want a name. I want an address."

"A friend." She licked her dry lips. "Her name is Jodie Clarkston. She's the Sheriff of Westmoreland County. I don't know her address."

"Who else?"

"That's all. Just two letters. One to FBI Agent Hines, the other to Sheriff Clarkston."

He shot her an evil eye.

"No one else. Honest. And I'll swear to it on a Holy Bible." She raised her right hand as if giving sworn testimony.

"Really? Then how do you explain the involvement of the MTAF early this morning?"

"MTAF?" Jewels eyes rounded, mouth agape, an expression of genuine clueless emerged on her face.

Studying her, Cooman set his jaw. "I wonder if your answer would be the same after a few strokes from _the cat_ ," he contemplated aloud, his tone threatening.

"The cat?"

Smirking, he enlightened her. "Short for 'cat o' nine tails.' _The cat_ is a barbed flogger that can result in death with as few as fifteen strokes."

Jewels shuddered. _Hence the purpose of the whipping post in the corner of the disciplinary room._

Marshall spoke up. "Sir, I don't think she knows anything about the MTAF or has any contacts with them."

"What makes you think so?"

"I've had a little experience with some of those MTAF pricks and they're a bunch of closed-mouth, covert operators who don't make friends or allow acquaintances in from the outside. They abhor reporters and never issue press releases."

"You seem to know a lot about them," Cooman commented with suspicion.

Marshall pushed up his sleeve. Pointed at a wicked-looking long scar on his left triceps muscle."MTAF experience," he admitted with a bragging laugh.

Jewels was getting an earful. And eyeful. Quietly she sat, wondering about the extent of Marshall Watters' criminal career. Concluded maybe some things _are_ better kept secret.

"Nice." The general bobbed his head in approval at Marshall's defaced muscle. "Very well, then." Focusing his attention back on Jewels, he rose from his chair.

She watched Cooman's smooth military gait as he strolled around his desk. Noticed the big handgun riding in the slide holster on his belt remained virtually motionless as he walked.

Cooman stopped in front of Jewels. Leaned back on top of the desk, taking up a half-sitting, half-standing position, and folded his arms across his chest. He poked his head forward, his nose less than a foot away from hers. "Your sheriff friend is dead."

Jewels bolted upright from the chair. "Dead?"Her voice shrill with horror.

Cooman stabbed his crooked finger on her sternum. " _You_ killed her."

"No." Jewels hurled her fists at Cooman's face. One punch connected, crunching his nose.

He replied with a swift backhand across her mouth.

She fell backward into the chair and tumbled off the side onto the gritty cement floor.

The general rose from the desk and kicked the side of Jewels' thigh. "Get up."

Looking up, Jewels saw Marshall rushing to her aid. Also saw Cooman stop him with a hand gesture. She forced herself into a sitting position on the floor and cradled the throbbing spot on her face with her hand.

Cooman kicked her thigh again. "I said get up."

Gazing up at him, her eyes blazed murderously.

A trickle of blood meandered out of Cooman's left nostril.

The sight was satisfying. It bolstered Jewels' energy and willpower to drive herself to her feet.

Once upright, Cooman thrust his palms against her shoulders, giving her a hard shove.

Clumsily she landed in the chair, this time not falling out of it.

"You bitches are all alike," Cooman judged, his voice cold as death. "Users. Liars. Deceivers. And, one way or another, thanks to you, the Feds are narrowing their search for this compound. That means we'll have to relocate." He glanced up at the ceiling and around the room, then eyed Jewels. "Do you have any idea how long it took us to find this place and revamp it to meet our needs?"

Pointlessly, Jewels shrugged.

"Do you have any fucking idea what it's going to take to find another hideout?" The veins in Cooman's neck pulsated, swelling dangerously. "But you won't have to worry about that, will you?"

Jewels' eyes widened to the size of round iced sugar cookies.

Leaning back on the desk again, he glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall behind him. "In about seven hours the Commander will be coming to take you away. Do you know what he plans to do to you?"

Jewels sat, blinking at him. Her facial muscles twitched. Her gut gnarled. Dread scratched the back of her throat.

A condescending grin ripened on Cooman's face. "He calls it _cleansing_. The world calls it mutilation. Female circumcision."

_Clitoridectomy!_ Jewels recoiled in horror. Sometime ago her paper printed an exposé on the so-called _tradition_ of _female genital mutilation_ still practiced by many African tribes. Even in the U.S. with immigrants from those tribes. In addition to the obvious side effects of this brutal custom including loss of sexual pleasure, hemorrhaging, infertility, continuous pain, and mental disturbances, death can occur.

"I'll bet by tomorrow this time, you'll be an _it_."

Jewels shook her head.

Cooman laughed.

Jewels exploded out of the chair and grabbed the pistol from Cooman's belt. She aimed it at his chest. Held the weapon in front of her with a two-handed grip and trained the front-sight on Cooman's center of mass—his chest area— just as her defensive handgunning classes had taught.

The gun was a full size heavy semiautomatic. A Colt. Judging from what Jewels could see of the diameter of the barrel, a .40 caliber.

The general's hands flew up. Fingers splayed wide, he stood paralyzed.

Marshall and the four guards covering the door inched toward her.

She eyed Marshall and the guards. "You guys freeze. Don't move or I'll shoot him."

Everyone froze. The room was as still and silent as a virgin's bed.

"Come on, Julia, you don't want to shoot the general," Marshall calmly stated, his hands out to his sides in a signal of peace.

She cocked the hammer. "Now this is a single-action hair-trigger. I said _don't move_ , or as Almighty God as my witness, I promise, I _will_ shoot your boss."

Marshall took a baby step toward her.

Jewels swung the sights to Marshall's chest. "I said, don't move."

"All right. All right." Marshall froze in his steps. Hands still out to the side of his body. Palms toward her.

The general eased back, taking a comfortable sitting position on top of his desk.

She swung the gun back around. Aimed the front sight at Cooman's chest again. "I said, _don't move_." Her voice cracked.

Marshall took another baby step toward her.

Jewels swung the muzzle back to Marshall's chest. "Don't move." She took a cautious step backward.

Marshall edged another step toward her.

The guards flanking Marshall inched toward her too.

Taking a few clumsy steps backward, Jewels rapidly switched the gun sights from Cooman to Marshall. Marshall to the guards. The guards back to Marshall. Marshall back to Cooman. "I said freeze!"

The general folded his arms in flagrant defiance at her order. He shifted his weight. Cocked his head. "What are you going do, shoot us all?"

"Stay back." Jewels thrust the gun toward the men as if keeping a hungry tiger at bay with a fiery torch. It was a ridiculous move. Made her appear to be a novice gun handler, which she wasn't. Still, maybe the outrageousness of the stunt would prove useful. Maybe the sight of a loaded gun in the hands of a woman, who didn't seem to know which end of the tube the round came out, would scare the men. Frighten them into obeying her demand to stay put long enough she could make a mad dash into the hall to escape.

"You might get lucky. Hit one or two of us, but Julia, I guarantee, we will get _you_ for sure," Cooman taunted. He extracted a cigar from a wooden box on his desk. Nipped the end. Casually lit it, taking several hard puffs and blowing the smoke toward her.

"The Commander's gonna have a fucking heydey with you." Cooman sneered. "He's brilliant, but a little off kilter when it comes to sex. I understand he's a master of torture and prolonging pain."

Marshall glared at Cooman for a brief moment before switching his focus back to Jewels. "Come on, Julia. This is silly. You don't want to shoot anybody," he stated with confidence, resuming his turtle-pace toward her, the guards moving with him at his side in a V-formation.

"Don't tell me what I want or don't want to do." Jewels continued to back up to maintain the gap between Marshall and her at a good six feet. Suddenly her back hit the side wall of Cooman's office.

Marshall and the guards maintained their snail-footed pace toward her.

Cornered, she had nowhere to retreat. Gliding her back along the wall, she pushed a few folding chairs parked near the wall between her and the men closing in.

Yet the gap continued to shrink.

Desperation devoured her. Never would she let herself fall into the hands of some maniac who intended to torture her. Mutilate her. _Never._ She turned the pistol on herself, pushing the muzzle against her temple.

As if Medusa had turned the men to stone, Marshall and the guards froze. Even Cooman quit puffing on the cigar.

"Julia, come on. This is crazy. You don't want to kill yourself. Come on now, give me the gun." Marshall extended his hand for the gun.

With eyes locked on Marshall, jaw set in determination, she sucked in a deep breath and exhaled through expanded nostrils. In the space of twenty minutes she had ridden the emotional roller coaster from the heaven of optimistic bliss to the hell of despair. It was time to stop.

"You're right, I don't _want_ to kill myself." Jewels lowered the handgun from her head.

Marshall let out a sigh of relief. "Good. Now give me the gun." He stepped toward her.

"But I don't want to live if my destiny is with your deranged _Commander_." Jewels returned the muzzle to her temple.

Marshall stopped in stunned silence.

Willing to die rather than endure the endless torture of a psycho, Jewels lifted her eyes to the heavens. "God have mercy on my soul," she muttered, pulling the trigger.

The hammer dropped. _CLICK!_

"No!" Marshall dove toward her, crashing over the folding chairs that redirected the aim of his outreached arms. He missed Jewels' body by a good foot.

When the trigger was pressed, the gun was supposed to go _bang_ , not _click_. The drills she had practiced over and over in the handgun self-defense training courses she attended, cleared the mud of thought in her mind. She knew how to remedy the situation. The standard _tap, rack, fire_ malfunction drill. The one she had mastered and could perform in less than two seconds. With lightening speed she went through the drill.

TAP: the palm of her hand hit the bottom of the magazine, ensuring it was fully seated in the magazine well.

RACK: her non-firing hand reached over the top of the barrel and pulled the slide back, ejecting the cartridge before letting go of the slide. Another cartridge automatically loaded in the chamber.

FIRE: sight up on target—at her temple again—finger pressed the trigger.

CLICK!

"No, Julia, no!" Marshall scrambled through the tangled mess of toppled folding chairs.

Jewels started the drill again, TAP. RACK. Looked directly down the barrel of the gun then, pressed the trigger.

_CLICK!_ Still no _bang_.

Three times Jewels had pressed the gun to her head. Pressed the trigger. Three times the gun failed to _bang_. What had she done wrong?

So caught up in the amazement of why the gun wasn't firing, she hadn't paid attention to Marshall moving in for the capture.

Leaping toward her, he swallowed her body in his arms. They tumbled to the rough stone floor.

Jewels shrieked. Held onto the gun. Landed on top of Marshall.

"Give me that." Marshall ripped the pistol from her hand.

Humiliated, she surrendered without physical or verbal argument, resting her head on his chest.

Cooman joined the scene. "Gimme the gun." He extended his hand.

Marshall rolled Jewels' body off his and onto the floor next to him, and sat up. Handed the pistol to the general.

"Get her up." He tucked the Colt back into the slide holster.

After thrusting himself to his feet and helping Jewels to hers, Marshall shed his gentlemanly behavior in exchange for a controlling prison guard. He grasped her arms above her elbows from behind and wrenched her body in front of his to face the general.

Jewels glanced back at him, eyes begging for an explanation of his roughness.

He responded by jerking her body rearward, pounding her back against his chest. An obvious preview of his intended domination.

Jekyll and Hyde again? What happened to her hero? Choking back tears, Jewels hung her head, feeling sorry for herself.

"One gutsy, pretty bitch," Cooman commented, a tone of admiration in his voice. "Shocked the shit out of me when you pulled the trigger. And not once. Not twice. But three times."

Not believing it herself, she _had_ tried to kill herself three times. Sniffling, Jewels attempted to dab the trickle of tears from her face with the bottom of her T-shirt, but Marshall's fierce hold prevented her hand from reaching her face. Not contesting his grasp, she let her arm drop to her side and shook her head in dismay. "Why didn't the gun work? Isn't it real? Are the cartridges dummy rounds?"

"Oh, yeah." Cooman smirked. "Everything's real, for sure."

Jewels' eyes probed questioningly for him to continue to explain why the gun didn't go _bang_.

"Smart gun."

"Smart gun?" Jewels echoed in puzzlement.

"Yeah, latest in high-tech wizardry. This is a one-of-a-kind prototype. Compliments of Uncle Sam." He patted the grip of the gun with his hand.

Cooman extended his right hand and pointed to the gold band on his middle finger. "There's a tiny transponder in here. The gun won't allow the firing pin to drop unless it reads the transponder's signal. This particular prototype was rejected by the Feds because of the hassle of customizing a ring to fit every agent's finger. If the ring doesn't fit perfectly, the transponder won't prevent the firing pin from dropping when it's out of range."

He gazed at the gun and twisted the gold band on his finger. "Huh." His eyebrows arched. "Worked well for me."

The general gnawed his cigar for a moment. "To tell you the truth, I was a little nervous when you first grabbed it. Since you were within eighteen inches of the transponder the gun _would_ have discharged the moment you pulled the trigger. You could have shot me. Anyone in the room. Or hell, yourself for that fact, because you were within range of the safety remote. But as soon as you started walking away, I knew the gun had been tamed to the lethal worthiness of a pancake turner."

The guards shot puzzled glances at Cooman.

Jewels asked the question they were all thinking. "Why did you let me go on? If you _knew_ the gun wouldn't work, why didn't you say something?"

Marshall and the four guards nodded in unison. Their faces painted with yeah-why-didn't-you-tell-us looks.

Cooman snorted a laugh. "Hell, I was curious. Wanted to see what you'd do. Now I know."

How could she have known he would have such a device? Jewels felt stupid. Humiliated.

"Your little stunt proved one thing I suspected since the first time I heard about you..." Cooman's voice trailed off. Smiling, he reminisced with fondness. "I remember hearing Tank was _challenged_ bringing you in. You shot him and tried to rake his eyes out. Didn't think much of it. Figured most women would balk at being kidnapped.

"Then I was told you busted Doc's balls, diced Tank's face and brachial artery, escaped to your vehicle, almost got away and sliced up a couple men during the recapture." Pausing, he smiled. " _That_ grabbed my attention. I was curious as hell about you. Couldn't imagine what kind of woman was capable of such destruction.

"And when I met you, the first thing I saw was you beating the shit out of Watters' face with your cuffed hands and calling him a jack-booted Neanderthal." Slapping his leg, he exploded into belly laughter, his shoulders jiggling up and down.

Marshall's face flushed.

"And you even threatened _me_ with a red hot poker," he added with a hint of admiration. "You're one wild and feisty pretty-as-a-picture bitch. And I appreciate your fight and spunk.," Cooman continued. "Don't know if you're real gutsy or just crazy. Do know this though..." His smile disappeared, face turned serious. "From here on out you're gonna be kept under constant restraint."

Jewels let out a startled gasp.

Cooman addressed Marshall. "Time's getting close. Can't risk unnecessary chances with her anymore. Take her to Doc. Have him administer something to calm her down. Instruct him to treat her like she's precious cargo. Precious _insane_ cargo."

Marshall responded to Cooman's order with a firm tug on Jewels' arms. A prompt for her to walk toward the door.

"No." Jewels twisted her shoulders to shake his grip.

"Julia, settle down." Marshall intensified his hold. "Just gonna let Doc take care of you."

She crane her head back, glared murderously. "Take care of me? Is that what you call it when someone is drugged up and tied down against her will?"

Cooman parked his hands on his hips. "For chrissake, woman! Are you gonna try to give us _more_ trouble? Why don't you just accept the fact that we _own_ you and there's nothing you can do about it?"

A what-a-stupid-question look grew on Jewels' face. Her jaw set in determination. Eyes blazed with defiance.

"Give Watters a hand," Cooman instructed two of the guards.

They converged on Jewels like hyenas on a carcass.

Jewels fought. Jerked her arms. Twisted her body. Kicked.

The big combat boots flew off her feet.

"Aawwwwwh," one of the guards bellowed as a flying boot hit him in the groin.

Though an intense battle, it was short. Three against one. Marshall readjusted his hold from her upper arms to her wrists and each guard latched onto a leg.

The skin around her wrists and ankles was already sore and bruised from Tank's ropes. Now bonds of flesh intensified the pain. And then there was the shoulder Tank had crushed. More pain.

With the guards holding Jewels legs and walking backwards, her three captors toted her out of Cooman's office like a trophy lion hung by its limbs from a pole. Her head dangled near the floor. Her long blonde hair dragged between Marshall's feet behind like a veil. Occasionally her rounded spine skimmed the rock floor.

Misery consumed her face. "Marshall, please stop. You're hurting me."

As if he didn't hear her, he looked forward. Kept marching. Didn't even break stride.

" _Please_ , Marshall, help me. Don't let them do," she implored with a surge of pitiful, and pointless, crazy body contortions.

Marshall continued to focus straight ahead and maintain absolute control as he and the guards proceeded down hallways and around corners into the medical wing.

Leo Callahan was tinkering with the crash cart when the men burst through the door.

" _Now_ what's going on?" Callahan asked, his voice overrun with irritation.

"General says you need to sedate her. Treat her like she's precious but crazy," said the guard holding her right ankle.

"He wants her in restraints. Constantly," the other guard added.

Callahan sighed. "Take her back to the exam table."

"No. Please don't put me in those psycho straps." Jewels clenched her fists and flexed her feet, launching another assault, wiggling, twisting and turning her body and limbs.

Undaunted by her protests, the brutes hoisted her up onto the cold metal table and slammed her back down hard onto it. Still grasping her wrists, Marshall forced her arms across her chest. Firmly pressed down, effectively restraining her entire upper body.

She thrashed her body about and tossed her head back and forth. "No! Don't! Pleeeeease."

"Come on, Doc, get her strapped down," the guard contending with her right leg urged.

"We'll sedate her first." Callahan prepared the injection.

"No. Please, don't." Jewels continued squirming, yet much less aggressively. She had worn herself out.

"Straighten her arm and hold it steady," Doc said.

Marshall forced her right arm straight. Pulled it out to the side, closer to Callahan, then rotated it to expose the underside of her elbow.

Making a fist and tensing her arm, she twisted and jerked, but there was no escaping Marshall's hold.

"Settled down, Julia." Doc rapidly tapped her vein with his finger. "This will hurt much less if you just relax."

Relax? Was he joking? How the hell was she supposed to _relax_ in this dreadful situation? Jewels didn't even try.

Marshall steadied her rigid arm. Nodded for Callahan to insert the needle.

Doc stabbed the needle in her arm and plunged the contents of the syringe into her vein.

Eyes tear-filled, she stared up at Marshall. "How could you help them do this to..." her voice trailed off as the drug took effect.

### Thirty-Seven

**SATURDAY, 1:08 P.M.**

"Thank you, ladies," Howard said with a wave of his hand as he bailed out of Belinda's Subaru. The meeting in the parking lot of Kate's Diner had been brief, but enlightening. Lilly recounted the incredible and detailed information Jewels had sent to Sheriff Jodie Clarkston.

Climbing into his Porsche, he thought about the tape and map. "Jewels why didn't you talk to _me_ about this?" Howard wondered aloud, hurt in his voice.

He knew the answer: Jewels had no reason to ask him for help because she didn't know his background, which he had kept secret. Playing the role of a bored multimillionaire who just happened to have a passion for journalism, was all he allowed Jewels to know.

He had enemies. Well-connected, exceedingly wealthy enemies who wanted him dead. The fewer people who knew his history, the better. Still, he should have told Jewels. If he had then...

Dismissing worthless regrets, he focused his attention on Theodore Hines, a high-powered federal agent with scads of clout. Gut instinct told him Hines was as dirty as a baby's diaper. "And just as full of shit," he muttered, punching in numbers on his cell phone.

After one ring: "How may I help you today?" the monotone male voice answered.

"This is a nine-one-one for Bradshaw from Dyson."

"Right away, Sir," the man replied, forwarding his call.

After two rings: "This is Bradshaw, talk to me."

"Thanks for taking my call. Does the name Theodore Hines mean anything to you?"

"Dyson, are you still nosing around the Andrasy case?" he asked, wording his response to answer Howard's question, without actually answering it.

"I want in."

No response.

"Come on, Bradshaw, I know Julia and she trusts me. Besides, you _know_ damned well I can help."

"And you want to get in her panties, you horny old goat," he surmised with a laugh.

"I won't deny I have feelings for her. And I'm not _that_ much older than you, so watch those _old goat_ remarks. And as far as horny, may I remind you that _you_ hold the record for one-night stands."

Bradshaw laughed. "Give me a couple of hours." He disconnected the call.

Howard Dyson grinned. He was prepared. Anticipated his involvement. Stashed appropriate clothing and weapons in the modest front end cargo space of his German sports car. When Bradshaw called, and he was sure he would, all he had to do was gear up and he'd be ready.

Firing up his Porsche, he buckled his seat belt and peeled out of Kate's Diner onto the highway, heading back to the Press.
Thirty-Eight

ABOUT TWO HOURS BEFORE THE COMMANDER IS SCHEDULED TO ARRIVE.

Jewels' eyes flickered open.

Doctor Leo Callahan hovered over her, staring.

As if entering the brilliance of sunlight from the darkness of a movie house, she squinted back at him.

"Time to get ready." His were hands crammed deep into the lab coat pockets. Face void of emotion.

Feeling as though a herd of wildebeests had stampeded through her skull, Jewels' head throbbed. Wanting to massage her thumping forehead, she attempted to raise her arms, but the psycho restraints swallowing up her entire body thwarted her efforts. No point fighting them.

"Julia, first I'm gonna go over what needs to occur to get you ready for the Commander. Then I'm going to explain the two options available to you. Understand?"

Her face a study of desolation, Jewels nodded.

"You must look your best. That means you have to shower, get dressed, fix your hair, and put on your makeup. We need you to look like an elegant beauty queen. You'll notice while you were sleeping we had your broken acrylic nails repaired. That should give you an indication about how perfect we want you to appear."

"Did you happen to _repair_ the bruises on my wrists and ankles while you were at it?"

He didn't respond to her sarcasm. "You have a choice. You may choose to cooperate and take care of preparations yourself. Or, you may choose to be uncooperative, in which case we are prepared and willing to use whatever force is necessary to accomplish the task." He pitched his head toward the entry.

Raising her head from the table, she peered at the door.

Two men filled the frame. One was Marshall. Didn't recognize the other. His face was hidden behind a black leather mask, zipper open at the mouth. The mask was frighteningly familiar. Reminded her of Tank and the first time she saw him in her kitchen, right before he nearly decapitated her dog with a monstrous knife.

But this masked man was nothing at all like the towering, muscular Tank who was built solid like a bull mastiff. Besides being a Caucasian, this guy was much shorter and had a beer-belly that stuck out almost as far as a woman about to give birth. Still, the sight of him in the demon mask caused goosebumps to sprout over her body.

"Well, jeez. Let me see..." Jewels' voice dripped with bitterness. She paused as if deliberating the pros and cons of her choices. "I think I'll choose to get dressed _without_ the help of the Bondage Master over there and his lumberjack side kick."

An idiotic grin bloomed on Callahan's face. "Whatever you want." He unbuckled the first of five straps immobilizing her body.

Lying on the table like a sedated patient, Jewels mentally audited her situation.

Time was ticking away as was hope of a prompt rescue. Although her attempts to reach Agent Hines and Sheriff Clarkston had been thwarted, the fact the highly regarded Militia Threat Assessment Force was now _somehow_ involved rallied her confidence. Perhaps the badass boys of law enforcement would storm the compound and save her in the nick of time, before the Commander whisked her away. Then again, maybe not.

Conceivably, if she were to be saved, she would end up having to do the saving herself, though preferably with at least _some_ assistance from Marshall Watters. But since he lugged her out of Cooman's office, he had offered zero help. Actually did the exact opposite. Probably best if she didn't count on him at all.

Callahan cleared his throat, attracting her attention as he was about to remove the final strap binding her to the table. "If you try anything cute, or if you're not preparing yourself to our expectations, I guarantee you will experience all the _bondage master_ and his _lumberjack side-kick_ have to offer."

Cranking her head forward, she whispered, "It's not too late to do the right thing. My five million dollar offer is still valid."

Callahan's eyes ached with regret. "I'm sorry, but I'm forced to do whatever they tell me. My daughter's life depends on it."

Jewels' face lost expression. She pursed her lips and gave Callahan an understanding nod.

"Now go get ready," he urged, unbuckling the last restraint.

WARM STREAMS OF WATER pulsated from the shower head, soothing her bruised and aching body like the gentle massage of a thousand tiny sponges. Eyes closed, body relaxed, "Ahhhhh," she sighed, lingering in the water's rejuvenating energy.

The shower area was modest, of the phone-booth variety. A pebble-glass pivot door corroded with lime deposits offered privacy within the inexpensive molded plastic insert surrounding the remaining three sides. But, as far as Jewels was concerned, it offered no less than a custom, inlaid tile shower in an upscale relaxation retreat.

Nevertheless, Jewels' reality was anything but relaxing. More like a prisoner on death row. Tick tock. Tick tock. An innocent woman condemned. Torture to occur in mere hours. Precious minutes speeding away. Sentence drawing closer and closer. Avenues seeking a _stay,_ so far denied.

Rescue by the FBI seemed out of the question. Sheriff Clarkston had been murdered, killing _that_ option. And the MTAF may or may not arrive in time to save her from the clutches of the demented Commander. Even Doc Callahan, one of her potential allies, was now counted out. Was she doomed?

No. Couldn't give up hope.

Her mind strayed to thoughts of Marshall Watters.

Strange situation. Even with his apparent criminal history, and despite his recent callous treatment of her, she sensed he was too good of a person, too _normal,_ to be mixed up with this group of violent misfits. Were her perceptions a psychological mishmash of Stockholm Syndrome? Or were they genuine?

Thinking back to Marshall's discovery of her after Tank had left her unmolested in the cell, her eyes drifted shut. Leaning against the shower wall, warm water caressing the front of her body, she relived the feel of his strong arms enveloping her body. Mighty hands stroking her back. Warm lips planting on her forehead...

Suddenly Jewels' nipples tightened. Femininity moistened, tingled. A smile of exquisite pleasure flowered on her face. She _had_ felt his compassion. His concern. His love? Desire consumed her at a magnitude she had not hungered for since Robert.

Robert!

She covered her breasts, crossed her legs, and opened her eyes as her face illuminated to a brilliant scarlet. An incriminating look erased the glow of excitement. Feelings of guilt swamped her. As if she'd been caught committing adultery.

"This is silly, Jewels," she whispered in verbal self-reprimand. "Robert is gone. And you're trapped here. He would _want_ you to be happy. And if the opportunity presented itself, he would _want_ you to love again."

Jewels let out a sigh. Resolved escaping was more important than ever. Not only for the sake of personal freedom, but for the opportunity to find love again.

Once again images of Marshall Watters crammed her mental viewing screen. Without his shirt. Muscles rippling...

"Jewels?"

Marshall's voice cut through the steam, startling her. She about jump out of her skin.

"Yes?" She bit her lip to hold back a giggle. Marshall had busted her fantasizing about him.

"Don't have all day, you know."

Tick tock. Tick tock. Time _was_ running out. "Be right out." Turning off the water she peeked over the top of the shower door.

Marshall stood in the open doorway to the bathroom, his back to her. Broad shoulders filled the entry like a pile of neatly stacked bricks. When the time came, would Marshall allow her to fall into the clutches of the psycho Commander?

Grabbing the white bath sheet hanging on a hook outside the shower door, she remained in the shower and toweled off. Once again, her mind wandered back to romantic dreams of Marshall Watters. But the same old thoughts continued to plague her. Could her feelings, desires, and hopes be nothing more than a product of Stockholm Syndrome?

Still vacillating in indecision regarding Marshall Watters, confusion invaded her soul. Didn't know what to think anymore.

Only one thing was certain. She _had_ to come up with an escape plan. But what? If she knew, for sure, whether or not Marshall Watters could be counted on for assistance, such knowledge, either way, would play a major role in her escape plan. Whatever _that_ ended up being.

The dark curtains of confusion parted as she birthed an idea: quiz Marshall! Pondering the litmus test idea, she decided to hit him with a point-blank, simple question. _Will you help me escape?_ Depending on his answer she'd execute either Plan A or Plan B.

Doc Callahan popped into her head. Specifically the _reason_ he said he couldn't help her and was bound to perform whatever tasks SPOF asked of him.

What if Marshall had a daughter. Or wife he was protecting? The notion trashed her heart.

A blister of jealousy swelled within Jewels' bosom. Acknowledging it, she popped it. Didn't have time for such a negative emotion. Had to concentrate on winning her freedom.

"You okay in there?" Marshall called over his shoulder.

"Uh, yeah." Wrapping the bath sheet around her body, she snatched the regular-sized bath towel from the hook on the opposite side of the door to fluff her hair.

Mulling over her escape plan options, Jewels concluded weapons were needed to give _any_ plan a thimble-sized chance of success. An AR-15 topped her weapon wish list.

Probably unrealistic to obtain.

Better settle for a handgun. But where would she get one? Doc didn't carry. Marshall, as usual, was unarmed. And Bondage Master didn't appear to be packing either.

"Guess I'll have to MacGyver it."

With her body and head wrapped in towels, she stepped out of the shower. Strolled to the beat-up laminate counter.

A six-by-four-foot mirror—a _real_ mirror, not like the shiny metal square in her cell—spanned the length of the counter. Rose to just beneath the bank of simple light fixtures near the ceiling. If she stepped away from the counter a few feet, the mirror reflected a full-body view.

On the counter, an array of beauty products and hair styling items were lined up. She inventoried them.

A blow dryer.

Curling iron.

Jar of leave-in hair conditioner.

Can of aerosol hair spray.

Toothbrush.

Tube of toothpaste.

Stick of deodorant.

Bottle of lotion.

Vial of perfume.

And a variety of containers of makeup.

"Not a heck of a lot to work with for potential weapons." Nonetheless she decided, just like MacGyver, to make do.

"Are you close to being ready?" Marshall called over his shoulder.

Next to the counter, sexy undergarments were draped on hangers from the clothing hooks lining the wall.

"Uh, getting there." Jewels snatched the white lacy thong panties and strapless matching push-up bra off the hangers. Climbed into them.

Next to the undergarments, an elegant white gown and stockings. A pair of pointed toe white satin, slingback high heels were parked on the floor under the dress.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER.

After creating an updo of sexy curls piled high on her head, with soft curls flowing around her face, Jewels heavily misted it with hair spray.

Next, she dabbed a touch of shimmering finishing powder on her cheekbones and generously sprinkled it across her chest and shoulders.

As she primped, her eyes were drawn to the dark bruises on her wrists that looked like tattoos manifesting blurry halos from the outline of indistinguishable _art_. Though unsightly, the blemishes were too big to attempt to cover with concealing cream, which would rub off on the dress anyway.

Ignoring the distraction Tank's brutal ropes had etched on her skin, Jewels snapped on dainty button pearl earrings.

Almost ready for the dress, she pulled on the thigh-high sun tone colored stockings, making her tanned legs sparkle. A wide white band of lacy spandex held the stockings in place.

Lastly, she slipped into the gown.

Stepping back for a full length view, she scrutinized herself in the mirror.

The gown was strapless. Sweetheart neckline. Empire waist. Embellishments on the bodice. Slight flaring A-line skirt with a brush train.

Admittedly, she looked smashing. Surely those barbarians wouldn't consider strapping her to Callahan's psycho table again. That would mess up her hair and wrinkle the spectacular gown.

Then again, maybe the disheveled look would be for the best. And, with no doubt in her mind, the sexy dress would be sacrificed for freedom if necessary.

Inhaling a deep, courage-mustering breath, it was time to administer the litmus test to Marshall Watters.

Jewels scooped up one of the spike heels in her right hand. Padded over to Marshall who had stood in the open doorway the entire time she was showering and dressing. As far as she knew, he hadn't taken a peek. Though she wouldn't have minded if he had.

She tapped him on the back. "Will you please give me hand?"

He turned around.

Glancing past him, she hoped to pick up a location on Bondage Master or Callahan.

Saw neither.

With a look on his face like he had just been shot and was waiting for his body to drop to its death, he stood in the doorway. Eyes roaming up and down her body. His mouth widening with each swipe.

"Zip me up, please." She turned her back to him.

"Uh. Yeah. Sure," he replied clumsily, but there was nothing clumsy about his touch. Gallantly his fingers danced across her shoulders and down her bare back on their way to the zipper head parked high at the top of her buttocks.

His hands were warm. Touch tender. Jewels yearned to spin around and madly kiss every inch of his iron body.

But, of course, bridled her desire. Instead crossed her fingers and whispered a little prayer asking God to grant this one wish: for Marshall Watters to agree to help her escape.

After a moment of _resting_ his hands on her buttocks, softly confessed, "I apologize. I couldn't help myself. I was staring. And admiring."

_And palming my ass,_ Jewels thought with wanton delight, unable to help _herself_ from imagining her hands stroking his mighty maleness.

Pressing the zipper head between his thumb and pointer finger, he slowly slid it to the top of the dress that ended just beneath the bottom of her shoulder blades. "You look absolutely ravishing."

"Thank you." Jewels turned to face him. Looked him straight in the eyes. "Marshall Watters, I have to know your intentions. Are you going to turn me over to that lunatic Commander. Or are you going to help me escape?"

Slanting a brow, he set his jaw.

Not breaking eye contact, Jewels searched for a subtle sign. Perhaps just a-wink-and-a-nod, indicating no matter what he _said_ , she could count on him.

"Making sure the Commander takes possession of you is my job. And I _always_ do my job," he said coldly, his face stern.

_Not_ the answer she wanted to hear. And he had said it without so much as a twitch of lips or shift of the eyes which might have indicated what he was _saying_ was opposite of what he _intended_. So be it. At least now Jewels knew where she stood. No matter how handsome his looks and studly his body, Marshall Watters _was_ the enemy.

Time to enact Plan B. With the speed and accuracy of a boxing kangaroo, Jewels struck Marshall at the temple with the spike of the high heel she had kept concealed in her hand.

Dazed, after blinking a few times Marshall fell backward into the hall. His body hitting the floor with a hard thud.

_Dammit!_ Hadn't planned on him falling _outside_ the bathroom. Now she had to lug the hunk of meat _that_ much farther.

Hoping no one had heard the thump of flesh crashing onto the rock floor that would cause the camo-clad hoards rushing in, she held her breath. While doing so, eyed Marshall. Had she knocked out this tough guy with such a simple feat? Didn't Tank say something about Marshall being a former Navy SEAL?

With no army invading, and Marshall lying on his back motionless, Jewels was convinced her ruse had gone undetected. Now all she had to do was restrain Marshall, roundup weapons, and escape.

Grabbing Marshall by his ankles, and monitoring the whereabouts of the grimy bottoms of his boots so her dress wouldn't get dirty, she towed his body into the bathroom.

Good thing the floor was a solid, relatively smooth surface. Had it been carpet, she doubted she could have budged him.

Once his entire body was inside the bathroom, Jewels lowered his legs onto the floor. Didn't want to just drop them. Might cause him to stir.

Scrambling to grab his arms, she glanced at his face. Did a double take. Did his eyes flicker? Was he waking up? Or was stress causing her to see things?

Regardless, her sense of urgency escalated. With as much physical strength as she could muster, Jewels dragged his hulking body to the first toilet stall.

"This is never going to work," she mumbled, gazing at Marshall's broad shoulders and the narrow width of the stall. Exhaling through pursed lips, she picked up the blow dryer she had earlier planted on the floor next to the toilet. Slung it around her neck. Scooped up the tube of toothpaste and the black T-shirt she had been wearing and placed them on Marshall's chest.

Resuming the dragging of his body, she tugged him to the end of the bathroom to the wider handicapped stall.

Once inside, she hiked up the skirt of her gown, squatted, and extended his arms above his head. Grasping his wrists, she pulled with the entire weight of her body to inch him closer to the toilet. His wrists had to touch together if she was to bind them around the toilet base.

In the process of positioning his wrists to come together, she unintentionally bashed the top of his head into the toilet with her last vigorous yank. "Sorry." She pulled the blow dryer from around her neck to bind his hands together with the cord.

Next, she wadded the tube of toothpaste into a ball. Pried open his mouth and shoved it in as a makeshift gag.

Taking an impromptu gag-making lesson from Tank, she folded the black T-shirt. Wrapped the ends behind Marshall's head, then tied the shirt together over his mouth to prevent him from spitting out the toothpaste tube.

For a brief moment, she gazed at his handsome face. Stroked his chiseled jaw with the back of her hand. Waltzed her fingers through his thick hair.

"I thought, _hoped,_ you would help me," she quietly confessed, kissing him on the forehead, as he had done to her twice before.

With Marshall taken care of, she dashed out of the handicapped stall to the counter. Opened the tube of mascara. Poured perfume on the tip and held it in her left hand. That would be her stabbing weapon. The perfume would burn an open wound, intensifying the pain in the victim, perhaps buying more time.

Under her arm Jewels tucked the bottle of hair spray, her makeshift mace.

In her right hand she scooped up the hot curling iron, a wand capable of sizzling flesh. Over the years she had sizzled herself a few times. Accidentally, of course.

Jewels glanced over at Marshall. Whether genuinely conked out or faking it, he lie motionless. Either way, perfect.

Leaving behind the pointed toe high heels, which would only slow her down plus make an attention-drawing clacking noise against the stones, Jewels jogged toward the bathroom exit. Passing by the mirror noticed her reflection. Rolled her eyes at the sight of her _weapons_. Creative, granted. Pathetic, nonetheless. Still, she figured MacGyver would be proud.

Peeking out of the bathroom, Bondage Master—still wearing the leather mask—was seated in the adjoining _waiting room_ next to the door leading to the hall. Just moments ago, that seat had been vacant. "Wonder where you've been," she whispered to herself, watching him thumb through a magazine. A dirty one she assumed.

Doc Callahan wasn't in sight, but with all the doors closed, he could be in the exam room, his office, or personal quarters.

She extended her head farther around the corner of the bathroom doorway, while keeping her body concealed behind the wall. "Excuse me," Jewels called out, acting a bit shy. "Uh. I can't get this zipper up. Will you please help me?"

Bondage Master looked up at her. Then around the empty room as if in confirmation she was talking to him. "Sure." He dumped the magazine onto the chair next to him to scamper toward her.

Retracting into the bathroom, she flattened her body against the wall. Waited.

Bondage Master turned the corner, entering the bathroom.

Jewels thrust her arm forward, pumping his eyes full of hair spray.

"Awwwwhh!" He recoiled in surprise and covered his eyes with his hands.

Wasting no time, Jewels darted out of the bathroom. Ran toward the door leading into the hallway. Crossing the FLOWER POWER etched in the floor, she tossed the bottle of hair spray toward one of the empty cots lined up against the opposite wall.

Focused on escape, she encircled her hand around the thick metal door knob. Was just about to fling it open when there was a rush of footsteps outside the door

Jewels froze.

"Get her!"

She recognized the voice. _Shit! Marshall sounds pissed._

Stuck between an irate Marshall Watters flying out of the bathroom and whoever was lingering on the other side of the door in the hallway, she _had_ to do something. "Quick, Jewels. Think."

The doorknob jiggled. _Somebody was coming in!_

Turning and bolting Jewels retreated, running over FLOWER POWER and through the room's archway into the dead end hallway. She beelined for the end of the corridor. "Exam room," she decided, thinking it would be her makeshift _safe room_. If she locked herself inside, maybe she could hold off the crazed militiamen with the abundance of edged weapons at her disposal until the MTAF arrived.

Running as fast but as softly as possible, she passed Callahan's closed office door and living quarters.

Still armed with the hot curling iron and mascara brush, she zoomed by the bathroom door. Glanced inside. Saw Bondage Master working free Marshall's hands.

Marshall caught a glimpse of her, did a double-take.

Jewels iced up. Felt doomed. Waited for him to sound a call of alarm.

Nothing.

She watched in delighted puzzlement as Marshall shifted his gaze to the ceiling, like she was invisible to him.

Was the former Navy SEAL going to help her after all?

Taking advantage of the break, she proceeded to the exam room. Grabbed the knob. Turned it.

The door was locked.

Heart pounding, she stole past the bathroom where Bondage Master was still working on untying Marshall's hands. Glimpsed inside. Her eyes met Marshall's. She held her breath. Would he blow the whistle this time?

Once again he nonchalantly looked up at the ceiling. Remained silent.

Without wasting precious time wondering about Marshall's motive to keep her secret, she dashed to the next closed door. Tried it.

The door opened.

Jewels slithered inside. Shut the door. Locked it. Running her hand against the wall along the side of the door, she felt for the light switch. Found it. Flipped it on.

A double one-hundred watt bulb ceiling light fixture illuminated the small room.

Callahan's office was clean. Neat. Void of warmth. The stone walls were solid. And naked. No university degree plaques or pictures. The furniture was plain. A simple gray metal desk in the middle of the room was flanked by two brown office chairs that looked like the Salvation Army had deemed them unfit.

Against the far wall two beige filing cabinets, the five-drawer type. In the corner on the opposite wall, a free standing coat rack. A blue sweater and one white lab coat dangled from the rack's crooked wooden fingers.

"And I thought doctors lived the good life."

Suddenly a ruckus outside. Voices.

"She got away," a male voice yelled in a tone stricken with panic.

A bustle of footsteps, moving farther away.

A door slammed.

Silence.

Pressing her ear against the office door, Jewels listened for someone lurking in the hallway.

Nothing.

Hurrying to Callahan's desk, she abandoned the curling iron and mascara brush on the top. Yanked open the desk drawer. Scanned the contents.

Paper clips, pens, pencils, a bottle of Elmer's glue, two blue stick-it pads, and a five-by-seven framed photograph of a young girl in her late teens. Probably Callahan's daughter, the one Tank or SPOF or whoever threatened to kill if the good Doc didn't toe the mark and walk the line. But no weapon. With a swing of her hip, she nudged the drawer closed.

Flinging open the right hand drawer, she patted the papers.

Nothing. Shut it.

Jerked the bottom drawer. Locked. Snatched a paper clip from the pencil drawer. Straightened it. Picked the simple lock a child could open using a toothpick. _Scored!_ A Ruger .357 Magnum revolver. She checked the chamber.

Loaded, six rounds.

Closing the cylinder, Jewels sprinted to the door, revolver in hand.

The room filled with the faint patter of her thigh-high stocking-covered feet whisking across the cold rock and her gown's brush train lightly sweeping the floor's surface. Other than the sound of her own heart beating, silence.

She pressed her ear to the door. Held her breath. Listened.

Nothing.

Unlocking the door, Jewels opened it slowly. Observed the stillness. With a two-handed grip on the revolver in the high-ready position—muzzle toward ceiling, barrel parallel to her face—she slipped through the cracked door.

Creeping toward the arched doorway leading into the adjoining _waiting room_ , her back close to hugging the wall, she warily advanced. Easing her head around the wall, firearm presented in front of her, she scanned the room by employing the classic _cut-the-pie_ method often used by law enforcement.

Clear.

Scurrying into the room, she hurried toward the metal door she knew opened into the hallway.

"Gotchya," a voice boomed from behind.

Freezing with her feet planted in the middle of the FLOWER POWER etching on the floor, Jewels glanced over her shoulder.

Bondage Master.

"Come on, Baby, show me what you got." He crouched low, arms ready to grab.

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 rocked Jewels' hands upward a few inches, but she expected it. Recovered. 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 sounded like a bomb had 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 didn't 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, Jewels fired again.

Bondage Master gazed down at his chest. Clutched 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 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—Jewels 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 attacked from behind like potent tentacles. Wrapped around her waist. Pinned her arms to her sides.

The revolver plunged to the floor.

"Where do you think you're going?" Hot breath blasted across her bare shoulders and down her neckline. It was Marshall Watters.

"No! Let me—"

He clamped his hand over her mouth, dousing her plea.

Wildly contorting her body she combated his hold.

He tightened his grip. Squeezed harder. Held on.

After wearing herself out and breathing heavily, Jewels surrendered. Allowed her body to fall limp in his grasp.

"Shut up and do what I say," he ordered in a hush-hush tone.

Bobbing her head, she agreed.

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

The second her mouth was free, Jewels engaged his hold again with flurried fists, swinging to the side and behind her body in hopes of connecting with _anything._ "Help! Somebody hel—"

Marshall's hand locked over her mouth again. His grip intensified, regaining control. "Stop it. Listen to me. The Commander's here. You _have_ to trust me, Julia."

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 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 utter a word or try to fight me."

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

"Can I trust you to be quiet?"

Jewels bobbed her head.

He removed his hand.

She looked over her shoulder at him. "What are you—" she began to whisper, but he clamped his hand over her mouth.

"Shut up. Not a word."

Again Jewels nodded.

Slowly he removed his hand from her mouth. "I'm going to get you out of here." Marshall traded the hold around her body for a firm grasp on her left wrist.

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

Marshall scooped up the revolver Jewels lost. Stuffed it into his waistband 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.

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 pointed in the opposite direction.

He flashed a sexy smile. "Trust me."

Jewels bucked her eyebrows. She wanted to trust him, but...

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.

Determined footsteps echoed from the branched hall.

Crouching low, eyes at thigh level, Marshall peered around the corner. Swiftly withdrew. Mouthed a soundless curse. _Shit,_ she thought he said.

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

Instantly his hand sealed her mouth. Eyes narrowed and lips tightly pursed, he ran his fingers across his mouth like a zipper.

Widening her eyes, Jewels bobbed her head 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, pinning her arms to her sides, and covered her mouth with his right hand. "Be very quiet. Very still." He pressed their bodies as far into 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 pounded against the cold rock floor.

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 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. Also prevented identification of the facial features of the two men engaged in conversation as they traipsed by.

Marshall had 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 clearing the nooks, they would never see the couple. Not even Jewels' white gown.

Since the men were looking at each other as they spoke, the back of one man's head blocked the front of the other, creating little more than silhouettes. As they tramped by, two things became clear: both men were sporting jackets with the letters F-B-I emblazoned in big yellow letters on the back and 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 FBI Special Agent In Charge Theodore Hines. He had come to save her! However he and his partner were walking away. Her chance to be rescued was dwindling as fast as their strides. Being this close to freedom, Jewels wasn't going to let it literally, or figuratively, _walk away_.

Undeterred by Marshall's palm pressed over her mouth, she forced a scream for help.

It was muffled, yet enough to gain the attention of the men. They 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._

Fueled with the desire to be free, despite his hand sealing her mouth, Jewels screamed Agent Hines' name while thrashing her body about to break Marshall's superior hold.

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 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."

It wasn't the revolver he had picked up in the hall. This appeared to be 1911-style semiautomatic. And all this time she thought Marshall didn't pack.

"Dammit, Woman, you're not helping." Marshall planted his wrist on Jewels' hip. 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."

How does Marshall know Hines' name?

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."

"Really?"

"That's right, but first things first." Marshall walked 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 jumbled mess. Something in Marshall's tone wanted to make her trust him over Hines, an FBI agent. Did she dislike Theodore that much? Or ... no, it wasn't that at all. It was that cursed Stockholm Syndrome.

Determined not to fall prey to that psychological defense mechanism, Jewels erupted into a burst of fierce fighting against Marshall's restraint. Legs pumping, she strained to escape the heavy load of his arm.

Marshall lost command of her.

Jewels sprinted 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 dove toward Hines' feet. The sexy white gown flowing behind her.

RATA-TAT-TAT! RATA-TAT-TAT!

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

RATA-TAT-TAT! RATA-TAT-TAT!

Covering her ears, Jewels squeezed her eyes shut and curled into a ball.

Hot spent cartridges peppered her body and the surrounding floor like fallout from the wrath of an angry firepower god.

_Spray and pray_ , Jewels thought regarding the FBI agent's wild pattern of shooting. _Spray_ bullets in the general direction of the target and _pray_ that a few of them hit.

The last spent cartridge landed next to her head.

"Julia, are you okay?" Hines bent down to help her to her feet.

"I think so." Standing up slowly, she brushed off the gritty dust particles stuck to her bare arms. Her ears ached from the sound of gunfire.

"You got your dress dirty." Hines eyed the dark smudges on the bodice and the front of the skirt.

"Oh." An odd look scurried onto her face.

"Allow me." Hines took the liberty to rub the smudges, which wiped off surprisingly easily.

Jewels didn't protest.

Taking a step back, Hines gazed at her. Smiled. "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.

Hines pointed to the location in the hall where Jewels had escaped Marshall's grasp. "Let's take a look." He pressed his flat palm against Jewels' bare back.

She shuddered at his touch. Crossing her arms over her chest, she rubbed her hands over her biceps, as if to warm up. "Where did he go?" Jewels voice revealed pleasant surprise he was not dead.

"Don't know," the heavy-set FBI agent responded.

Hines grinned in triumph. Pointed to the floor a few feet in front of him. "See that? It's blood. We got him."

"Oh," Jewels softly commented, 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 wrapped it 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."

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?"

"Just the two of us." Hines canted his head to 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 halted 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 shook his hand. Turning to Agent Hines, curiosity washed her face. "By the way, how did you find me?"

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

**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 death.

Navigating around the corpses as if they were nothing more than odd pieces of furniture obstructing his path, he labored to breathe. Gulped air. The pain was exquisite. His body was ready to collapse, but sheer willpower wouldn't let him succumb to the temptation. "Get to the radio."

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.

In slow motion Cooman's body slid off the chair, landing on the rock floor with a heavy _thud_.

With the backside of Cooman's desk directly in front of him, Marshall pressed his back against the wall. Allowed his body to 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. Growl in pain.

Once the shirt was off, he tossed it aside then looked down at his chest, 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 ate away the agony on his face. "Thank God for Kevlar." He patted 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, bullet resistant vests don't make the wearer invincible. Intense pain, severe bruising, and fractured ribs are almost guaranteed while internal bleeding is not uncommon. Marshall Watters wasn't out of the woods yet.
Forty

**ONCE INSIDE HINES' BLACK** Cadillac Escalade, Jewels leaned over the console and reached her arms around his 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, Jewels tensed. 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..." He drew her in even closer and squashed her breasts against his chest. "I _do_ appreciate the hug," he said with hint of raunchiness in his tone.

Feeling uneasy in his arms, Jewels pushed herself away. Wrapped his FBI jacket across her chest to cover up. Forced a pleasant look onto her face. "So, you're my hero." Her voice faltered. Didn't sound sincere. Almost blended into a question. "How am I ever going to repay you?" A blatant overcompensation for the _hero_ comment she had nervously blurted.

A fanatical gleam germinated on his face. "I'm sure I can think of _something_."

"Oh, Agent Hines." She overacted, tilting her head back in laughter. She assumed 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 thoughts.

Agent Hines' revealed his temper 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, I _was_ dialing your number when I was interrupted by Sharon's call and, well, you know the rest of the story."

"You must be hungry and thirsty." He reached behind the seat to rummage in a small duffle bag.

"Yes, parched."

"It's not a chocolate donut and Diet Coke but trail mix and a bottle of water will do wonders for you." He hand the items to her and passed her a wink.

She scooped them out of his hand and 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 she raised the plastic bottle to him and smiled. "Thank you, this was just what I needed."

She dabbed the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand and twisted the cap onto the nearly empty water bottle. Mentally and physically drained, Jewels shut her eyes and collapsed back into the seat.

He started the engine. Revved it.

Jewels' opened her eyes, her attention drawn to the glowing green clock: 7:43.

It had been a long and hellish day. She couldn't wait to get home.

"Before we get going, I thought you might want these." He reached behind her seat and handed her the white pointed toe spike heels she used to knockout Marshall in the bathroom.

"When did you have time to find these?"

"You have to remember, Jewels, I _am_ the FBI." He flashed a sly grin.

Laughing, she gathered the shoes from him. "I must confess, I have kind of wide feet. This style of shoe squashes my toes. So I'd just as soon _not_ put them on. If you don't mind."

"Won't bother me." Hines dropped 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 spooky shadows, all but blocking out the evening sun.

An uneasy feeling poured over Jewels', as if her _vibes_ were signaling a warning.

But what about?

_Touchy-feely_ Hines?

Nah, that was over and done with.

Chalking up her bad vibes 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, her eyes drifted shut. 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. She replayed 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 lawman 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' 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."

"Uh, okay. _Theo,_ how does Marshall know you?" Jewels asked, her voice just below the shouting level.

"Who?" He contorted his face.

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

"I _don't_ know him."

Jewels' journalistic sense told her there was more of a story 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. Shot a glance brimming with annoyance at her.

Undaunted, Jewels pressed on. "He also said he was going to write the ending to your book of life, or—"

"Like I said, I don't know him."

She cocked her head to the side in disbelief. "Well, he _sure_ seemed to know you."

"Just drop it, Julia."

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 her _interview_. "I just find his comments curious. It's like you two had history or—"

"Wish I could've picked you up before Tank tied you up and battered you around." He momentarily took 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."

She recoiled, her left hand shot 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. An abstract smearing of confusion, bewilderment, and horror painted Jewels' face and whirled in her mind. Why would he say _picked you up_ instead of _rescued you_?

A weird smile slithered across Theo's face.

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 did you say?" she asked, her voice soft. Apprehensive.

"You're also fortunate he didn't kill you when he took you hostage after escaping the disciplinary room," he added with nonchalance.

Jewels mashed up her face. "You know about that, too?" Her voice rose an octave.

"I keep tellin' you..." An idiotic grin sprouted on his face as he thrust a stiff thumb at his chest. "I'm the fuckin' F-B-I."

"So, what else do you know?" She feigned a calm air while her vibes continued to blare: _Danger, Julia Andrasy!_

"Pretty much everything." His voice was confident. Borderline arrogant.

"Everything?"

"Yeah, I even know the Commander."

Jewels clutched her chest with both hands. "Theo, you _know_ the Commander?"

"Personally." He fired a Tom Selleck eyebrow wave at her.

Jewels' heart spasmed. Sharon's warning, _Don't trust the old times_ penetrated her mind like a bullet. Sharon wasn't saying _old times_ , she was saying _Theo Hines_. Sharon was warning her not to trust Theo Hines!

"Theo, please stop the car," Jewels requested as calmly as possible, pivoting her body to lean back into the seat as her fingers secretly fumbled to release the shoulder harness.

Given the SUV was randomly jarring her body back and forth and up and down while she was attempting to unlatch the seat belt without Theo knowing, the typically simple task had transformed into a challenging feat.

Shooting her an obscene sidelong glance, he mashed the gas pedal to the floorboard.

The Escalade lurched into overdrive.

Grabbing the dash with both hands to steady herself, she turned her head toward him. "Theodore Hines, I want you to stop this car right now." Jewels' voice firm, authoritative, like a mother's reprimand.

Tilting his head back, he cackled. "What, no _please_?"

"Do it, Theo. Now." Jewels' voice and face stern.

He let out a dreamy sigh. "That's how Momma used to say it when she wanted me between her legs."

_He had sex with his mother?_ Jewels drew back, repulsed.

"I knew you wouldn't be like the others."

_Others? What others?_ Curiosity nudged her to ask about _the others_ , but survival instincts trumped her inquiring mind. She refocused her efforts on freeing herself of the passive harness.

The Escalade devoured the rugged road like a two-ton bulimic monster on a feeding frenzy at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

_CLICK!_ The seat belt buckle opened.

Peering out the window into the muted light, she strained to survey the countryside as far ahead as she could.

No cliffs. Ground slightly banked and covered in overgrown bushes and weeds with thick tree trunks and granite boulders scattered throughout. Nature's version of a wipeout obstacle course.

Slowly hiking up the skirt of the gown to knee level, she gripped the door latch with her right hand, closed her eyes, and inhaled a deep breath. "Please God, let me survive this," she silently prayed. Opening her eyes, Jewels yanked on the door handle.

_CLUNK!_ Nothing happened. The door was locked.

"No you don't!" Hines latched his hand around her left forearm and yanked her toward him.

Hitting the console with her shoulder, Jewels rebounded into an upright seated position. She tightened her arm muscles and clenched her fist. "Let go." She ripped her arm free of his grasp.

The Escalade swerved.

Theo regained control of the Cadillac. And Jewels' left arm.

With her free hand she dug at the smooth little knob near the window. Popped it up. Pulled on the door handle.

The door cracked open.

_DING-DING-DING!_ The Escalade's safety system warned of the open door.

"Nooooooooooo." He wrenched her arm toward him, causing her body to crash partially on the console. Partially on him.

Taking advantage of the close quarters position, Jewels pummeled her right fist at Theo. Wildly punched his face, shoulders, arms ... anywhere and everywhere her fist could make contact with flesh.

_DING-DING-DING!_ The vehicle continued to wail.

Forced to use his forearms as defensive shields, Theo relinquished his grip on Jewels' left forearm as well as the steering wheel, losing control of the speeding Escalade.

It zigzagged back and forth across the dirt road. The passenger door flew open wide, then slammed shut. The automatic door lock reengaged, hushing the annoying _DING-DING-DING_.

Hines hammered the brakes.

The Escalade skidded. Blasted off the road. The passenger side of the vehicle's front end collided with a Smart-car-sized granite boulder.

The impact hurled Jewels forward. The explosion of the air bags prevented her from soaring through the windshield, though it knocked her unconscious.

The safety harness whiplashed Hines back into the seat, snapping his head hard enough to induce a blackout.

The Escalade's engine shuddered, stalling into silence.
Forty-One

**HAVING SHED THE BODY ARMOR,** Marshall's bare chest looked like a Rorschach inkblot test. Swirled blotches in all shapes and sizes with hues of mixed and matched colors, mostly black, red, blue, and purple, on a bronzed canvas of rippled muscle.

As bad as his chest looked, it felt worse.

He examined his bleeding arm. "Not a big deal, just grazed me," he diagnosed, tearing a strip off the bottom of his T-shirt and wrapping it around the oozing area of his arm.

Once bandaged, Marshall opened Cooman's desk drawer and pulled out the short wave radio. Twisted the dials to the desired frequency. "Roaming Buffalo to Herd, come in," he called into the hand-held microphone.

"Herd welcomes Roaming Buffalo," a male voice responded.

"Arrow's hit Bull's-Eye on Open Range. Repeat, Arrow's hit Bull's-Eye on Open Range," Marshall reported, urgency in his voice, his conversation in code. Marshall Watters was known as Roaming Buffalo, Julia Andrasy as Bull's-Eye, Agent Hines as Arrow, and the SPOF compound as the Open Range.

"We copy that. What's the status of Arrow?"

"Strayed, I think. Need rustlers." He rubbed his chest and eyed his wounded arm. "Need veterinarian too."

"We copy that. Rustlers and vet en route. What's the status of Bull's-Eye?"

"On Arrow's tip. Not torn last I knew."

"We copy that. What's the status of Open Range?"

"Four or five strayed hours earlier. Those remaining, neutralized."

"We copy that. Herder wants Roaming Buffalo to remain on Open Range until—"

"Negative. Gonna track Arrow."

"We copy that. Good luck, Roaming Buffalo. Over and out."

The voice on the radio went mute.

Marshall hung the mic on its hook and shoved the radio back in the drawer. Help was on the way, but right now he was Jewels' only chance. Had to rescue her from Hines and knew right where to go: the cabin just a few miles up the road.
Forty-Two

**GRADUALLY AWAKENING,** Jewels found herself in a crumpled mess on the front seat. Body draped over the console. Head and shoulders in Hines' lap.

Pushing herself off Agent Hines and the hard vehicle console, dizziness overcame her, sending her body flopping backward into the passenger seat. Groaning softly, she rotated her head side to side while massaging her neck.

Still feeling woozy, she opened and closed her eyes a few times, focusing on the eerie green glow of the clock shimmering 8:08.

Rubbing her pulsating head with her fingertips, she searched her mind's memory reels for recollection of what had happened.

Blank tape.

Fuzzy.

A hail of gun fire.

Hines draping his FBI jacket over her shoulders...

She glimpsed at her shoulders. "Still wearing his jacket." Pressed _play_ on her memory.

Fuzzy. Blank tape, then no tape at all. Where was she? How did she get in the car? What caused the wreck?

Hines groaned.

Jewels inched to his side. "Agent Hines? Wake up, Theodore." She shook his arm.

Hines' eyelids shot open, a crazed look on his face. He grabbed Jewels' forearms, squeezed hard.

"Theodore. It's okay. It's me, Julia Andrasy." She winced in pain from the intensity of his hold. "We were in a car wreck or something. I-I can't remember."

Wild-eyed he gazed at her. It would take a moment for her words to penetrate his dazed mind.

Smiling sweetly, she glanced down at the killer hold he had on her arms. "I'm no danger to you. I promise. You can let me go."

Nodding, he released his hold. Sat up. Arched his back and stretched his arms out in front of his body, like he had just awakened from a good night's rest.

"I don't see any blood." She patted his thigh in reassurance and scrutinized his face. "Do you feel okay?"

"What happened?" He blinked, a naive look on his face.

"I-I don't know. My mind is a total blank. Last thing I remember is you draping this jacket around my shoulders inside that dreadful compound. I don't even remember getting into this..." her voice trailed off as she surveyed the interior in search of a clue regarding the make and model of the vehicle. Her eyes focused on the word CADILLAC embossed on the steering wheel. "Escalade? I don't know, Agent Hines. Do _you_ remember what happened?"

"Damnedest thing," he said in a-matter-of-fact tone. "There was a big bear in the road. I jammed on the brakes, then—"

"Maybe it was that man-eating bear." Jewels felt silly. How could she suggest such a thing? Sure, the bear had claimed his victims in the Uinta Mountains, but the Uintas ranged from northeastern Utah into southern Wyoming. The blood-thirsty beast could be anywhere within the extending mountain range. For that fact, so could she.

Hines' face lit up. "You're probably right," he shrieked, as if she had just solved a century-old mystery.

Jewels frowned. "You were hit on the head, Agent Hines. I don't know where we are, except if Sharon's map was correct, SPOF was located _somewhere_ in the Uinta Mountains. So I _assume_ we're still in the Uintas as well. I bet the bear doesn't live around here."

"No, Jewels. This is where he's been feeding."

Jewels smiled wryly. _Feeding_ , in her opinion, wasn't the best choice of words.

"Are _you_ okay?"

Giving herself the once-over she straightened her gown and closed the FBI jacket around over chest. "I think so, except for my head." She tapped her temple with her right pointer finger. "I've got a pounding headache and I can't remember the accident."

"You've probably sustained a mild concussion. Headache and temporary short-term memory loss are common." He rubbed his hand up and down the length of her thigh, inching ever closer to her crotch.

She shifted her body to distance herself from Agent Hines' roaming hand. Forced a smile. "I hope your diagnosis is correct."

"Buckle up." He removed his hand from her thigh to turn the engine key.

The Escalade growled to life.

"Shouldn't we check the car for damage?"

"Let's get you to the cabin."

"Cabin?"

"I'll to drop you off at my cabin where it's safe, then I'll to go back to the compound and help my guys wrap up things. I'll send a helicopter to pick you up later."

Massaging her banging head, Jewels pressed her memory for an inkling of _why_ he was taking her to his cabin in the middle of nowhere instead of a hospital, police station, or her home.

"I'm confused," she confessed, uneasiness in her voice. "You have to go back to the SPOF compound, now? Please take me home first."

"All in good time," he promised with a charming grin. Adjusting the deflated air bag, he wheeled the SUV onto the mountain road and sped off into the darkness with one working headlight.
Forty-Three

**HOWARD DYSON PACED** in Jewels' office. Cell phone in hand, he glanced down at it every few moments as if looking at it would make it ring sooner.

Belinda had returned to the office from the meeting in the parking lot of Kate's Diner as well. Busied herself dusting and fussing over items on her desk as she, too, waited. Strolling into Jewels' office and acting exhausted, she plopped onto the couch and propped her feet up. "You're gonna wear a hole in the carpet," she joked, forcing a smile, her face haggard with worry.

He didn't respond. Continued to pace. Stared at the phone.

Belinda glanced at her wristwatch. "It's been eight hours since you made the call. Are you _sure_ these guys can help?" Skepticism and impatience in her tone.

"Of course they _can_ and _will_ help."

Howard's cell phone buzzed.

Belinda sat up. Alert.

Howard glanced at the number, jogged into Jewels' private bath, and closed the door before answering. "So, Bradshaw, did you get me in?"

"You never did mince words," he said with a short laugh. "And, the answer is affirmative."

"What's the plan?"

"Rescue's underway. Where are you now?"

"New Greensburgh Press."

"Is there ample space to land a helo?"

"Affirmative."

"Good. We're on our way. Should be there around twenty-one hundred hours, give or take five."

"I'll be ready and assume you'll brief me in flight."

"One more thing..."

"Yeah?"

"You're not in charge of this op. Your presence is strictly as an advisor with no authority. Pretty much just a courtesy. Understood?"

He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yes, _Sir_." Dyson disconnected the call. Exited the bathroom.

Belinda jumped to her feet. "So is that info Lilly gave you going to help find Jewels?"

"Yes. Thank you." He hurriedly marched toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Will you make sure the south parking lot is clear? A helicopter will pick me up in about twenty minutes and I need to change my clothes."
Forty-Four

**FBI SPECIAL AGENT** In Charge Theodore Hines maneuvered the smashed front-end of the Escalade between the massive log pillars of the lean-to carport. The rasp of gravel crunching beneath the weight of the SUV's knobby tires drowned out the otherwise never-ending chant of nature's twilight creatures.

The Escalade's single working headlight illuminated the front of the tiny cabin. Petrified sap wept permanent tears on the exterior of the log walls. The points of dozens of huge spikes protruded outward from boards nailed across the window and on the door itself.

Hines silenced the engine, leaving the headlight on. His scarlet necktie dangled to and fro around his collar as he swaggered around the front of the Escalade to open the passenger door for Jewels. He offered his hand.

Accepting his grasp with her right hand, she gathered the skirt of the gown in her left and stepped out. As they approached the cabin she caught his sinewed arm for balance, taking calculated steps to ensure her unprotected feet were not bitten too hard by the gravel.

He noticed her careful gait. "Wait. Let me carry you."

"Oh, goodness no, but thank you." She laughed and proceeded with deliberate steps. Changed the subject and pointed at the spikes on the cabin window. "Interesting."

"Klondike boards."

"Isn't that an ice cream?"

Hines erupted in belly laughter, his spaniel brown eyes crinkling mirthfully. "Those are Klondike _bars_."

Embarrassment ignited her face; a Barbie doll with fire engine red features.

"Folks in Alaska use Klondike _boards_ to keep away hungry polar bears."

"Now I get it. You put up Klondike boards to keep out that man-eating grizzly, right?"

"Excellent, Sweet Cheeks."

_Sweet Cheeks?_ General Cooman had called her that too. Did men naturally conclude women responded to Sweet Cheeks like stray cats to _kitty, kitty_?

Hines unlocked the door. Pushed it open. "Be right back." He disappeared inside.

Turning her back to the cabin, Jewels gazed into the murky forest.

The evening air caressed her body like the fingers of a frigid old man. She rubbed her arms for warmth and bunched her shoeless feet into fists.

Shutting her eyes, she tuned in to nature's nocturnal symphony. Indulged in the smell of the fermenting aspen leaves and pine needles to rejuvenate her inner soul like a high-priced aroma therapy session.

A hand grasped her shoulder from behind.

Gasping, she clutched her chest with both hands.

"Didn't mean to scare you."

His breath was hot on her neck, sending a jolt of disquiet through her body.

Bowing, he gestured like a butler. "Please come in."

"Thank you, but can't you please just take me—"

"All in good time." Again he gestured with his hand for her to enter.

Having no other choice, Jewels stepped inside. Grimaced at the odor, a dusty antique store smell.

The floor's wooden planks felt cold, rough, and gritty through the thin spandex material covering her otherwise bare feet.

A single lantern illuminated the one-room cabin.

To Jewels' left, a long wall, twenty feet or more, constructed of exposed logs. To her right, a red sandstone fireplace towered cold in the center of the wall, flanked by a slender pair of unpainted plywood doors. On the same wall as the fireplace but near the rear of the cabin, a queen-sized bed.

The headboard and footboard were thick lodge pine poles laced into an abstract pattern. A lovely multicolored patchwork quilt blanketed the mattress. An old, well-used wooden nightstand sat nestled between the bed and the back wall which was naked except for a variety of heavy-duty eye hooks randomly anchored about.

Across from the bed, a tiny kitchen nook. Several rows of cheap particle board cabinets, similar to the kind used in garages, adorned the walls. The counter top was plywood. No sink. No stove. No table. No chairs.

Despite the brilliant interior lighting and the peaceful mountain setting, the cabin reeked of darkness. Goosebumps blossomed on her arms. Looking over her shoulder, Hines stood a foot or so behind her, his arms folded. She conjured a plastic smile. "How very quaint," Jewels lied. Creepy, was her honest opinion.

"Go ahead. Relax." Hines pointed to the bed with his chin. "Make yourself at home."

_Said the spider to the fly_ , unable to shake the feeling she was being held against her will once again.

"Uh, okay." Her voice sagged with reluctance. Strolling to the bed, she sat on the edge near the footboard as if not wanting to wake a sleeping ax murderer. Arms crossed over her chest. Legs squeezed together.

He laughed. "Come on, Sweet Cheeks. You don't look very comfortable. Relax."He stood in the center of the doorway, arms spanned against the door frame as if holding it up.

Planting her arms at her side and pressing her hands into the mattress, Jewels shook her head. "I'm trying to relax but I want to go home." Her voice cracked.

His face compressed. "I said, _relax_."

"You're scaring me." She squirmed to _appear_ to be relaxing to appease him.

"See you in a bit." He stepped outside, jerked the thick wooden door shut behind him and locked it.

"Wait! Don't leave me!" Jewels leaped to her feet. Gathered the skirt of the gown in her hands and sprinted to the door.

Wrapping both hands inside the six-inch horizontal wooden door handle, she tugged.

The door didn't budge.

Pitching her entire body backward for added leverage, Jewels yanked on the door handle multiple times with all her might.

Still, the massive wooden door wouldn't budge.

She pounded flat palms on the door. "Theodore, wait! Please don't leave me!"

Seconds later the growl of the Escalade's engine faded to utter stillness.

Alone, Jewels was hurt and angry that the FBI agent had imprisoned her in the disturbing cabin. Sighing and turning her back to the door, she plastered her shoulders against it in frustration. "From one prison cell into another." She rested the back of her head against the door.

Images of the moments before the accident suddenly peppered her mind. _Hines is the Commander!_

Gasping like she had just been slapped across the face with a cold wet towel, she relived the sight of the fiendish grin on Hines' face. Felt the grip of his hand locked on her arm. Heard the sound of her fingers clawing at the Escalade's door handle...

Her mind searched for a rope ladder, a way to escape the reality of her nightmarish recollection.

Marshall Watters materialized.

"How could I have been so stupid?" Jewels pushed her bangs up her forehead in exasperation. "Marshall _knew_ Hines was the Commander. He _was_ trying to help me."

Feeling like a pipe bomb had just exploded in her stomach, shrapnel shredded her heart. Oh, the consequences of mistaken trust.

"I should have believed Marshall, not Theodore." She deflated into a sobbing heap on the dusty cabin floor.

Consumed by self-pity and guilt, she wasn't thinking clearly. The thought of escaping from the cabin or searching its interior for a defensive weapon had yet to enter her mind.
Forty-Five

**LIBERATING COOMAN'S** woodland green BDU jacket from behind his chair, Marshall slipped it on gingerly. A snug fit. Couldn't quite close it. The gap in the jacket left his bruised bare chest partially exposed.

After gaining a second wind, Marshall plowed into the hall. Prying an AR out of the hands of a dead man lying just outside of Cooman's office, he checked the magazine to make sure it was loaded. It was.

Rushing down the corridor, he stopped at each body he passed, searched it for a full magazine of .223 ammo. When he came across one, he stuffed the extra magazine into the pocket of Cooman's jacket.

With a loaded rifle slung across his back, Cooman's jacket pockets full of reloads, he jogged down the hall, up the stairs, and outside. The short jacket flowing behind him like clipped wings.

"Drive or hoof it?" Driving would get him there in minutes, but would warn of his approach miles before he arrived, negating the element of surprise.

"Stealth mode wins every time." He nixed the vehicle idea and noted the time on his watch. "Hang on, Jewels. I'll be there in less than a half hour." He took off on a fast trot on a path that offered a shortcut to the steep mountain road leading to Hines' cabin.

Upon reaching the road, he heard the engine roar of an oncoming vehicle. An instant later a single light appeared on the horizon.

Marshall scrambled off the road into a thicket of brush. Lay flat on his stomach, waiting for the vehicle to pass.

Seconds later a black Cadillac Escalade blew by, Hines at the wheel. A thick dust cloud followed in the wake of the speeding SUV, preventing Marshall from scouting a second look at whether or not Jewels was in the passenger seat.

Analyzing the situation, he shrugged. Even if the front passenger seat was empty, Hines could have her tied up, lying on the back seat.

Marshall's mind ricocheted. Should he turn around and follow Hines back to the compound or press forward to the cabin?

If Hines did have Jewels and was taking her back to the compound, the rest of his team would be arriving within minutes. Hines would be caught. Jewels rescued. End of story.

On the other hand, if Hines didn't have Jewels with him, the bastard would still be caught, leaving Jewels where?

Obviously in need of rescuing from confinement in Hines' cabin. If that were the case, he shuddered imagining her possible physical and mental condition.

"Go to the cabin." Pushing to his feet, Marshall brushed off the pine needles, dried leaves, and granules of dirt stuck to his bare chest and clothes. Resumed jogging up the steep road, the AR-15 riding on his back.
Forty-Six

NEAR THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS,

INSIDE THE DREARY COMPOUND.

"Heroes again," FBI Agent Markus Wingate hooted, his hand in the high-five position.

Theodore slapped it. "These stooges didn't see it coming."

"They never do," Wingate laughed. "This is a big bust. I feel another commendation coming, Partner."

"Me too," Hines responded with nonchalance.

Wingate picked up on his partner's preoccupation. "What's bothering you?"

"That wild card who had Julia ... the guy dressed in black." His face mashed up with concern. "Did you find him? Is he dead?" Hines' tone edged with worry.

Wagging his head, beefy jowls jiggling like Jell-O, Wingate replied slowly, thinking as he spoke. "Now that you mention it, no. Don't remember seeing a body dressed in black. Searched the compound top to bottom. All those damned nooks and hallways. No. Everyone was wearing camos, except for the doc. As for the man in black, got bubkiss." He nibbled his lip. "Must've gotten away."

"Fuck!"

"Who is this guy, anyway?"

Hines scowled. "Some fuckin' do-gooder by the name of Marshall Watters." Shaking his head in regret, he reflected upon the conversation he had with Cooman. "When the general told me women went goo-goo for the guy who was charged with watching Sweet Cheeks, my gut ached with a bad feeling. I shook it off as jealously, but now..." His voice faded as he stared at the rock floor.

"He acted like he knew you. Do you two have history?"

Hines rolled his eyes. "God. Not you, too."

"What? I heard him, he called you by name and—"

"Stop! I don't know the fucker."

"Sorry, didn't mean to pry. So what do you wanna do about this Marshall Watters character who knows you, but you don't know him?"

He gnawed the inside of his cheek for a moment. "Nothing, for now." Changing the subject, Hines tilted his head toward the corpse-lined corridor. "Wait till morning, 0700 or so, to call this in. That should give you plenty of time to clean up." He spawned a devious grin. "And when you start the paperwork, mention Watters. Say he blind-sided me. Took me hostage for a while. You rescued me."

Wingate's bushy eyebrows raised with delight. "Thanks, Boss."

Hines nodded a _you're welcome_. "Make sure you write this up so we get a shoot-to-kill-on-sight order issued on this Watters dude."

"You got it." Wingate pivoted on his heel, marching toward the intersection of hallways.

"Hey, Wingate," Hines called. "Do a double-check. Make certain everyone's dead."

"Already done. By the way, what do I say about you? Where you are, what you're doing?"

"Tell 'em I've gone after that prick Watters on foot into the woods."

A dirty grin sparked across Wingate's chubby cheeks. "Truth is, you'll be _cleansing_ your bride, right?"

"Damn straight!"
Forty-Seven

**WITH AN ETA TO HINES' CABIN** of about ten minutes, Marshall heard the engine again. The Escalade was speeding back up the road, toward the cabin.

"Shit that was fast," he muttered, thinking how quickly Hines had done whatever he did at the SPOF compound. Once again he took cover at the roadside.

And once again the black Escalade flew by. A trail of dust in its wake.

"Hold on, Jewels." Marshall hopped to his feet, resuming his fast-paced jog up the dusty dirt road.

THE SOUND OF THE ESCALADE'S purring engine being snuffed jolted Jewels into an upright sitting position.

Hines was back.

Wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand, she sniffled. Pulled herself up onto the bed and sat on the edge. Poofing her hair and straightening the gown, she crossed her legs ladylike, doing her best to cover up the fact she had been hysterically crying for what seemed days.

The door unlocked. Creaked open.

Hines slid inside. Closing the door behind him, he locked it. Slipped the bundle of keys into his pants pocket, slid the MP-5 submachine gun off his shoulder, and leaned his back against the cabin door. Scrutinized Jewels.

She shifted her body.

"You've been crying." He hung the MP-5 on a hook next to the door while shedding his suit coat.

"Um, I ... you locked me in here and I got scared." Which was the truth.

Slinging the MP-5 over his shoulder to vacate the garment hook for his suit coat, he began rolling up the cuffs of his long sleeved white shirt. "And?" He walked toward her.

"And, uh, I want to go home ... _please_." A fake smile skittered across her stressed features.

He continued to roll up his sleeves, creasing each fold with his fingers. "So how's the head?"

Shifting nervously on the edge of the bed, Jewels rapidly wrapped the end of the FBI jacket around the pointer finger of right hand. "Fine."

"That means you got your memory back."

Jewels abandoned her mindless twiddling and sat up tall. "Yes, my memory has returned, _Commander_."

He finished rolling up his sleeves. "Very good." His face and voice void of emotion.

"Now I know why Boo-Boo never liked you and why I was always apprehensive about going on a date with you."

"You are a smart one. Just not smart enough. Otherwise, you wouldn't have turned on that Marshall Watters character like you did."

His words sliced her heart as wickedly and effortlessly as she imagined Tank's knife could.

Ambling over to the fireplace cabinets, he cranked open the door. Eyed her. "I think that Watters dude was really going to set you free. And for that, you got him killed."

" _You_ killed him," Jewels rebutted, yet in her heart knew damned well Hines spoke the truth. Marshall kept telling her to trust him, but when it came down to it, she turned on him. She _was_ the reason he was dead.

"Since you know who I am and what I want, let's get down to business."

Her body recoiled in fear when he said _business_. That could only mean one thing: female mutilation.

Burying his head in the cabinet and digging around a moment, he extracted a handful of leather restraining devices. Gathering them together, he held them in one hand. Thrust them straight up from his shoulder, like Attila the Hun displaying the head of his latest enemy conquered. "These mark the beginning of _my_ new life," he declared, as if an adoring world was listening.

_The man's nuts!_ Eyes widened and eyebrows raised, in fascinated horror she stared at him.

After dangling the pieces of leather in the air for a moment, he pitched them onto the bed next to Jewels. "Put on those restraints. Start with your wrists."

Jewels glanced at the mass of leather, then up at Hines. "Never." She leaped to her feet and dashed to the opposite side of the bed, creating a buffer between them. With fists balled in front of her face, she took on a boxer's stance. Poised to fight.

"Oh-ho. Sweet Cheeks wants to act like a tough girl with me," he appraised, his voice breaking into a maniacal cackle. "I'm _reeeeeeal_ scared." Hunching over and flipping his hands around his face he trembled in mock fear.

Waves of terror surged to tsunami proportions in her stomach. Desperation flooded her face. She scanned the sparsely decorated room for something she could use in self-defense, other than her fists. Mentally kicking herself, she wondered why she hadn't searched the room for a weapon while Hines was gone. Obviously the accident had jostled her mind. Including her defensive mindset.

CACHINK!

Chambering a round in the MP-5, he waved the muzzle in Jewels' direction. "I said, put those fuckin' straps on your wrists. _Now_."

Straightening her back and dropping her arms to her side, she held her chin high. "Never. You'll just have to shoot me."

He raised the MP-5 to eye level. Aimed. Tapped the trigger.

RATA-TAT-TAT!

THE NOISE WAS LOUD, no louder than the backfire of a car in the distance, yet Marshall recognized the sound for what it was: a short burst of automatic gunfire. No doubt coming from the cabin. Was Jewels dead? Had she killed Hines?

Finally Hines' cabin came into view, the black Cadillac Escalade parked under the carport.

Marshall double-timed his jog, threading his way around the tufts of brush and over fallen trees as he stealthily approached the log shanty.

THE ROUNDS FROM HINES' MP-5 blistered the log wall behind Jewels, mere inches to the left of her hip.

Wooden splitters scattered about the room.

She shrieked and dove under the bed for cover.

Angry Florsheims stomped toward her. Halted at the edge of the bed less than a foot from her face. "Don't make me come down there and get you."

Jewels' mind was strangely void of options, like a bankrupt stockbroker. She lay breathless. Her heart trapezing out of control.

The black lace-up wingtips erupted into a flurry of angry kicks at the bed. "Get the fuck out here. _Now._ "

Staying clear of the raging shoes, Jewels retreated. Turned her body around so her feet were closer to Hines than her head.

"Okay, you asked for it." He dropped to his knees and lowered his body onto his elbows. Reached under the bed with his right hand and grabbed for her ankle.

Jewels clamped her fingers around the top of her foot.

"I got you now," he revelled, repositioning his hand to capture her left ankle.

Initiating a vicious kicking attack, her legs churned. Flexed feet hammered his wrist and forearm while she latched onto the bed frame. As if performing a horizontal chin-up Jewels pulled her body toward the other end, worming closer to the opposite side of the bed.

"Fuck! You're getting my shirt and pants dirty." Forced to grasp her ankle with both hands to maintain control, anger boosted his adrenaline and strength. Heaving his entire body backward, he jerked her leg toward him.

Jewels bellowed a high-pitched squeal as both she and the entire bed lurched about an inch closer to him. Since her fingers were hooked into the metal chain of the bedsprings, when he yanked on her leg, the heavy log bed slid, too.

He slung his body backward again, hoisting her and the bed another inch closer.

Despite her death grip on the bed, Theo was strong. Relentless. And Jewels was losing her grasp.

Grunting, he yanked her leg again.

The bed moved less, her body more.

Jewels moaned. Hung onto the metal loops.

He continued to heave-ho her leg. Inch by inch, drawing her nearer. And nearer. Each of his violent tugs yanking her out from under the bed, little by little.

Misery contorted Jewels' face. His brutal clutch on her bruised ankle was almost unbearable. The pads of her fingers felt like she was squeezing box cutters. Didn't know how much longer she could hold on.

Abruptly Theo stopped pulling on her leg. Maintained a viselike hold. Sucked air hard and deep.

Hearing his labored breathing, Jewels took advantage of the moment to catch her breath and prepare for the next round. Though her knuckles ached like they were being torn out of their sockets, grimacing, Jewels repositioned her fingers deeper into the metal weave of the bedsprings for a stronger hold.

"Have it your way," Theo conceded. "We'll start with ankle straps."

"Noooo!" Jewels levied another violent kicking attack. But his strength was mighty and he was skilled in the speedy application of restraints. Only milliseconds passed before she heard the binding crunch of the Velcro strap. Felt the bite of the stiff leather belt being fastened on top, painfully engulfing her left ankle in a double restraint cuff.

After clipping a long thin piece of leather onto the D-ring of the restraint like a leash, Theo rose to his feet. Pulled on it like a towrope. Dragged Jewels farther out from under the queen-sized hideaway.

The leverage he had gained with the leash was close to generating more power than she could resist. Or withstand. With her body stretched agonizingly long, every muscle in her body strained as she hung on to the bedsprings. Her deep groans of torment filled the cabin like a horror sound track playing in a disturbing spook alley.

He persisted. Pulled harder. Used more force.

Jewels and the bed shifted six inches closer to him. The heavy log headboard and footboard ground deep into the floor planks, leaving scaring ruts.

Jewels' fingers could endure no more. She lost grip of the coils.

Capitalizing on her weakness, with one mighty jerk he hauled Jewels' lower legs out from under the bed. The bottom of the gown bunched up near the top of her thighs, exposing her knees.

In a fit of terror she pitched her body about. Twisting onto her stomach, then back. Rolling to and fro irrationally. Wildly clawing at the underneath of the bed and the uneven floor boards. During the madness the skirt of the gown caught on the edge of a protruding mattress spring, tearing.

He heard the material rip. "You fuckin' bitch! You're ruining my mother's wedding dress." It really wasn't his mother's wedding dress, but because he had _imagined_ it so, it was. With the added adrenaline from the rage over the torn dress, Theo harnessed the surge of energy to yank on the leather leash.

Though Jewels had waged a valiant defensive effort and connected with several flesh-pounding blows, FBI Special Agent Theodore Hines reigned superior.

He secured a double restraint cuff around her right ankle then snapped on a leash. With a hand wrapped around the leather leash attached to each ankle, he dragged Jewels out from under the bed.

Screaming, kicking, and clawing at the air, the floor, the bed, _anything_ , Jewels tried to grab _something_ to save herself from the madman's clutches. But failed.

Once Jewels' body was out in the open Hines smashed his foot onto her neck, applying a fair amount of his body weight.

Eyes ballooning, her hands wrapped around his shoe. Pushing with all her might against the leather sole of the wingtip for relief, it was like attempting to bench press a two-hundred-fifty-pound anvil.

Still holding the leashes attached to her legs in one hand, he held a leather wrist restraint in the other and dangled it above her head, "All you have to do is put this on your wrist."

"Never." She tucked her knees up toward her chest and twisting her body, launching a frenzied flurry of kicks at his thighs, groin, and torso.

"Bitch." Her assault pulverized various parts his body, though missing his crotch. But rather than deter him, her fight invigorated him.

Winding the leashes around his forearm, he gained control of her legs. Contained her wild kicking. Repositioned himself to grind his foot deeper into her neck.

Breathing hard, he grinned, his eyes dancing with excitement as he watched her.

To relieve the crushing pressure on her windpipe, she twisted her body. But in doing so, her carotid artery became more vulnerable, restricting blood flow to her brain. Eyelids flickering shut, muscles relaxing, Jewels was about to blackout.

Hines released some of the pressure. Didn't want her to pass out. Sure, she'd be easier to handle unconscious, but he had waited too long for Jewels. For the challenge of making her his own.

"One way or the other, you're mine," he mumbled, thinking how at one time he had hoped she would agree to be his willingly. Submit to whatever he asked.

However, since the use of force was necessary, he wasn't going to allow himself to be denied the thrill of an intense physical battle.

Jewels gulped for air, her hands still clenched around the expensive leather shoe parked on her throat.

Again he dangled the wrist restraint over her head. "Put this on your wrist." His tone calm, controlled.

Jewels shook her head in defiance.

Removing his foot from her throat he turned his back, momentarily rubbed his neck, then wheeled back around to face her.

Capitalizing on the relief, she pushed herself into a sitting position. Leaned her back against the bed. Massaged her paining throat.

Thrusting his hands on his hips he gazed down at her. "Christ, Woman, aren't you afraid to die?" His voice thick with anger, but seasoned with curiosity.

Tilting her head back, she looked up at his face. "Death? No, I'm not afraid to die." She lowered her head to gaze at her lap while continuing to gently rub her throbbing neck. "Don't misunderstand. I don't _want_ to die. Nor do I have a death wish." She raised her head to look him square in the eyes. "No matter what you threaten to do to me, I refuse to help you restrain me so you can torture me. So you might as well just kill me right now and get it over with."

FIVE MINUTES EARLIER.

Marshall scurried to the cabin. Flattened his body against the exterior wall.

Inside a woman screamed.

Jewels.

A man's voice bellowed angrily.

Hines.

Thumping. Pounding.

The distinctive sound of physical violence. Flesh walloping flesh. Images of Hines hammering Jewels swarmed his mind.

Fists tightening, Marshall ground his teeth, pumped for a dynamic entry to rescue Jewels. However the sharp spikes of the Klondike boards prevented crashing the door or one of the windows in _this_ cabin.

With speed and stealth, he circled the cabin searching for an alternative entrance.

Found none.

Must improvise. Eyeing the SUV, a grin parted his tight face. He knew what to do. Create a diversion. Draw Hines out of the cabin. Then kill the filthy bastard.

"KILL YOU NOW? Oh no, Sweet Cheeks. I've waited too fucking long for this. And I won't be denied."

With hopes of not drawing his attention, Jewels scooted gradually on her butt away from him. Toward the end of the bed.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" He grabbed the end of the leather leash attached to Jewels' left leg and jerked it toward him.

Her head snapped back into the side of the mattress. Forced a little groan.

_Aaaaarrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhh!_ The air was filled with a whining, high-pitched siren.

The Escalade's alarm.

MARSHALL WAITED, kneeling behind the trunk of a fat pine tree towering about twenty feet to the front and side of the cabin, The position afforded him a full view of the cabin door while the angle was perfect for the exterior of the thick log walls to absorb a bullet, in the likely event it passed through the targeted flesh.

Readying the AR, he peered through the iron sights. Even without the luxury of night sights or a scope, Marshall was confident he could snipe Hines.

When Hines came out of the cabin, he'd take out the bastard. Blow his damned head off.

AT THE SOUND OF THE Escalade's siren, Hines dropped the leather leash. Faced the door and whipped the MP-5 forward into a firing position.

Making the most of Hines' preoccupation with the siren and the door, Jewels unsnapped the leash on her left ankle. Slid it under the bed, then unbuckled the leather strap.

Under cover of the wail of the siren, she peeled apart the noisy Velcro. Ripped it off her ankle and flung the cuff under the bed. Repeated the process for her right ankle.

_Aaaaarrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhh!_ The alarm continued to blare.

Hines' attention remained focused on the door, his back to her.

Jewels scurried to the opposite side of the bed, the one closest to the back wall and crouched into a deep squat position, hiding behind the edge of the bed.

She peeked over the mattress at Hines' back. Wondered what would happen if she were to charge him. Hit him from behind at knee level.

Would the force of the blow afford her the opportunity to snatch the gun? Unfortunately, she couldn't just knock him over then run out the door, because he locked it. However, if she was in control of the gun, she could force him to hand over the keys, _then_ she could escape.

It was a flaky plan at best, but a plan nonetheless.

Could it work? Would it work?

Only one way to find out, and at this point, Jewels had nothing to lose by trying. Balling her hands into clenched fists, she stood up then hunched over. On the count of three, she'd hit him. _One. Two..._

Suddenly Hines whirled around. A dumbfounded look swallowed up his face as he eyed her up and down. "What the fuck are you doing?"

_Busted!_ Eyes expanding to cartoon proportions, as nonchalantly as possible she relaxed, surrendering her aggressive stance while inching into an erect position.

Eyebrows knitted, Hines glared.

Swallowing hard, she cleared her throat. _Dammit!_ Never any good at lying, she had to think of an explanation. Fast.

"Uh, I-I was ... uh ..." Unconsciously she stroked the earring on her right ear. "I was trying ... uh ... to get cover behind you."

His lips curled like a wolf. "Don't fuckin' lie to me."

_Aaaaarrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhh!_ The Escalade's alarm continued to wail. Annoyingly so.

Hines slung the MP-5 around his back and charged her. Covering the twenty-foot or less distance between them, Hines was on top of her and had gained a viselike hold of her right arm before she could turn around to run.

Not that she had anywhere _to_ run.

Clenching her fist she heaved her entire body backward while jerking her arm to break free of his grasp.

He crumpled her hand forward and twisted her arm behind her back, wrenching her into a pain-inducing position. "Stop fighting me."

Moaning in agony, Jewels continued to resist. Contorting her body. Kicking backward with her heels to pound his shins. And punching rearward with her free hand, hoping to hammer his nuts.

"Goddammit." He applied more pressure to cause more pain. "I said stop fighting me."

"Let go. Please, let go." Jewels continued to struggle. However the more she fought, the more he cranked her hand and arm upward, twisting it higher up her spine, intensifying the pain until she could withstand no more.

"Okay, Theo." She relaxed her muscles the best she could. "You win. Please let go." She rolled up high on her tiptoes, seeking a reduction in pain. "You're hurting me."

Without relenting his brutal hold, he pulled her close to his chest. Smashed his mouth next to her ear. "I don't want to hear a fuckin' peep from you. And don't give me any trouble, or so help me God..." he jammed the barrel of the MP-5 in Jewels' side, "I _will_ kill you."

"Yes. Okay. Whatever you want."

Aaaaarrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhh!

"I need to turn off that alarm and you're gonna help me." Hines gave Jewels' arm a quick little twist.

She groaned in agony. Repeated, "Whatever you want, Theo. Whatever you want."

Darkness had moved in an hour ago. The cool air smelled of pine needles and dew. Marshall's rib area cramped, most likely from a fractured bone, but he clenched his teeth and ignored the pain, focusing his thoughts first on Jewels. Was she conscious? In pain? How badly was she hurt? Then on Hines. What was taking him so long to respond? "Come on you bastard."

As if in an instant response to his mutterings, the cabin door swung open. Brightness spilled from the doorway.

_Aaaaarrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhh!_ The alarm continued to whine.

Nudging his cheek deep into the stock of the AR, he trained the front sight on the cabin entry. Began to control his breathing. To relax. Concentrate. Become one with the weapon...

The plan was simple. When Hines' head came into view, he'd slide his finger off the trigger guard onto the trigger and press.

The _spotlight_ was suddenly all but blocked as the doorway was filled with the outline of a _blob_. Not the human body Marshall was expecting. "Shit."

Hines wasn't stupid. He had pulled a classic hostage taker's move. Hostage taker and hostage covered under a blanket. A rescuer's nightmare. Impossible to snipe the hostage taker. Too risky. Might hit the hostage.

Pursing his lips, Marshall wasn't prepared for this situation. It would take three SWAT-trained men to handle a scenario like this. One to pull the blanket. One to snatch the hostage. One to neutralize the hostage taker with a single contact shot to the head.

Like a giant amoeba on speed, the bundle shimmied and jerked its way toward the Escalade.

The alarm continued to blast its shrill warning.

After traversing the fifty feet between the cabin door and where the Escalade was parked, the blanket-covered mass reached the SUV.

The driver side door opened.

Marshall perked up. Readied the AR. Maybe Hines would show his face.

The alarm went mute.

Seconds later the SUV's door shut.

The lumpy blanket began sliding back toward the open cabin door, moaning as it moved. The sounds of misery drowned out by the alarm were now audible.

Jewels was in pain.

If Hines hauled Jewels back into the cabin, the rescue opportunity would be lost. Had to do something. Fast.

When they were mere steps from the cabin doorway, Marshall slid the AR on his back and bolted from behind the fat pine tree, sprinting toward the blob.

Hines must have heard him coming, because the blanket stopped. Wheeled around, just as Marshall pounced.

The bundle swayed. Didn't go down. Angry shouts and fearful screams filled the air as chaos erupted. Light from the cabin shone on the scene like a focused theater spotlight.

Grasping a handful of blanket, Marshall yanked.

A head was exposed. Hines.

" _You!_ " Hines glared at Marshall.

With Jewels still concealed under the blanket, Marshall had to make a split-second decision. Was she rigged to an IED dead man's switch? Have the tip of knife poised to plunge into her kidney or ribs? Forced to clench a cyanide capsule between her molars? Or was she booby-trapped in one of dozens of other means of leveraging a hostage?

The risk was too high to engage Hines in hand-to-hand combat, leaving Marshall no alternative other than to lunge back a giant step and reach for the AR on his back.

"Not so fast," Hines extracted Jewels from under the blanket by her upper arm and jammed the barrel of the MP-5 into the side of her neck.

Shivering, Jewels stood with her arms wrapped around her chest. Her updo looked like it had been teased with electric egg beaters. Her Aphrodite face was tear-streaked and contorted in torment.

"Put the fuckin' gun down, or I'll blow her head off." Hines tapped the muzzle of the MP-5 against the side of Jewels' neck.

Marshall froze, analyzing the rogue agent.

Hines' eyes were steady, void of emotion, dead like a king cobra's. Face, the mask of a plotting madman. Body, tense and on edge, primed for action. And his finger was curled around the trigger of the submachine gun.

He concluded Hines _would_ kill Jewels, not just threaten to do so. "Okay, Hines, I'm gonna put the rifle down, but this isn't over." He lowered the AR to the ground.

Eyes bulging, Jewels' mouth gaped, staring at Marshall.

"Now kick that gun over here." Hines waved the MP-5 at Marshall.

Marshall had no intention of giving up that weapon.

Hines stabbed the gun into Jewels' neck again.

She grimaced.

"Kick that fuckin' rifle over here and get your hands up where I can see 'em." He ground the barrel deeper into Jewels' skin.

She let out a childlike whimper.

Marshall had no choice. Setting his jaw, he kicked the gun over to Hines' feet. Raised his hands out to the side as if under arrest.

Hines latched onto Jewels' wrist, forced her arm behind her back, and jerked her to his side, opening a path to the cabin door. He addressed Marshall. "Now move it. Into the cabin. And remember, any false move and the coroner won't find enough of Sweet Cheeks' head to make a positive ID." He stuffed the muzzle of the gun into Jewels' neck for the fourth time.

Marshall marched toward the cabin door.

Hines watched Marshall with the intensity of a cat stalking a mouse. "Hold it right there in the doorway. Keep your hands where I can see 'em and don't move or turn around unless you want Jewels' brains scattered all over your back. Understood?"

"Affirmative."

Hines' attention shifted to Jewels. "Pick up that AR nice and easy and hand it to me." He motioned with his head at the AR while keeping the MP-5 pressed against her neck.

Awkwardly, she bent sideways. Picked up the AR. Held it in front of her body.

"I'm going to remove this muzzle from your neck just a wee bit and when I do, I want you to slow and easy, slide the sling of that AR over my arm and onto my back. Understood?"

Jewels slung the rifle over Hines' arm and across his back, as he directed.

"Everybody in now."

With his hands still raised up and out to his side, Marshall entered the cabin. After taking a few steps, he pivoted around to face Hines.

Hines released his grasp on Jewels and shoved her toward Marshall with the disgust of a pissed-off husband throwing his unfaithful wife at the scum of a man who had lured her into sin.

JEWELS FELL INTO MARSHALL. He broke her fall, catching her in his arms. They were strong. Familiar. Warm and comforting. Nothing at all like Hines' _hug_ in the Escalade.

Hines removed the magazine and unloaded the AR. Dumped the gun on the floor next to the door and tossed the magazine toward the fireplace. It landed by the plywood cabinet doors.

"Are you okay?" Marshall steadied Jewels on her feet.

Gazing up at him, she creased her brows. Squinted, looking at him like he was speaking a foreign language and she was trying to understand him. "I-I thought you were dead," she whispered, caressing his chiseled jaw with the back of her hand.

"Reunion's over." Hines clanked another round into the chamber of the submachine gun for effect.

A shiver zipped Jewels' spine.

Marshall picked up on it. Pushed her behind him.

"Down on your knees, fingers laced behind your head," Hines ordered Marshall, training the front sight of the MP-5 on his chest.

Marshall complied.

Like a curtain being dropped, his sinking body revealed Jewels. She stood as a rock, her face still painted in a look of disbelief that Marshall Watters was alive.

Hines stepped closer to Marshall. Aimed the submachine gun at his ear. Eyeballed Jewels. "Say good-bye to your wanna be hero."

"No! Don't hurt him." Jewels thrust her body in front of the gun.

A menacing grin sprouted on Hines' face. Marshall Watters could help him get what he wanted from Jewels. Cooperation.

"Please, _Theo_. Don't kill him."

He pointed the barrel at the ceiling and motioned with his hand for her to move away from Marshall. "As you wish, Sweet Cheeks."

"Thank you." She eyed Hines and stepped to the side of Marshall as he requested.

Hines patted down Marshall. Fished his hand into Marshall's back pocket. Confiscated a little key and held it up in front of his face. "Can't have this."

"What's that?" Jewels asked, genuinely clueless.

Hines smirked. "Handcuff key."

"Oh." Jewels raised her eyebrows. Knew from her experience as a SPOF prisoner, Marshall must have a handcuff key in his possession. After all, by order of Cooman, he had used it to free her of the metal restraints not long after she was _introduced_ to him.

Depositing the handcuff key into his shirt pocket, Hines drew a pair of Smith & Wesson handcuffs from the back of his belt. Opening the jaws, he tossed them at Jewels' gut.

She caught them like a football.

"Cuff him."

"No." Jewels hurled the cuffs back at Hines.

Snatching them out of the air with one hand, he kept his attention on Jewels. His eyes smoldered. Lips flattened under controlled fury.

He stomped over to Marshall, jammed the muzzle of the MP-5 into the side of his head, and dangled the handcuffs from his pointer finger in Jewels' face. "I said cuff him, or so help me God, Julia, I'll splatter this motherfucker's brains over this cabin."

"That won't be necessary." She plucked the cuffs off Hines' finger. "I've never done this before, so what do you want ... what do I do?"

Flashing his special _alligator grin_ at Jewels, Hines took a step back from Marshall, keeping the muzzle of the MP-5 aimed at his head.

"Open the cuff, drape it around his right wrist, and close the jaw." He waited for Jewels to perform the prescribed task before continuing.

The metal strand made a ratcheting noise as it clamped around Marshall's wrist.

"Now pull his cuffed hand down behind his back."

With Marshall's full cooperation, she did.

"Good. Now bring his left hand down behind his back, open the other jaw, put it around his wrist and close it. Then you're done."

Hines supervised Jewels' actions with an eagle eye to ensure she had clamped the metal strands tightly enough around Marshall's wrists. Satisfied with her work, he nodded for her to step aside.

Jewels obeyed. Stood close to Marshall's shoulder. Gazed fondly at her captured ally.

Out of habit, Hines followed standard law enforcement procedure. Inserting his handcuff key upside down into the double-lock slot of the handcuff frame, he slid the lock spring over. Double-locking ensured the subject's circulation would not impeded. More importantly to Hines, double-locking would make it more difficult for Marshall to escape.

Marshall knelt, facing the door. Hands cuffed behind his back. Head drooping. Eyes gazing at the floor. The woman he had intended to save standing next him. Both prisoners. Not the rescue he had planned.

"Okay, Hero." Hines kicked the side of Marshall's thigh, keeping the sight of the gun trained on his chest. "Look at me."

Marshall raised his head, eyes narrowed with contempt.

With a swift flick from the toe of his shoe Hines opened Marshall's too-small BDU jacket and bent over at the waist to inspect the black and blue marks on his chest. "Sneaky bastard. That explains why you aren't dead." He stood erect, continuing to analyze Marshall. "So what kind of badass wears Kevlar?"

"The U.S. government kind," Marshall replied. "I'm a federal agent with the Militia Threat Assessment Force. Heard of us?"

Jewels' jaw dropped.

Hines' face milked white. "Yeah, I heard about you weasely MTAF pricks. Some covert ops group that reports directly to the President."

"That's right, and you're busted, Hines. We've been watching you. We know you're behind those Jefferson's Warriors' crimes. It's over—"

"If it's so fucking over, why are you the one in cuffs?" Hines raised the gun above his head and brought it down swiftly, smashing Marshall in the face with the butt of the folding stock. "Elitist prick," he yelled, watching Marshall crumble to the floor.

"Don't!" Jewels dropped to her knees at Marshall's side. Caressed his face.

Marshall groaned. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. He was conscious. Barely.

Watching Jewels hover over Marshall, Hines' face brightened. "This confirms what I suspected. Marshall Watters is your Achilles' heel. Now I own you, Sweet Cheeks."

Jewels glared with hate at him.

"Get up." Hines gestured with the gun that she should rise to her feet.

She ignored his command to instead focus on Marshall.

Hines delivered a quick stab with the toe of his shoe to Marshall's chest.

Marshall groaned.

"Stop it." Jewels jumped to her feet.

"That's better. A wife should always obey her husband."

"I'm _not_ your wife."

"You will be, so you better get used to it."

Never!

"Sweet Cheeks, get your hero fed over to the bed.

Inhaling a deep breath, she stooped. Touched Marshall's face. "Can you get up?"

"I think so."

Jewels helped him to his feet, which was quite a task considering Marshall's size and the fact his hands were cuffed behind his back. Once standing, Jewels slipped her arm around his, allowing his body to lean against hers as she guided him toward the bed.

Pushing the cabin door shut with his foot, Hines followed closely behind them.

Just as Jewels was about to let Marshall collapse onto the bed, "No. Take him over there," he ordered, tilting his head to the back wall by the nightstand.

Jewels scowled at Hines. Readjusted her arm around Marshall's waist. Escorted him around the bottom of the bed to the wall. Leaned his back against it.

"Very good. Now tie Marshall's hands to the big eye-hook screwed midway up the log wall. The one about waist level." He lobbed her a long thin piece of leather to use as binding. "And you better make it tight, because if he breaks free, I'll put a bullet in his head. And this time you _will_ be responsible for killing him."

Motioning a consenting nod, she tied the knot more loosely than tightly anyway, but secure nonetheless.

"Good. Now with the MTAF prick out of the way, let's have a little fun. Come over here." Hines pointed to the side of the bed where he was standing.

Jewels shuffled over.

"Let down your hair."

Removing the scrunchie holding up her long hair, she tossed her head back and forth for a moment to loosen the curls, before raking her fingers through it to fluff and comb it.

"Good. Now take off my jacket and place it onto the bed."

Climbing out of the jacket, she folded it and draped it over the footboard.

"Now take off the dress."

Jewels' face painted in defiance. She stiffened her body.

Hines strolled over to Marshall. Rapped him upside the head with the muzzle of the MP-5.

Marshall groaned.

"Don't," Jewels cried out.

"I said take off that fucking dress." Hines drew a seven-inch SOG knife from the sheath on his hip.

Jewels recoiled at the sight of the blade. "Okay. Please, Theo. I'll do whatever you say, just please put the knife away."

He boiled his eyes into hers.

Contorting to reach the zipper, she unzipped the gown. Peeled it off her shoulders and allowed it to drop around her ankles.

"That's better." Toying with the knife, he waved it in front of Marshall's face. "Now pick up the dress and lay it onto the bed. Then take off your slip."

Jewels took her time straightening the gown and draping it across the footboard next to the FBI jacket.

"Come on, come on," he prodded, impatience in his voice.

Unable to change the naturally sexy manner in which she moved her body, she sensually swayed her hips back and forth, slithering out of the formfitting half slip. Stepped out of it. Held it in front of her so the white silky garment cascading over her arm would conceal most of her torso.

"Put it there." He pointed with the knife toward the bed.

Jewels obeyed.

"Now the stockings. One at a time," he ordered, again waving the knife at Marshall's face.

Jewels skinned off the stockings, holding them in her hand.

"Very nice," he complimented with a dirty grin. Motioning with his finger, he beckoned for her to come to him.

Folding her arms across her bosom, attempting to cover herself with the stockings, she warily took a half step toward him.

"Get rid of those stocking and put your arms down." Again he waved the knife in Marshall's direction.

Tossing the nylons on the bed, she stood stiff, staring at the ground about three feet in front of her toes. Her shoulders scrunched up. Legs squeezed together. Arms pulled in against her sides.

Hines visually interrogated her body.

Her breasts were full, spilling over the lace cups of the white bra. Waist small and hips just the right width to complete the perfect hourglass figure. Legs long, lean, shapely, and tan.

Hines thrilled at what he saw. To him, she was more beautiful than any beauty pageant contestant. More beautiful than he could have imagined. And he had imagined a lot, especially with his doll collection. But most incredibly, she was more beautiful than his mother.

"Now relax. Flip your hair. Model your bra and panties for me. And make it like a sexy show," Hines added, his tone raunchy.

"I-I don't know what to do, Theo. My previous husband never made any requests like this of me."

"The past is the past. _I_ am your present and future. Do as I say. It's your duty to please me." Raising the knife to Marshall's throat, he provided incentive.

"Please, Theo. Put the knife away. It makes me nervous. Scares me. Makes this harder to do."

Nodding in agreement, Hines sheathed the knife. "Now show me what you got, Baby."

Inhaling a deep breath, Jewels' eyes drifted shut. Mentally she transported herself out of the dreadful cabin into her master suite. In her mind, she was with Robert. No. Marshall? Eyes remaining closed she arched her spine and tilted her head back, running her fingers through her hair and flipping her head side to side while swaying her hips to and fro.

Hines' mouth dropped open.

So did Marshall's.

Eyelids continuing to be lightly compressed, she imagined Robert and her ... no, not Robert anymore. Marshall. Yes, Marshall and she were in the bedroom. No, not her bedroom, a beach. Playing on a private secluded beach with Marshall. Yes. That vision would work.

Striking sexy pose after sexy pose. She teased Marshall. Luring him in for the inevitable pounding animal sex sure to leave her breathless and satisfied beyond words.

As her fantasy with Marshall escalated, Jewels turned her butt toward her imagined lover on the beach, spread her legs and bent over to look between her thighs. The tips of her long hair skimmed the surface of the floor, a pose the thong panties turned X-rated for her audience but, unbeknownst to her.

Eyes brimming with erotic pleasure, Hines' masculinity swelled.

Marshall's mouth continued to gape. Eyes wide, fixed in astonishment as he stared.

Resuming perfect posture and facing her audience, Jewels held a sexy pose, opened her eyes, and focused on Hines' forehead to avoid direct eye contact. "Theo, I feel cheap. May I _please_ stop?"

Abruptly his face changed. Lips pursed. Wrinkles stacked his forehead. Eyes fixed at her ankles. "When did you take off those restraints?"

She covered her breasts with crossed arms and rounded her shoulders in a submissive posture as she stepped backward. Couldn't prevent herself from trembling.

"Put 'em back on." He drew the knife and pointed it at the pile of straps on the bed, then once again rested the tip of the blade at the base of Marshall's throat.

Terror molested her pretty face. She waved her hands in front of her body. "Okay, okay. Please, Theo, please, put the knife away."

"I'll put it away when I'm goddamned ready," he asserted with crooked lips. "Now get those fuckin' straps on. Right now."

Without choice, Jewels sorted through the tangled strips of leather. Even though she had stashed the ankle straps under the bed, there were still enough cuffs piled on the bed to restrain all four of her limbs and then some.

Settling on a cuff larger in diameter, she wrapped it around her right ankle. Pressed the Velcro together.

"Make sure that strap's on there good and tight, because if you don't, I will."

Nodding, she buckled the leather strap over the Velcro to fit snuggly around her ankle. When finished, she stood tall, gazed at him.

"Very good. Now proceed." He motioned with his head to add a strap to her left ankle.

She repeated the process, engulfing her left ankle in an identical restraint.

"Now put one on each wrist."

Defiance swept her face. Hate filled her eyes.

Hines pricked the side of Marshall's jaw with the blade tip.

Marshall growled.

Worry supplanted the insolent look on her face. Hines was right. Marshall _was_ her Achilles heel and she'd do just about anything to keep Hines from killing him.

Biting her lower lip, she picked up the leather cuffs from the bed. Fastened them around her wrists.

"I better not be able to get more than a finger stuffed between your wrist and that cuff."

Jewels raised her left arm, extended it toward him, thrust her finger between her wrist and the leather and pulled on it. "See? Tight!"

He ignored her flagrant gesture of contempt. "Now go to the side of the bed and get on your knees like you're gonna say your prayers."

_What's this pervert planning do to?_ Jewels' heart thumped. Mouth dry as desert sand. Gazing across the bed at Marshall bound to the wall, she lowered herself to a kneeling position as Hines had commanded.

Hines planned to play out one of his doll fantasies. The one he had most recently dreamed up.

Darting over to the fireplace, he grabbed another piece of leather out of one of the cabinets, returned to Jewels' side, and dropped it at her feet. "Put the wide belt around your waist."

Picking up the contraption that looked like some kind of harness, she pulled it around her waist. Buckled it on the last hole, but the belt still fit loosely around her tiny waist. Two straps, about six inches in length, dangled from each side of the belt.

"Now clip those straps hanging from the belt to the D-ring on your ankles."

"Why? What are you going to do to me?" Her voice cracked.

"Shut up and just do it, unless you want to see your hero fed bleed."

"No. Theo, please. I'll do what you want." Quivering, she forced her heels upward toward her buttocks. Fingers cold from fear, she fumbled with the clips for a moment. Performed the task of binding her ankles close to her waist.

"Now use your left hand to clip your right hand to the belt around your waist."

"No, Jewels. Don't do it." Marshall shouted.

"Shut up," Hines snapped at Marshall. "Do it, _now,_ Sweet Cheeks. Otherwise..." he darted over to Marshall and twisted the razor edge of the knife in front of his face, "your hero gets filleted."

Contorting her body to reach at the clip positioned to the rear and side on the belt, she bound her right hand to the waist.

"Very good," Hines praised in a dirty guttural tone. Padding over to the fireplace, he slipped the MP-5 off his shoulder and parked it on the floor. Opened the cabinet and withdrew two more leather pieces that looked like thin one-inch belts. One substantially longer than the other.

Trotting back to Jewels, he tossed the belts onto the bed then dropped to his knees, approaching her left side on all fours. Cautiously. Curiously. Like a caveman investigating a new creature, he nuzzled his face close to hers.

Jewels dared not move. His breath was hot. Foul. "Theo, please stop. You're scaring me." She pushed her free hand into his chest while leaning her torso away from his body.

Eyes widening with delight, he grabbed her free arm, twisted it behind her and fastened her wrist to the waist belt. "It's called the forced kneel restraint," he whispered in her ear. "Escape guaranteed impossible."

Straining to no avail to reach the clips binding her hands and feet to the torturous harness, Jewels resorted to fighting the restraint, foolishly wiggling about, jerking her limbs and contorting her body. Only pitiful whimpers of torment and frustration escaped.

He laughed. "Good, I like a seeing-is-believing girl." After watching her struggle a moment longer, he pounced on her neck, planting his mouth against it and sucking hard.

"Stop it!" Jewels struggled in the harness. Twisted and turned her body. Yanked her arms. Tried to kick. But the restraint maintained its escape-proof guarantee.

"You want a fight, pervert, come over here," Marshall challenged.

Jewels continued to beg for Hines to stop, but he persisted. Ferociously licking and biting her neck and face. Then just as quickly as he started, he relented, retracting his body.

Collapsing onto her side, she shivered.

Snatching the two thin leather belts off the bed, he latched his hand onto her arm, yanking her back into a kneeling position.

"Theo, you're hurting me—"

"Shhhhh." He quieted her by slapping his hand over her mouth and snapping her head backward.

Jewels' jaw tremored under his powerful hand.

"Let's get your elbows taken care of." He removed his hand from her mouth to wrap the longer of the leather belts around her upper arms, just above the elbows. With a wicked pull of the belt, he jerked her elbows closer together, causing her back to severely arch. Breasts to thrust forward.

Shrieking in pain, Jewels twisted in agony. Reminded of Cooman's words telling her the Commander had a knack for kinky sex and torture, she never imagined this. And certainly couldn't fathom how much further his sadistic bondage fantasies might go. Unfortunately, Jewels was doomed to find out.

Spreading his fingers wide across the back of her skull, he forced her head deep into the mattress as if to smother her.

Under his complete control, her resistance amounted to a few violent shifts of her bound body.

Gathering her long hair in his free hand to make a loose ponytail, he cleared her neckline. Keeping her face buried in the mattress, he fastened a leather collar around her neck then fluffed her hair out over her shoulders before letting her head up.

Gasping for air, Jewels turned her head to the side and rested it on the bed.

Continuing to yell all manner of obscenities at Hines to distract him from Jewels, to which Hines remained undaunted, Marshall toiled to free himself of the leather strap tethering him to the wall. Jewels had tied the knots tighter than expected.

Next, from the heap of leather Hines had tossed onto the bed after Jewels admitted she remembered he was the Commander, he straightened two leash-type pieces. Attached them to the D-rings on either side of the collar. The opposite end of one he fastened to the corner log of the headboard. The other to the footboard.

Anchored so she couldn't move forward or backward or from side to side, she knew how her horse felt when he was tied between the stall doors for a grooming session: helpless.

Returning to the fireplace cabinets, Hines retrieved something else.

She twisted her head to watch him. "Theodore, you're scaring me. Please, _please_ , talk to me. What are you going to do to me?"

_SHHHWICKKKK!_ Cracked the flogger in reply to her question.

As the thin rubber strands bit hard and deep into the exposed muscles of her bare back and triceps, she bellowed a window-rattling shriek, recoiling her body as much, or as little, as the brutal harness would allow. The collar prevented her from toppling onto her side in hideous pain. Tears flooded her face as she gasped for air. Was this _the cat_ punishment Cooman had threatened her with?

"Hines, get your coward-ass over here, you dickless bastard," Marshall baited.

Hines didn't bite. He leaned over to look Jewels in her eyes. "Doesn't that feel _good_ , Sweet Cheeks?" he taunted, with a look of demented joy on his face, before stepping back behind her.

"Noooo! Please don't whip me, Theo. I didn't think you'd be a wife beater."

_SHHHWICKKKK!_ The whip cracked a second time.

In extreme agony, Jewels howled. The pain was excruciating with the searing burn lasting long after the rounded thong tails of the brutally handled flogger had vacated her quivering flesh.

Wincing at Jewels' screams of torment, Hines' sexual fantasy played out far more sadistic than he had imagined with the doll. He didn't want to hurt her _that_ badly or make her cry out in torturous pain. Rather, he wanted her to moan in pleasurable pain. Certainly there was a difference. At least in his mind.

Red welts bubbled up on Jewels' body from the savage kisses of the dozens of long rubber tails that had assaulted her naked back and bare arms.

The veins in Marshall's neck protruded like ropes as he strained to free himself. "Come on you piece of shit. Show _me_ what you got," Marshall taunted, trying to lure Hines away from Jewels.

Annoyed with Marshall's bad mouth, Hines set his jaw, circled the whip for a third strike.

The whirling tails whooshed a dreadful sound, like a fire-breathing dragon inhaling readying to exhale a scorching path of destruction.

Face compressed, teeth gritted, fists clenched, Jewels held her breath, bracing in anticipation of another heavy handed strike.

_SHHHWICKKKK!_ Once again the tails of the rubber flogger viciously ripped across bare flesh.

Automatically cringing, but feeling nothing, she peeked through one squinted eye to witness the whip recoil from across Marshall's bruised chest.

"I'm gonna rip your fuckin' arms off," Marshall growled, his teeth bared, eyes firing hate.

"The obnoxious MTAF man took that one for you, Sweet Cheeks." Hines tossed the device of torment across the room. Plunging his hands on his hips, he gazed down at Jewels in judgement.

Body trembling, head hanging, she wept. Her back and triceps were covered in hideous swollen ridges.

"Now, now, Sweet Cheeks," he calmly said, gently stroking the top of her head like he had just finished a training session with a dog. "No more tears." He shuffled to the fireplace.

Sniffling, she raised her head. Eyed Marshall. They exchanged glances of relief. At least _that_ phase of Hines' lunacy seemed to be over. She glanced over her shoulder at Hines.

Pacing the floor, he nibbled on his right thumbnail and held his forehead with his left hand. His eyes were wild and searching. Face had a crazed look about it reminding her of one of the scenes from the movie "The Shining" where Jack Nicholson's character had gone nuts.

It was apparent FBI Special Agent In Charge Theodore Hines was about to lose it. Jewels' vibes warned she must attempt to calm him down and befriend him, otherwise he might kill both Marshall and her.

"Excuse me, Theodore," she called out as pleasantly as she could, given her trembling lips and pain-wracked body.

Marshall looked at her like she'd metamorphosed into a three-headed alien.

Hines picked up the MP-5 and rushed to her side. "Yes, Sweet Cheeks?" Hope in his voice.

Jewels wrestled a smile onto her face. "Well, Theo, since I'm going to be your wife, I would like to get to know you a little better." Purposely she paused. Seductively moistened her dry lips with her tongue. "You know, maybe we could talk."

Now it was Hines who was looking at her as though she were a three-headed alien.

"Come on, FBI Stud." She intensified her feigned smile and lowered her voice. "Let's talk."

Melting to his knees at her side, he released her neck from the collar.

"Ooooh, Theo." She drew of a long sigh, almost as if in rapture. "Thank you."

He blushed like a schoolboy.

Maintaining her seduction ploy, in a sexy manner she turned her head from side to side to loosen her stiff neck.

Watching her for a moment, he began liberating her.

Jewels' eyes cut to Marshall as Hines fumbled to free her from the restraints. She winked at him.

Marshall nodded, dispensed a keep-up-the-good-work look in reply and winked back.

"There you go." Hines released the last clip of the forced-kneel harness and removed the wide belt from around her waist.

Sitting back on her buttocks and straightening her legs, Jewels stretched her arms above her head and twisted back and forth at the waist. Though her body screamed in pain, "Much better," she commented, forging a pleasant expression while doing her best to conceal the agony that came naturally to her face. Lowering her arms, Jewels reached to unbuckle the strap around her left wrist.

He plastered his hand on top of hers. "Leave that on."

Shrugging, she wiggled her wrists like she was playing with new bangle bracelets. "Funky jewelry." Pretended they didn't bother her. Leaning forward, Jewels reached to unfasten the leather cuff around her right ankle.

Hines grabbed her wrist. "Leave those, too."

Though grimacing from the intensity of his grasp, she didn't fight him. Instead remained calm, wanting him to believe she was genuinely interested in talking to him. Perhaps even aroused by him. Eager to obey his wishes, much like an obedient dog, she nodded in agreement and left the straps fastened as he had instructed. "Okay, Theo." She beamed her best plastic smile.

He released his hand from her wrist. "What do you want to talk about?" His eyes bright and brimming with anticipation.

"This floor is terribly cold and hard. Do you mind if we sit on the side of the bed?"

"Oh, golly, no," he replied in a Clark Kent tone of innocence, a boyish phrase he might have used with his mother. Bolting to his feet, he offered a helping hand.

She accepted. Her mannerisms ladylike.

He helped Jewels to her feet with gentlemanly grace.

Warmly smiling, she brushed the embedded grime off her legs and butt then took a seat on the bed near the headboard, her body turned slightly inward.

Submachine gun in hand, Hines parked near the footboard with his body also turned slightly inward, but in the opposite direction so he was facing her and within arm's reach.

Squeezing her long legs together, she rubbed her goosebump splattered arms.

Hines swiped his FBI jacket off the footboard. "Forgive me. I should have realized you'd be cold." He settled the windbreaker over her shoulders.

Accepting the coat, she slid her arms into the sleeves and bundled up in it, enduring the throbbing pain from the whipping. "Theodore, you _can_ be so thoughtful," she gushed, touching his arm as if he were a dear friend.

"So what do you want to know about me?" He slung the MP-5 forward over his shoulder, muzzle pointing at her gut.

"Well, if I'm to be your wife, I suppose I should know about you. Your family. Why you _chose_ me..."

"I don't have any family. I'm an only child. My mother's dead and my father left when I was seven." Pushing to his feet, leaving the MP-5 swinging from the shoulder harness, he stuffed his hands into his pants pockets and stared off toward the door. "You know, a little boy should have his father around when he's growing up."

She shook her head in silent agreement. "I bet you and your mother were close."

Wheeling around, he plopped onto the bed, taking up both of Jewels' hands in his. "Oh, yes. And you remind me so much of her."

"Oh?"

He gazed fondly into Jewels' eyes. "Your hair is long and blonde, like hers. Your face has an angelic quality about it, like hers. And your body is even more shapely and beautiful than hers. More than I ever imagined."

She slowly retracting her hands from his touch. "Well thank you, Theodore."

Staring into space over Jewels' head, tears welled-up in his eyes. He nibbled his lower lip. "Father would have stayed if she wouldn't have cheated on him. Four times."

She glimpsed over at Marshall and raised her eyebrows, sporting a get-a-load-of-this look.

In silence Hines maintained a fixed gaze on the wall behind Jewels. Suddenly his eyebrows knitted into a deep V. He grabbed Jewels' upper arms. Shook her hard once. "But no. The cunt had to screw around," he thundered, globs of spit pelting Jewels' face, neck, and arms. "That's why I had to remove that dirty organ from those women."

"What women?" She bridled the urge to contest his painful grasp.

Releasing Jewels' arms, he sprung off the bed, hugged the MP-5 to his side. "Come on, I'll show you." He snatched Jewels' right wrist, just above the restraint cuff. Towed her into the kitchen area. Reached behind the wall cabinet.

The secret room door popped open about a foot.

Extending his hand inside, he smacked his palm against the battery-powered light to turn it on. Swung the door open wide. "Go ahead in." He pushed his hand against Jewels' back to nudge her forward.

Jewels winced when his hand touched her paining back and eagerly stepped into the pantry-sized room, just to escape his touch.

Slithering past her, he pointed to the four jars consecutively labeled #1 through #4 MOMMA. "See, these are the evil things. And I have a SWEET CHEEKS jar labeled and ready to add to my collection."

She curled up her nose and recoiled her body. "What happened to the women?" Her voice rattled.

"Buried 'em behind the cabin."

"I see." Jewels forced herself to remain composed. As a distraction to keep from screaming bloody murder, she visually explored his treasure shelves. A silver wedding band caught her eye. She dashed to it. Picked it up. Read the inscription aloud. "To my beloved Robert who holds the key to my heart. Jewels."

She gasped and dropped the ring, staring wide-mouthed at Hines.

He scooped the band off the ground and slipped it onto his ring finger.

"Where did you get that?"

He rubbed the ring affectionately. "From Robert. The day I rigged that huge roll of newspaper to drop on him."

"You killed Robert?" Jewels' voice ascended to a murderous falsetto.

"Yeah, so?" Hines shrugged as if admitting to something as trivial as being a subscriber to "Playboy" magazine.

"Why did you kill him?"

"When I met you, I asked you to go out with me. Do you remember what you said?"

Mouth gaping, Jewels shook her head.

"You said, and I quote: _I'm happily married to the most wonderful man in the world and I'm very much in love with him. But thank you anyway_. End of quote. That's exactly what you said."

In silence, Jewels stood stunned. Felt shell-shocked. Her mind wandered into the deep dark folds of the drapes of her psyche, discovering a moth hole of pure rage. Somehow, someway, she would kill Theodore Hines.

The touch of his hand on her arm made her cringe. "Now what else do you want to talk about?"

She scanned the shelves on the other side. Eyes fixed on a group of dolls, brutally bound in various positions. The forced kneel restraint she recognized. Her facial muscles twitched. Had to get out of there. "Let's talk about _us_ , but if you don't mind, I'd like to sit on the bed. I'm feeling a little weak," she lied, swiping her forehead with the back of her hand.

Agreeing with a smile, he stepped outside the secret room. Standing sideways in the doorway, leaving little space for her to pass by, he gestured for her to exit.

Anxious to leave the creepy room, she pushed by the murdering bastard. As their bodies made contact shiver of repulsion jolted her entire being.

If he noticed, he didn't react.

The instant she was clear of the door, he bumped it shut with his shoulder, heard a _click_ indicating the secret lever engaged, then followed Jewels back to the bed. Gun aimed at the middle of her back.

Each sat on the edge of the mattress. Jewels near the head of the bed, her body angled toward Marshall. Hines near the footboard facing Jewels, targeting the muzzle of the MP-5 at her abdomen.

"Tell me about _you_. Your hobbies, your ambitions..." she probed, acting interested in Hines, though her eyes cut to Marshall.

Waving his hands above his head, Marshall showed he was not only free of the leather thong anchoring him to the wall, but also of the cuffs.

Shocked to see Marshall liberated from the handcuffs, she widened her eyes slightly in recognition of his freedom, otherwise contained her surprise. And relief.

As if they were still tethered, Marshall tucked his hands behind his back.

Curious about how Marshall freed himself, Jewels tuned out Hines' rambling voice to allow her mind to wander. Staring down at the mattress, she figured Marshall could have fairly easily escaped from the leather strap. After all, she purposely hadn't tied it too tightly. But how did he escape the cuffs? Another key in a pocket?

When this was all over, she'd be sure to ask him. Thinking fondly of him, her focus drifted in his direction.

Hines cleared his throat, wise to Jewels' lack of genuine interest in him. "There will be plenty of time for _talking_ , Sweet Cheeks."

"Oh?" Jewels acted innocent, but knew she was busted.

"It's time we get down to business. Time to cleanse you so we can move on with our lives."

_Female mutilation!_ Goosebumps pebbled her flesh. Her heart jack-hammered. Panicked eyes cut to Marshall.

Winking, he flashed a strong don't-worry-I've-got-a-plan smile.

"The procedure requires you to be restrained for your own good." Hines scooted nearer to her.

Slowly, Jewels waved her head back and forth, tightly compressing her arms against her chest. "No. Please. No."

Eyes creasing, Hines raised the submachine gun, training the front sights on her pumping breasts. "Now come on, lie back and stretch your arms above your head so I can strap you down."

This was her line-in-the-sand moment. No more acts of humiliation. No more giving in to his demented requests. And certainly, no way would she permit him to tie her down and mangle her body. "Theodore, I have to pee."

"So what. Pee on the bed. All the others did."

"No, Theo. I'm _not_ going to pee on the bed," she emphatically stated, bolting upright to her feet.

He snatched her forearm. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Flexing her arm muscle in protest of his hold, Jewels looked him square in the eyes. "I have to pee, Theo, and since you don't seem to have a bathroom in this place, I'm going outside to do so."

"Well, fine, but I'm going with you." He reached down and picked up one of the leather leashes from the floor. "You gotta have this on you if you're goin' outside." He snapped the leash onto the D-ring of the leather cuff secured around her right wrist.

Jewels shrugged. "Whatever." Darted toward the door.

Her sudden break prompted Hines to grab for her with both hands, releasing his hold on the MP-5 which now swung freely at his side from the sling around his shoulder.

Marshall saw it as his opportunity. He struck, tackling Hines from behind. "Run, Jewels, run," Marshall shouted, wrestling with Hines on the gritty floor near the foot of the bed.

Jewels ran, but not out of the cabin. Instead to the AR Marshall had brought with him and Hines had unloaded. Picking up the rifle, she retrieved the magazine, fed it into the well, and chambered a round. "Freeze," she ordered with authority, holding the AR by the pistol grip at waist level and pointing the muzzle at the center of the two grappling men.

They continued wrestling for control of the submachine gun and beating the shit out of each other in the process.

Jewels fired a single round into the tacky plywood fireplace cabinet.

_That_ got their attention.

Both men immediately froze, lying side by side, the MP-5 caged between their hands. It was hard to tell who had controlling possession.

"Let go and give Marshall the gun," Jewels instructed Hines.

"Why should I?" He jutted out his chin in defiance.

Stomping toward him, she aimed the barrel at his head. "Because I'll blow your mother-fucking head off if you don't," Jewels promised, cold blood in her voice and on her face.

"Typical bitch. Untrustworthy." Hines surrendered the submachine gun to Marshall.

"Give me that other pair of cuffs," Marshall said to Hines.

Grunting, Hines relinquished the backup handcuffs he kept on his belt.

"And the keys."

Hines fished the key he took from Marshall out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him.

"That was mine. Now hand over yours."

Frowning, Hines dug into his front pants pocket for the handcuff key. Tossed it to Marshall.

"Any others?"

"Just on my key chain."

With Marshall in control of the situation, Jewels lowered the rifle. "These have got to go." She pushed up the sleeves of Hines' FBI jacket she was wearing and wasted no time in stripping off the leather cuffs he had insisted she wear.

Hines' face painted in fury as Jewels freed herself of the wrist and ankle restraints and hurled them into the fireplace box.

Slinging the MP-5 over his shoulder, Marshall nudged Hines across the floor on his butt to the foot of the bed. After cuffing his hands behind his back around one of the thick footboard logs, he confiscated the Escalade keys from his front pocket and the knife from the sheath at his side.

Tossing the knife onto the bed, Marshall jingled the keys in his hand and extended his arm to Jewels. "Get in the car. Drive down the road to the first building you see. That's the compound and the cavalry is waiting."

"No way. _You_ go back to the compound and get the cavalry. I want to stay here to make sure our FBI man doesn't get away." In actuality, Jewels was seeking to avenge Robert's death and there was only one thing that would do it: killing Theodore Hines.

"What?"

" _Trust me_ , Marshall Watters." Her voice mimicked the tone he used numerous times at the SPOF compound.

An incredible air of calmness settled over her. She felt self-assured and righteous. Her facial features were pleasant. Body relaxed, but authoritative.

The killing had to be done in private. No witness. Not even Marshall Watters. Without a witness Jewels could claim self-defense and no one would be the wiser. It would be her word against that of a dead psychopath. Besides, even if law enforcement did suspect her of murder, they wouldn't push the issue because of who Theodore Hines was and what he had done. He was a murdering machine.

MARSHALL STARED at Jewels for a moment. Analyzing. Trying to read between the lines. Rubbing the stubble of the five o'clock shadow on his chin with the back of his hand, he contemplated his options.

Leaving Jewels with Hines was not only wrong, it was stupid. And from a law enforcement and tactical perspective, it was moronic. And Marshall Watters was no moron. He was the commander of one of the most elite law enforcement teams in the world.

Yet, he empathized with Jewels. He, too, wanted Hines dead. Not only for what he had done to Jewels and the four women buried behind the cabin, but for the rampage of death and destruction he had orchestrated across the country.

After several long moments of silent contemplation, Marshall reached a decision. "Okay. I'll get the cavalry. You stay here."

JEWELS BEAMED.

"What the fuck." A look of disbelief contorting Hine's features.

Marshall ignored him. "And Jewels, if he moves, you have my permission to shoot the filthy bastard."

Jewels grinned. Now _she_ was reading between the lines. Marshall had sensed her intention to execute Hines and had given his blessing.

"Unbelievable. You can't leave me with her," Hines yelled at Marshall.

"Watch me." He kissed Jewels on the forehead before darting out the door with the MP-5 slung across his shoulder.

THE ROAR OF THE ESCALADE'S engine faded into silence.

Jewels was alone with Hines. That little pimple of pure rage hidden deep in her mind began to fester, making itself visible, ready to burst as she thought of Robert being murdered by that no-good Theodore Hines.

Hovering over Hines, she pointed the AR at his chest. "Well, let's get down to _business_." Her voice mocked Hines when he earlier made a similar suggestion.

"Hmph. Business," he echoed sourly, rolling his eyes.

"Shut up." She poked him hard in the chest with the muzzle of the rifle.

Hines squirmed.

Watching with amusement, Jewels figured the cowardly bastard was scared shitless about meeting his Maker. The bile in her stomach swelled as her mind wandered back to thoughts of Robert. His death. Murder. She knew what she had to do: pull the trigger.

Jewels contemplated the role of executioner.

True, Hines' death wouldn't bring Robert back. Nonetheless, it would offer a molecule of peace of mind. Never again would that butcher have the chance to destroy anyone else's life the way he had hers, the women buried out back, and all the innocent victims of his Jefferson Warriors' attacks. If she killed him, she would be doing society a favor and rendering justice at the same time.

Fine. It was settled. Theodore Hines' death sentence would be carried out.

She lifted her eyes toward the heavens. "God, forgive me for what I'm about to do," she whispered, her face stony, eyes void of emotion.

Raising the gun, she jammed the butt of the stock into her shoulder, flipped the safety off, cocked her head, and nestled her cheek deep into the stock to claim a sight picture. Leveling the sights on Hines' heart—a foot away from the end of the barrel—she slid her finger off the trigger guard onto the trigger.

Hines' hands exploded from behind his back, grabbing the barrel of the AR-15.

The open jaw of the handcuff that once engulfed his left hand dangled freely from the cuff still fastened around his right wrist. He hadn't been squirming because he was afraid Jewels was going to kill him. He was squirming to open the handcuff around his left wrist using the key he kept in a hidden zipper compartment in his belt.

Jewels wrestled with Hines for control of the weapon. Unintentionally, her finger tugged at the trigger.

The gun discharged.

The bullet clipped Hines' shoulder.

Howling in pain, he continued to scuffle with Jewels for control of the AR. Then with one wrenching twist, jerked the gun from her hands.

Falling backwards, she landed on her butt with a hard thud against the wooden floor.

"You fuckin' cunt." Hines' eyes bulged as he inspected the bloody gunshot wound on his arm.

Scrambling to her feet, Jewels yanked open the heavy cabin door and ran as fast as she could into the dark woods.

SCOOPING UP THE KNIFE Marshall had tossed onto the bed, Hines sheared off strips from the slip Jewels had worn to use as bandages. Wrapped the wound at the top of his arm, near his shoulder. Sheathing the knife, his attention turned to thoughts of Jewels.

The treachery. The deceit. The fact she planned to kill him. So much for his dream woman, _Sweet Cheeks_ , and fantasies of living happily ever after.

"I'm gonna give you pain like you never imagined possible," his frowning lips mumbled, as he released the dangling cuff from his wrist and tucked it into the leather case attached to his belt.

Opening the bottom drawer of the nightstand, he retrieved a pair of Nighthawk night vision goggles along with a pair of leg cuffs.

Jogging to the open door, he shouted into the forest, "Ready or not, Julia, here I come." He slipped the night vision goggles over his head. Scanned the woods.

The goggles allowed him to see through the thick night concealing her from the naked eye. Her long vanilla hair bobbed up and down. His FBI jacket flowed behind her like a cape. Her full breasts bounced within the confines of the white bra as her elongated legs pistoned wildly. "Gotchya," he whispered, taking off on a fast trot.

WITH EVERY STEP, dozens of tiny pieces of dried pine needles pricked the bottom of Jewels' bare feet, but didn't slow her down. Only the occasional rock jutting out from the blanket of pine needles, or fallen tree trunk across the path, could do that, and even then for only a second.

Jewels must keep running, though her destination was unknown. Must keep on the move until Marshall Watters and his cavalry nabbed Hines. Then, and only then, could she stop running. Go home. Return to her old life.

But the harsh reality was there was no such thing as her _old life_. So much had changed in the space of just a few days. Precious Boo-Boo was gone. Robert's death was murder, not an accident. And then there was Marshall Watters.

Winded and parched and figuring she had distanced herself far enough from Hines for the moment, Jewels stopped running to catch her breath. Leaning against a big pine, she thought about Marshall.

From the first time they met, she sensed there was something _different_ about him. Deep in her heart, she never believed he was the criminal type. And she was right. He was a member of an elite government domestic antiterrorism squad.

Why hadn't she followed her gut instincts—her vibes—that told her to trust him at SPOF? If she had, she wouldn't be running barefoot in the forest in the middle of the night wearing nothing more than a flimsy FBI windbreaker over a strapless bra and thong panties.

Furthermore, in retrospect, all those worries about Stockholm Syndrome had confounded her feelings. Now with those concerns aside, Jewels wondered if Marshall and she could have a future together.

Splurging for another moment's rest before resuming her mad dash into the great unknown woods, she closed her eyes, dreaming. Marshall's hand stroking her cheek. His passionate kisses engaging her lips. Strong arms cradling her shoulders...

Suddenly arms surrounded her.

Had her dream come to life?

A surge of elation jolted her body. Her eyes flew open. "Marshall," she shrieked enthusiastically, pivoting her body around with the intention of kissing him into a state of delirium.

"Not quite, Sweet Cheeks." Hines sneered, snaring her forearm.

"Nooooooooo!" Jewels backpedaled and jerked her arm to escape his clutch.

He gained control by twisting her hand behind her back to send her crumbling to her knees in agony.

"You're hurting me."

He dragged her on her knees toward a pine tree with a trunk about six inches in diameter. Pushing her onto her side then forcing her onto her back, he straddled her chest. Yanking her arms above her head, he engulfed both wrists in one hand. "You ruined everything." He drew handcuffs from his belt.

Jewels struggled for freedom, flexing her arm muscles and balling her fists fighting to break loose.

He wrapped her arms around the base of a tree and snapped the metal strands onto her wrists, anchoring her around the trunk.

Dried pine needles gouged Jewels' already throbbing back and triceps and pricked her buttocks and bare legs. The low branches peppered her face like dozens of tiny wire brushes, poking her eyes and mouth.

Coughing and crying, in desperation she squirmed for a less painful position. But her already dismal situation rapidly deteriorated.

Hines gagged Jewels. Sacrificing his expensive necktie, he wound it multiple times around her head. Knotted it brutally secure over her mouth.

Jewels whimpered.

The FBI-issued leg irons—identical to metal handcuffs except with a fifteen-inch chain between the loops instead of two inches—clanged as he battled her churning legs to clamp metal strands around her ankles.

Grinning, he ratcheted them down to ensure they bit deep into her already bruised and paining ankles.

Terror mounting and agony escalating, Jewels' bravery was all but used up. A wave of tears and high-pitched squeals of misery escaped her control.

Towering over her and breathing hard, he thrust his hands on his hips and stared down at her. The _alligator grin_ climbed across his face, her torment pleasing him.

"This is all _your_ fault." He swirled his index finger in the air. " _You_ ruined everything..." His voice trailed off as he gazed vacantly into the woods.

Just when Jewels thought her dreadful predicament couldn't possibly worsen, Hines gathered fallen branches. Methodically piled them, one at a time, on top of her and around the tree, constructing a well-blended mini-forest within the forest, completely concealing her body. He didn't want her to be seen. Or found.

Fear and panic consumed her, knowing there was nothing she could do other than watch Hines build her above ground tomb.

Standing back he admired his work. The precisely stacked branches resembled a well-made hunting blind. So well-made not even the wild residents would notice a twig out of place.

Pleased with himself, a malicious grin spilled across his face. "Be quiet and wait here," he ordered with superiority, knowing damned well Jewels couldn't go anywhere or say anything. "I'll come back for you when I secure transportation." He took off on an easy jog.

Peering through the small gaps in the branches, Jewels watched the back of Hines' white shirt disappear into the blackness. Not knowing which was worse, being held captive and subjected to the tortures of Theodore Hines, or being abandoned and buried alive in the middle of nowhere with no hope of being found, she closed her eyes. Sobbed unabashedly.

Ravaged from head to toe in monstrous pain, she squirmed for a more tolerable position, seeking even minimal relief.

But her efforts were in vain. There would be no relief. Not of her own making, or from anyone else. It seemed no one, not even Marshall Watters, was going to save her from this torment.

Suddenly Jewels heard deep grunting. Not human. Her eyes flew open. Her breath caught in her throat. Straining to see through the tangle of brush encapsulating her, she gazed into the blackness, picking up flashes of a dark mass on the move.

Moments later, a gigantic animal materialized. It was a colossal brown bear with the distinctive huge hump above its shoulders.

This was no cinnamon-colored black bear. This was the infamous grizzly. The one experts had estimated weighed upwards of eight-hundred pounds, stood over four-feet tall at the shoulder when on all fours and more than seven-feet tall reared up ... and he was lumbering straight toward her.

Eyelids shut, Jewels played dead as best she could with her heart beating so hard it sounded like exploding grenades. Would her theory about the man-eating bear hold up ... that he carried a vendetta only against men?

This was the acid test.

The creature trudged closer. Once upon her, he burrowed his immense head under the pile of branches covering her. Drawn to her femininity, his powerful snout rooted between her legs, spreading them wide enough for his big nose to blast a shot of searing air inside her like an air-driven douche.

The leg iron chains clanked as he explored.

The animal's hair was coarse. Nose hot and moist. Jewels shook in terror.

The grizzly suddenly retracted its head from beneath the heap of branches and forcefully expelled air through its nose, as if startled by an intruder.

Curiosity overriding fear, Jewels dared open her eyes to slits. The bear's attention was drawn into the darkness.

After a brief clacking of its teeth, the bear bolted in the same direction Hines had disappeared.

Was the mighty creature off to defend his territory from a perceived threat? Or claim his next meal? Regardless, Jewels was relieved it left.

Seconds later nature's nocturnal harmony was shattered by the hideous shrill of a human screaming. Then deathly silence.

Had the killer grizzly chased down Theodore Hines?

Envisioning the bear's attack, she saw the animal's mammoth paws savagely batting Hines' body to and fro with the power of King Kong. Its razor teeth shredding Hines' flesh from his arms and legs. Its knife-edged five-inch claws ripping out his guts....

Jewels wondered if the grizzly succeeded where she had failed in carrying out Hines' death sentence. Hoped so.

A faint smile of justice satisfied blossomed on her agonized face. But didn't last long. Hines was the _only_ person who knew where she was, gagged, handcuffed to a tree, and buried in the middle of nowhere. What if she was never found? She'd read starving to death was one of the most tormenting ways to die.

Sudden gusts of wind, common to the mountains, dropped the temperature, along with her hope for rescue. Now she shivered not only from fear, but from the cold as blasts of chilly air pierced the crevices of her _pine box_.

Was being buried alive God's punishment for her three suicide attempts at the compound or her desire and willingness to kill Theodore Hines at the cabin?

Dread consumed her soul. Her mind ran rampant. No, if God _was_ God, He understood her motives. Though He would not agree with them, He would not punish her in this way. Besides, in all honesty, God wasn't to blame for her woeful situation. Theodore Hines was. And perhaps she held some responsibility as well.

After praying to God for forgiveness, she asked Him to enable Marshall Watters to, somehow, find her before it was too late.
Forty-Eight

SATURDAY, BEFORE MIDNIGHT.

The compound of the Sovereign Patriots Of Freedom swarmed with Militia Threat Assessment Force agents dressed in black SWAT garb. Generator-run portable searchlights illuminated both the interior and exterior with the brilliance of high noon sunlight. More than thirty government-tagged black SUVs, trucks, and vans littered the fields surrounding the compound.

Dozens of forensics specialists and detectives worked the premises. Taking photos. Gathering evidence. Covering bodies.

Wingate was under arrest and being questioned by two of MTAF's interrogation specialists in SPOF's disciplinary room turned MTAF _inquiry_ chamber.

Marshall oversaw the operation and had been barking out orders as needed for the last thirty minutes, but his mind was preoccupied with Jewels.

He couldn't clear the images of the erotic display of poses she had struck at the cabin with the sexual prowess that packed the potency of a Tomahawk missile. Could he be in love with her? Or just lust?

Regardless, he intended to pursue her to the nth degree as soon as he returned to Hines' cabin and wrapped up her rescue.

A man dressed in black, lugging a red medical trauma bag approached Marshall. "Commander, I understand you've been shot. Why don't you let me have a look?" He placed the heavy bag on the ground.

"Wilson, how the hell are you?" Marshall extended his hand for a shake.

"Apparently better than you."

"Nah, just a flesh wound to my arm and Kevlar saved my chest. Don't worry about me, but I'll need you to tag along for our rescue mission."

"Yes, Sir."

"Have you seen Bradshaw?"

"Uh, I think someone said he was en route." He consulted his watch. "ETA less than five minutes."

"Thanks." Marshall patted Wilson on the shoulder before jogging up the stairs.

A big black SUV, not unlike any of the dozens already parked around the field, wheeled onto the rugged gravel and approached the compound. Marshall jogged out to meet it.

"Bradshaw." Marshall waved his hand, waiting as the SUV parked. Driver and front passenger doors opened simultaneously.

"Commander," the man stepping from behind the wheel said, extending his hand.

"Good to see you, Lieutenant." Marshall returned a hearty handshake.

"I _knew_ I trained you well," the man who exited the passenger side hollered over the hood of the vehicle.

Marshall did a double-take. "Dyson ... Sir?"

Howard Dyson grinned, strolling around the front of the vehicle to shake Marshall's hand. "You've done well, elevating yourself to command one of the most elite law enforcement agencies in the world. I wouldn't have expected anything less from my star pupil."

"Sir, you taught me everything I know," Marshall admitted respectfully. Eyeing his black tactical clothing and sidearm, he furrowed his brows. "Have you been called back to active duty?"

"Nah. Just have a special interest in this case."

"Oh?"

"Julia Andrasy," he replied, fondness in his voice. "I think you held her for Hines, didn't you?"

Marshall felt the blood drain from his face. "Yeah. What's your interest?"

"He wants to get into her panties," Bradshaw answered with a laugh.

Marshall shot a sideways glance at Dyson. "She's your girlfriend?"

"I'd like her to be."

TEN MINUTES LATER, STILL STANDING AT THE SUV IN THE MEADOW.

A frigid gust of air surged through the field, rustling the surrounding pines. The weather could change in the High Uintas with little warning. The wind could be a prelude to a storm. Or not.

"I need a TAC team to assist me at Hines' cabin," Marshall informed his second in command, Warren Bradshaw.

"Count me and Dyson in," Bradshaw replied. "And I'll round up a couple of other guys." He jogged toward the compound entry.

"As requested, I'm here to handle medical." Wilson dumped the heavy red medical bag on the weeds by his feet.

Moments later, Bradshaw returned with two other MTAF agents.

The five men gathered together, forming a loose semicircle around Marshall. "The suspect, Theodore Hines, is contained. He's handcuffed at his cabin." Marshall paused, before adding, "Julia Andrasy is guarding him."

Disapproving eyes widened in unison among the men.

"Are you shittin' me? I know goddamned well, I taught you better than that," Dyson spouted.

Marshall smiled. "I know, I know. Typically not a good idea. Well, these circumstances are not typical in any textbook. Anyway, Miz Andrasy's holding a loaded AR-15 on him and she knows how to use it. Just remember she's the victim. One of the good guys. You needn't worry about a threat of life or limb from her. Any questions?" He scanned the group for hands.

There were none.

"Then grab your gear and follow me, Gentlemen."

Marshall and the five men piled into a black Chevy Suburban for the short ride to the cabin. The SUV came fully equipped with the latest high-tech wizardry in communications and surveillance equipment along with an arsenal of extra firearms and plenty of ammunition.

Once at Hines' cabin, the men spilled out of the Suburban. MP-5s hanging on their shoulders, they stealthily dashed to the side of the door. Waiting.

"Julia?" Marshall pushed the cabin door handle with his left hand, maintaining a firing grip on the full auto weapon slung across his right shoulder as he peered into the room.

The old wooden door creaked as it swung open, revealing a room void of life. There was a pool of blood on the bed. Blood that wasn't there when Marshall left.

The nightstand cabinet looked like it had survived the wrath of a drug-crazed burglar. An AR-15, the one he left with Jewels, was propped against the foot of the bed. Something had gone terribly wrong.

Marshall, grim-faced, tipped his head to the men. A silent gesture that told the team to clear the room.

With MP-5s in the tactical ready position and the men staggered shoulder to shoulder in a basic echelon formation, the five agents systematically vanished into the tiny cabin.

Moments later, "Clear," Bradshaw hollered out to Marshall.

Marshall scratched the back of his neck, contemplating the situation. Suddenly his eyes widened. The secret room! He motioned for the team to exit the cabin and gather around him.

"What's up?" one of the men asked.

"There's a secret room in the cabin," Marshall quietly explained. "There's a possibility Hines has taken the hostage and retreated into that room."

The men stood in a half circle around Marshall as he explained what he knew of the cabin's hidden room, noting he had never seen inside. Had no idea about its size. Whether or not it went underground. If it had an escape exit. Or if it was stocked with weapons.

The team discussed how they would proceed then reentered the cabin. Moments later the door to the secret room was opened.

The team's flashlights illuminated the pantry-sized room. They checked the walls, ceiling and floor for additional hidden doors.

"Nothing here," one of the men yelled to Marshall.

"Never should have left Jewels with that monster," he muttered to himself, regretfully shaking his head.

Marshall blew it, that was painfully obvious to everyone.

"When you fuck up, you fuck up big time don't you?" Dyson whispered to Marshall. "So help me, God, Watters, if I find out you classified Julia as _acceptable collateral damage_ for this op's end result, you will be _my_ acceptable collateral damage." Dyson stabbed a stiff finger into Marshall's chest.

He ignored Dyson's threat. "They must have escaped on foot. Quick, scan the mountainside," Marshall instructed the rest of the team.

Bradshaw jogged back to the Suburban. Grabbed night vision goggles. Surveyed the mountain. "Nothing, Boss."

"Get the chopper up here," Marshall ordered, staring into the darkness, his hands planted on his hips. FLIR would find her.

The MTAF helicopter was equipped with Honeywell's latest forward-looking infrared receiver system. FLIR was used in both day and night for navigation, reconnaissance, and search and rescue. Tonight it would perform the latter.

"Sir, no-go on the chopper.

Turbulence rating is severe."

"Shit! Spread out, we'll comb this mountainside on foot. Be sure to use radios." Marshall trotted to the Chevy for access to equipment. Rigged himself with a remote headset. Communication with the team paramount. Snatching a pair of night vision goggles, he strapped them onto his head like a helmet.

Marshall stood at the side of the truck, scanning the woods, quietly pleading for Jewels' help. "Come on, Jewels, I'm right here. I'll come get you. I just need to know which way to go. Gimme a sign, Baby. Gimme a sign."

A momentary twinkle of something shiny reflecting a small spray of light in the distance caught his eye. Nothing in nature shimmered like that.

"Julia! Julia Andrasy," he hollered, charging in the direction of where he saw the sparkle.

NVGs distorted distance, sometimes causing things to appear closer than they were. They also had a limiting view of one-hundred to four-hundred feet maximum, depending on ambient light. Jewels—or at least the shiny thing—was within the limited range of the night vision.

The team followed.

"Spread out," Marshall instructed over the radio headset as he continued running in the direction he saw the sparkle and calling her name. "Julia! Julia Andrasy!"

ALTHOUGH SHE HAD NO IDEA how much time had past, Jewels figured by now Marshall had returned to the vacated cabin and assumed Hines absconded with her into the woods on foot.

Kicking bare feet at the limbs concealing her, she attempted to make herself more visible in hopes of speeding up the rescue effort she assumed Marshall had mounted. Besides, the vigorous movement helped generate much needed body warmth.

Despite the gag stifling her breathing, causing her to gasp for air, and progress slow, she _was_ making progress. She had cleared several of the large branches from around her feet, creating a hole wide enough to uncover her legs half way up her shins.

Abruptly she ceased kicking. Held her breath. Listened. Was the wind playing tricks on her or did someone just call her name? Other than shivering from the cold, Jewels lay perfectly still, straining to hear something more than wind stirring through the trees. That's when she heard it: "Julia. Julia Andrasy."

"I'm here! Right here." But the necktie was bound so tightly around her mouth, it suppressed the majority of volume she could muster. If she was to be rescued, she had to respond. Had to be heard. Otherwise, the search might be moved to a different location. Farther away from her.

Had to get the gag off. But how? Then, like a gift from God, an idea popped into her head: use the surrounding branches to peel off the gag.

Wasting no time, Jewels nudged her face against the prickly branch. Hoped a rough edge would catch itself between her cheek and the material like a finger and hold steady so she could jerk her head enough to cause the tie to slide off her mouth and down to her chin.

After several tries, incredibly, it worked!

The tie caught on the branch, enabling her to shake her head enough to jerk the fabric off her mouth, one layer at time.

"Help! I'm here. I'm over here," Jewels shrieked, the ear-piercing sound of her own voice raining tears down her face.

"Julia? Julia Andrasy," someone called from a distance.

"Yes! Yes! Please help me."

"We're coming, Julia. Keep talking so we can follow your voice."

Stretching her neck toward the sound of the voices and straining to see through the heap of branches covering her, she saw the twinkling and bobbing of flashlights. This nightmare was about to end. Soon she'd be home. Home!

"I can't move. I'm lying on the ground. Handcuffed to a tree. And covered with branches."

"Hang on. We're coming, Julia. We'll get you out."

A broad smile of hope and relief germinated on Jewels' otherwise haggard face. She yelled back, "Thank you. Thank you so much. Please hur—"

A bloody hand plowed through the branches, sealing her mouth.

"JULIA, JULIA, TALK TO ME," Marshall called in reaction to the sound of her voice being suppressed mid sentence.

Silence.

"Julia, say something so we know you're all right."

No response.

Marshall pushed the mic of the headset to his mouth. "Shit! Double-time it guys. Hines must have slipped past us," he relayed to the team. He scanned the forest floor for any sign he was on the right track to Jewels.

A thick puddle of liquid in the path caught his eye. Halting, he squatted. Dabbed it with the tip of his finger as if testing for wet paint.

The substance was sticky, tepid, and bright red. Blood. Fresh. He raised his eyes toward the heavens. "Please, God, don't let this be Julia's."

He wiped the blood from his fingertips onto his pants. Invested a moment to gather his composure, banishing the hint of tears ready to overrun his eyes. If Jewels was dead, he would never forgive himself. Not that his onetime mentor, Howard Dyson, would let him.

Clearing his throat, he pressed the mic again. "This is Watters. I've got fresh blood." Taking off on a moderate jog deeper into the woods, he headed in the direction he last saw the glimmer, which happened to be the same direction the blood trailed.

"JULIA! JULIA, TALK TO ME. Julia, say something so we know you're all right," the masculine voice in the distance yelled.

Screaming, _help_ over and over in response to the man's call, Hines' thick hand pasted over her mouth thwarted her efforts. Incredibly, the bear had failed to neutralize this guy too.

"Unfaithful cunt. You bitches are all the same." Hines flashed resentful eyes at her as he wiggled around the entanglement of prickly branches to better position himself next to her.

Though twisting her body and thrashing her legs, she could not liberate her mouth of his bloody grip.

What a spectacle. There Jewels was, lying on the ground, under a pine tree with a web of branches engulfing her, wearing nothing but an FBI windbreaker over white lace panties and a matching strapless bra. Her hands cuffed above her head around the sap-oozing trunk of a pine. Metal leg irons bound her ankles. And rogue FBI Agent Theodore Hines dressed in a tarnished white long-sleeved dress shirt and suit pants, knelt at her side, his bloody hand locking her mouth silent.

"Time to die, Sweet Cheeks." He removed his hand from her mouth.

Jewels gasped air.

With both hands clamped around her neck, he proceeded to squeeze.

"No," Jewels squeaked, kicking her chained feet, yanking her hands against the cold hard steel of the handcuffs, and wiggling her body in a desperate attempt to break the death grip around her throat.

Hines responded by engaging the full weight of his body to push harder. Squeeze tighter.

She felt the life literally being forced out of her. "Dear God, please help me," she sputtered, gasping to breathe.

"Die, Bitch! Die." Hines beat the back of Jewels' head against the pine needle floor.

Her muscles went limp. Eyelids glided shut. Consciousness began to retire.

Seemingly out of nowhere, an ominous roar filled the air.

Hines loosened the grip on Jewels' neck and froze kneeling at her side.

Forcing her eyes open, she looked up.

The brown bear had approached in stealth mode. The gargantuan beast reared up on its hindquarters, towering over them, voicing deep-throated pulsating sounds.

Hines' face was horror stricken.

With one powerful swipe of his broad paw against Hines' shoulder, the mammoth creature plucked Hines' body off Jewels, throwing him to the ground where he landed on his side.

On all fours, the bear rushed him.

Screaming in terror, Hines wildly punched and kicked as he was ferociously mauled.

Witnessing the attack, Jewels screamed at the top of her lungs in terror.

But Hines' defensive blows were mere annoyances, like pesky gnats, to the attacking wild animal. After biting Hines about the body numerous times, the ginormous beast opened his great jaws over Hines' head and reared up on his hind legs, lifting Hines' body off the ground.

Unable to stomach the anticipated gore, Jewels squeezed her eyes shut. Though she could block out witnessing the morbid visual scene, there was nothing she could do to prevent her ears from absorbing every gruesome, audible detail. Hines' shrill scream was something no actor could ever duplicate.

Jewels lay paralyzed.

CRUNCH!

Instantly, the penetrating screeching stopped as the grizzly's powerful jaws chomped down on Hines' head, biting as if the human skull were nothing more than a giant apple. If it was not for the pile of branches Hines had earlier stacked around Jewels to bury her, his headless body would have landed directly on top of her.

Despite all the horrible situations Jewels experienced over the past few days, she had not known primal fear until now and dared not open her eyes.

Standing on its hind legs, the grizzly bellowed a roar of triumph, a reminder to all forest creatures, and humans alike, he was the new supreme king of the High Uintas.

The titanic creature dropped down on all fours, burrowed his nose under the lifeless mass, and through the heap of branches to once again sniff Jewels' femininity. He licked the inside of her thigh.

Its tongue was grainy like cornmeal, breath hot like a blow dryer. Abruptly the bear jerked its head from between Jewels' legs and snorted, bolting up the mountainside.

"Julia! Julia," a distant male voice called.

Scared mindless, Jewels kept her eyes pinched shut as her body continued to quake under the jumble of pine boughs and the weight of Hines' lifeless mass.

MOMENTS EARLIER.

The sharp unnerving sound of a human screaming from excruciating pain pierced the natural serenity of the forest, causing Marshall to stop dead in his tracks. A shiver rocketed up his spine. The sound was terrible, unlike anything he'd ever heard before, not even in war. The blood curdling sound of a human screaming in terror was followed by the thundering bellow of a bear's roar.

"Julia! Julia!" He charged in the direction of the terrible scream. As he ran, he moved the MP-5 into a position where he could fire on the run if necessary.

Sensing he was close to the creature, he maintained a full tilt run in the direction of the commotion.

Through the limited sight picture of the night vision goggles, he picked up the blur of a giant animal bounding up the mountainside, about one hundred yards ahead of him.

Marshall didn't bother to take aim on the bear as he fled the scene. At that distance, the 9mm cartridges, even shot from a fully automatic weapon, would not muster enough stopping power to bring down the huge beast. Probably just piss him off more.

About twenty yards ahead, a lifeless heap lay on the side of the path. "I think I got something. EMT needed," Marshall radioed.

"We're right behind you," one of the men responded.

Was Jewels dead? Did Hines killer her? The bear?

"Julia! Jewels," Marshall hollered as he sprinted closer to the inanimate mound.

Seconds later he arrived at the scene, unprepared for the sight of Hines' head smashed open like a pumpkin. The proceeds scattered like spewed vomit. Globs of brains and flesh everywhere.

It appeared justice had been served after all, nature's way in the wild.

Turning away, he pushed the night vision goggles up his forehead, closed his eyes, and covered his mouth with his hand to thwart the overwhelming urge to puke.

A faint whimper coming from the area of Hines' decapitated remains turned him around.

No way Hines could be alive without a head, yet Marshall dipped down to his side and touched the neck of the headless corpse for signs of a pulse.

Nothing, of course.

He rose to his feet.

Heard the whimper again.

Bending down to more closely examine the body, he noticed a hint of blonde hair poking out from the bunch of limbs underneath Hines' bulk.

"Oh my God! Jewels, is that you?" Marshall rolled Hines' corpse away from the limbs and cleared away the branches.

Sure enough, there she was lying on her side. Legs curled under her chin. Eyes pinched shut. Body quivering.

"Jewels," he rejoiced, gently stroking the side of her cheek with the back of his hand.

With a violent knee jerk reaction, she gasped at his touch.

"Jewels. Honey, it's me. Marshall. Marshall Watters."

"No. Don't. Please..."

He planted his hands on her shoulders and turned her onto her back.

Recoiling from his touch, she stiffened her body and pressed against his hands resisting, but he rolled her over anyway. Despite lying on her back, she kept her knees tucked high into her abdomen and her chin pressed deep into her chest.

"Jewels, relax. The bear's gone. Hines is dead. Everything's okay. This is Marshall Watters with the MTAF and I'm going to take you home."

"Home?" she muttered through chattering teeth, chin still tucked deep in her chest.

A smile of relief raced across Marshall's face. "I'm going to take you home, Jewels." He stroked her face with the back of his hand. "Now lift up your head and open your eyes."

Gradually raising her head so it was no longer pressed into her chest, her eyelids remained scrunched closed.

"Come on, Honey. Open those big beautiful blue eyes," he continued to encourage, turning and tilting her head so when her eyes opened, they would gaze into his. "Trust me."

The muscles in Jewels' face slowly relaxed. She opened her eyes.

He ensured his best smile greeted her. "Jewels. It's over, Honey. I'm gonna take you home."

A faint smile broke across her tear-streaked face.

Cradling her chin between his hands, Marshall tilted his head at her arms. "Jewels, how about we start by getting you out of those cuffs?"

She sniffled. "Yes, please."

Patting down his pockets in search of a handcuff key, he didn't find one.

Fear recaptured Jewels' face.

"Don't worry. I _will_ free you from those cuffs, Jewels. I promise." Holding up a finger as a gesture she should not panic, but rather pay attention to him, Marshall pressed the mic of the radio headset. "Hey, guys, what's your ETA?"

Starved for good news, Jewels bird-dogged his every move.

"About twenty seconds, Sir," a voice responded through the tiny device in his ear.

"A few seconds," Marshall relayed to Jewels, with a confident smile. Into the mic: "I've got a situation here. The victim is in leg and handcuffs, but I don't have a key on me to release her."

"Not a problem, Sir. We can take care of that."

"Good. Get here."

Forming an okay gesture with his hand to Jewels, he flipped off the radio transmitter.

Moments later the sound of rushing footsteps drew louder and louder as the men's boots crunched against the brittle needles of the forest floor.

Intending to meet his team, Marshall leaped to his feet.

"Wait! Don't go! Please, don't leave me," Jewels wailed, hysterically yanking her arms against the tree trunk and pitching her body in a panicked attempt to follow him.

Instantly, Marshall was back at her side. He pressed her forearms against the forest floor and kept her from fighting the handcuffs and injuring herself more. "I'm right here, Jewels. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you."

Intensifying her crying, she shriveled into a helpless ball.

Lying down next to her and holding her the best he could given the situation, Marshall cradled her head to his chest. "This will all be over any minute now, Jewels. Trust me. It's going to be okay." He kissed her forehead.

And sure enough, just like Marshall had promised, moments later he was reaching behind the tree trunk unlocking the handcuffs.

He eyed his men and cleared his throat. "Take care of that." He nodded at the corpse, knowing his team would understand what he meant.

Immediately the men dragged the body and head out of Jewels' sight and covered them with the branches that once buried her.

After removing the leg irons, Marshall helped Jewels sit up.

Not bothering to massage her throbbing wrists or ankles, Jewels flung her arms around Marshall's muscular neck. "I owe you my life," she whispered in his ear then kissed him on the cheek before collapsing into his sinewed shoulder.

Without reserve he hugged her, resting his head on hers.

Five envious men watched, mouths gaping. Howard Dyson included.

He slowly peeled her away. "Julia, you don't owe me anything." He stroked mess up hair. Glimpsed up at the goo-goo eyed men, while avoiding direct eye contact with Dyson. "I was just doing my job, _Miz Andrasy_."

Drooping her head, she stared at the ground, massaged her bruised wrists.

Marshall placed two fingers under her chin. Raised her head so their eyes would meet. "Jewels, I have to take care of a few things. These guys," he pointed to the five men dressed in black military garb surrounding them, "are good guys. They're part of my MTAF team and they're here to help you. I won't be too far away, but I need to take care of a few things. Okay?"

"Okay." Jewels voice stronger, sounding more like herself. Now self-conscious with the other men around, she closed Hines' FBI jacket around her body, crossed her arms over her chest, and squeezed her legs together.

"Oh, and you have a visitor," Marshall pointed to Dyson as he pushed to his feet.

She perked up. "Howard?"

"Miz Andrasy," he replied with sterile formality.

"Uh, are you up here for the bear story?"

He flashed a gold badge at her. "Just working on my collection," he coolly stated, abruptly turning and walking away.

Strange, Marshall thought, witnessing what had just transpired between his mentor and the woman he believed he loved. The old fox was smart. Sly. Up to something. He could _feel_ it. And he knew it involved Jewels.

Would he have to match romantic wits with the SEALs' legendary Howard Dyson, vying for the love of the same woman?

Glancing over at Jewels, she was staring at him, a soft, but sincere and sexy smile.

With a wink and wave at her, Marshall turned, jogging down the path.

KNEELING AT JEWELS' SIDE, "My name is Wilson, Ma'am," the average-looking man said, dumping the big red medical duffle next to her. "I'm going to take your vitals, okay?"

"Okay."

A tall man, with the appearance of a mafia hitman, approached her. "Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw, at your service," he announced, bending down on one knee next to her. "I'll bet you're thirsty. Would you like some water?"

"Yes, please."

Opening a big pocket on the side of his tactical pants, he pulled out an eight-ounce bottle of water, unscrewed the lid, and handed it to her.

Jewels gulped it.

"Easy now," Bradshaw cautioned.

"You still okay?" Marshall called out to her, standing about twenty feet in front of her.

Still drinking the water, Jewels waved her hand and watched Marshall once again disappear into the dense forest.

Bradshaw to Wilson: "I'm heading back to the compound, can you take it from here?"

"Sure." Wilson winked at Jewels.

Bradshaw rose to his feet. "Then I'm outta here."

Jewels smiled sweetly. "Thank you so much."

"My pleasure." Bradshaw jogged down the same path Marshall had taken, disappearing into the dense forest as well.

"You're a little banged up and you're going to be fine, but we need to get you to the hospital," Wilson concluded, slinging the stethoscope around his neck then removing the blood pressure cuff from her arm.

"Okay. Whatever." Jewels sucked the last drops of water from the bottle.

Bradshaw reappeared from the darkness. Jogged over to her again. Handed her a blanket. "Marshall said you might want this."

"Thank you very much and please tell Marshall thank you too."

"You're very welcome." He smiled and winked, then turned and left as quickly as he had arrived.

Jewels' face contorted in agony and she let out a little whimper as she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.

Wilson noticed. "How about I give you something for the pain." He reached into his medical bag.

"Yes, please," Jewels eagerly agreed, gratitude in voice, figuring a little, or a lot, of pain relief would be most welcomed.

"Let's get her out of here," Wilson called over his shoulder as he filled a syringe with the painkiller.

Two men dashed over with a stretcher, dropped it next to Jewels. Preparing to take her on, they started by unbuckling three wide, nylon belts.

Jewels' eyes bulged at the sight of the men preparing to strap her to the stretcher. She shook her head back and forth. "No. No," she sputtered, scooting on her butt away from the stretcher.

"Whoa! Where are you going?" Wilson snatched her by the wrist and yanked her back toward him.

Eyes wide, Jewels watched as Wilson forcefully stretched her arm out and pushed the sleeve of the FBI jacket above her elbow.

"No. No," she softly pleaded, her body trembling.

"Hold still," he said firmly, dabbing the underside of her elbow with an alcohol pad then pricking her vein with the needle.

Images of being held captive in Doc Callahan's exam room assaulted her.

Wilson slowly plunged the syringe contents into Jewels' arm. But before he could empty it, she ripped her wrist free from his grip, springing to her feet.

"Get away from me," she barked, sliding down the FBI jacket sleeve over her arm.

Looks of confusion passed between the three attending men. One of the two men prepping the stretcher rose to his feet, taking a step toward Jewels.

She rubbed her arm where the needle had been inserted. "Get away from me," she bellowed again, retreating into the dark woods.

"It's okay. Nobody's gonna hurt you." The man took another step toward her, his hands outstretched to his side in a non-combative gesture, though poised to grab her just the same.

"You're right about that." Jewels bolted, sprinting up the mountainside in the dark.

"Get her," Wilson yelled.

THE COMMOTION ATTRACTED Marshall's attention. He rushed to the spot where he left Jewels. "What the hell's going on?" His head darted back and forth in search of a sign of Jewels.

"She freaked out and took off running up the side of the mountain." Wilson wagged his head in disgusted bewilderment.

"Freaked out?" Marshall hiked a brow. "What do you mean?"

"Yeah, freaked out. I was getting ready to administer a painkiller when she started to back away. I asked her where she thought she was going and grabbed her arm—"

"You grabbed her arm?" Marshall echoed, anger mounting on his face and in his voice.

"Yes, Sir. I was trying to giver her an intravenous painkiller."

"Did you inject her with it?" Marshall interrogated.

"Yeah, well, only about half of it. She backpedaled and ripped the needle out of her arm before I could administer the full dose."

"Backpedaled? From what?"

"With all due respect, Commander, I don't know." His shoulders shrugged in exasperation from the third-degree blistering he was receiving from Marshall. Nodding his head toward the stretcher, he added, "We were just getting ready to pack her out."

Marshall gazed at the stretcher with the open straps and smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. "God! You idiots! After everything this woman has been through, you should have known better than to think she would have no aversion to the thought of being restrained."

"Sorry, Boss, it's standard procedure. I didn't know."

"Ahh." He waved his hand in a gesture to say forget it. "Which way did she go?"

"Up the mountainside. She's pretty weak. I doubt she'll get very far."

"Oh yeah?" Marshall snorted. "Underestimating this woman's desire to be free is the same mistake some of SPOF's toughest characters made."

"No, you don't understand, Sir. She's only got about a half a dose of the painkiller in her. It's new. Experimental."

"You're experimenting on her?"

"Uncle Sam issued it to me for use on our guys, so I figured if it was good enough for them—"

"Fine. Tell me more about this drug."

"Uh, it's very potent and lasts up to twenty-four hours. Actually gives patients a buzz rather than making them drowsy. Doesn't cause constipation..."

Marshall scowled and folded his arms over his chest.

"The only side effect discovered so far is, for some people, a partial dose may only act as a mild sedative. But for others..."

"Yes, yes, for others what?" Marshall dropped his arms to his sides, eyes piercing, he leaned in closer to Wilson.

He swallowed hard. "For others, it can be a super hallucinogen."

"Dammit!" Marshall launched into a full sprint up the mountainside in the direction Jewels supposed ran.
Forty-Nine

**AS THE CROW FLIES** about eight miles from SPOF, in the rundown cabin Tank searched out years ago as an emergency _safe house_ of sorts, he consulted his watch: 0415 hours. Couldn't sleep.

Despite the early hour, he paced the dirt floor of the tiny four-hundred square foot wooden shack. Occasionally he stopped to perform several dozen chin-ups on the wooden four-by-four beam spanning the width of the cabin.

The beam looked like it might have been installed to keep the side walls of the shanty from caving in, or maybe the beginnings of a loft. Regardless, it creaked under the weight of his hulking three-hundred-twenty-five pounds with each chin-up.

As he counted off chin-ups, Tank thought about his defection from SPOF. He had no intention of rendezvousing with the three losers he had used to orchestrate his escape. No doubt, the Commander would hunt them down and, as usual, the men would end up dead with FBI Special Agent Theodore Hines in the limelight. Once again the darling of the media and touted as the super hero of law enforcement.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out Hines' MO. Mastermind havoc, bribe the criminally minded—stooges as he called them—to perpetrate the orchestrated mayhem, then use those same stooges to effectuate a crime for his own personal gain.

Once his personal agenda had been fulfilled, Hines turned against the stooges. Killed everyone involved.

Tank recognized Hines for what he was, a cunning, leave-no-loose-ends, take-no-prisoners, cold-hearted bastard who hid behind the respected shield of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

The moment Hines' agenda turned personal—nabbing Julia Andrasy—Tank knew Hines was preparing to take down SPOF. But Tank wasn't the average _stooge_ Hines had been accustomed to manipulating. He wouldn't be caught in his deadly trap of betrayal. Subsequently, the reason for his so-called defection.

There was no doubt in Tank's mind, since Hines had possession of Jewels, everyone left at SPOF was dead and the compound was crawling with FBI.

Therefore, he'd sit tight for a few days. Maybe a week. Then sign on as a temporary hand to one of those fishing vessels the rich use as a shuttle to Alaska where he would retire in the wilderness. Never to return to the lower forty-eight states again. Become a mountain man, like Davey Crockett. Imagine that, an African-American mountain man. The thought cracked a smile.

Halting the chin-up reps, he rubbed the gash on his cheek. Visions of Jewels filled his mind. Weird, but he had gone from hating her to admiring her. Could it be he was beginning to _like_ her? Maybe even develop romantic feelings for her?

Certainly, she was no ordinary woman. A man who had a woman like her under his control could go places. Not only because of her money and intelligence, but because of her incredible inner will and extraordinary spunk. Even if she didn't make the best wife, at the very least with her sexy body, Jewels would be a great fuck. A guy would never get bored with her.

Tank stretched out on the dusty cot. Laced his hands behind his neck. Staring at the rickety plank ceiling, he allowed his mind to imagine what he would do to her, _with_ her, should the opportunity present itself. Of course, the odds of a close encounter with Julia Andrasy were pretty slim, if nonexistent. If she happened to survive Hines' _cleansing_ surgery, the devil-only-knows-what he would do to her after that before he killed her.

Yet, he fantasized about the possibility of keeping her as a _play thing._ Not only for sex, but for companionship. When she no longer pleased him, it was a given he would simply kill her.

JEWELS FELT SPACEY. Her body was hyped up, as if from caffeine overload, and seemed impervious to pain. After wandering aimlessly in the dark for what seemed hours, it was fortunate she had stumbled upon the cave. Remnants of a massive fissure in the earth, created when dinosaurs ruled.

The nook was vaguely familiar. Reminded her of the little storage closet she hid in at SPOF.

Just like the rock walls at SPOF, the walls of _nature's closet_ were stone-lined, but instead of stacked rocks, these walls were created by tremendous boulders. Otherwise, just like her SPOF hideout, the mountain sanctuary was cool, damp, and smelled like wet soil.

Leaning her shoulder against the chilled boulder of her safe haven, Jewels relaxed enough to review her options. Sort out her feelings. Decide who was worthy of her trust.

In hindsight, she concluded the rescuers who came with Marshall Watters were _not_ involved in some diabolical scheme to keep her in captivity.

Hanging her head, Jewels was angry. Felt embarrassed. "You totally overreacted," she scolded aloud. "And now Marshall must think you're a complete flake. I mean, what kind of a lunatic would go running barefoot and half naked through the remote wilderness in the middle of the night by herself without any weapons or survival provisions?

"The Julia Andrasy variety," she said with a hint of disgust, answering her own question. Bundling up in the blanket she had liberated from the rescue team, the painkiller masked the misery she would have otherwise been enduring.

"The logical thing to do is return to the rescue sight. Apologize. Tell them you overreacted and that will be that."

Pushing herself off the boulder, she staggered. Rubbed her head which felt like it was full of helium, ready to float off her body. "What's wrong with me?"

After a few seconds, in a tone to mock General Cooman, she said, "So let it be written, so let it be done." Giggling, Jewels stumbled out of the cave like a woman who had smoked way too much weed.

SUNDAY, 0512 HOURS.

"Jewels! Julia," Marshall shouted into the blackness.

"Sir, we've been searching for hours and there's no sign of Miz Andrasy. Maybe we should—"

"Give up! Is that what you want to do, Mr. Bradshaw?" Marshall's' jaw tight, temples pulsating with checked anger. "Have you forgotten the SEAL motto, _The only easy day was yesterday?_ "

"Come on, Marshall." Warren Bradshaw patted him on the back. "What's wrong with you? I've never seen you so uptight."

Marshall stroked his imaginary beard.

Warren studied him. They had been close friends for years. He knew what made Marshall tick. Suddenly his dark eyes widened. "Oh my God. You've fallen for her, haven't you?"

Staring at the ground, Marshall massaged the back of his neck.

"For chrissake, Marshall. Since when have you started running ops with your dick?"

"I'm in love with her."

Bradshaw thrust his hands on his hips. "First Hines. Then Dyson. Now you? What's this dame got that's so damned appealing?" He turned his back to Marshall in disgust, then quickly turned back around. "I'll tell you what she is, a fucking man-eater who casts her alluring spell, captures your heart, devours it, then moves on to the next unsuspecting guy."

"She's not like that."

Warren threw his hands up in the air and stomped. After pacing the mountainside for a moment, he returned to Marshall's side and rested his hand on his shoulder. "Okay. Fine. I won't argue her enchanting qualities, but Marshall, you've got to put your personal feelings aside. You've got to treat this like any other case."

"I am."

"Bullshit! Look me in the eyes and tell me if this were any other case you wouldn't have called off the ground search hours ago. Tell me you wouldn't be waiting for the winds to fade so the chopper could scan the mountain with FLIR."

"Fuck FLIR! We shot her up with an experimental drug, Warren. A drug that produces wild side effects, like hallucinations. What if she imagines she can fly and leaps off a cliff or—"

"You're absolutely right, Marshall. We screwed up. But you've got a team of five men you're responsible for. They need to rest. Daylight will be breaking within the hour. You're pushing too hard. You gotta back off or they're gonna make mistakes. This isn't _Hell Week_ , you know."

MARSHALL HUNG HIS HEAD. Of course, he knew his best friend and second in command, Warren Bradshaw, spoke the truth. Especially the part about _if this were any other case._ But it _wasn't_ just any other case.

For the first time in Marshall's thirty-six years of life he had found a woman he believed he could love with all his heart. A woman for whom he would take an early retirement from his prestigious job if she asked. A woman who could very well be his eternal soulmate.

But the harsh reality was, no matter what the circumstances, running his highly trained team around in the dark woods, even with NVGs, was not a smart use of resources.

He returned the friendly pat on the back to Warren. "Tell you what," Marshall sighed with a concessionary tone. "You're right. Let's call it a night. I'll stay here at the rescue site in case she decides to return. We'll fire up FLIR at dawn."

"Now you're talking like the MTAF Commander I know and respect."

0630 HOURS.

Daylight spilled a brilliant rosy stream across the sky, illuminating the dark woods. Jewels had been drifting about the woods for nearly three hours, giggling and talking to an imaginary golden retriever, Boo-Boo Two, named after her beloved pet. Even tossed a twig or two for Boo-Boo Two to retrieve.

Mentally she was out of it. Lack of sleep. Stress from traumatic events. Dehydration. And the injection of an experimental painkilling drug with hallucinogenic side effects had wickedly combined to create a state of denial heavily seasoned with outrageous silliness.

But she was not doing too well on the physical front, either. The soles of her feet were bloody and dirty, ripe for infection. Wrists and ankles swollen and bruised. Back scored with cuts, welts, and punctures. Body in dire need of water and food. Tear-streaked, her face was littered with dark brown forest dirt. And her hair was a mess, needles and leaves tangled throughout.

The once sexy vanilla hair that freely flowed about her face, had been replaced by an unruly mop of a hairdo not even a cave woman would have sported. Yet thanks to the drug, her battered body seemed unstoppable.

"Come on, Boo-Boo Two," she called to her imaginary pet, waving her arm up over her head as a gesture for it to follow. "Look, there's a beautiful little meadow just ahead." Roaming into the grassy field, a tiny building on the far side caught her eye. "Look, Boo-Boo Two, Pappy Clark's house. Let's visit him."

In reality, Pappy Clark had been dead for thirty years and his house was located in Pennsylvania, not the remote wilderness of Utah.

Operating in the drug-induced silly, little girl mode, she felt compelled to shed the FBI jacket to use it as a hand-held cape, simply because she thought it would be _fun_. Dumping the blanket, she removed the jacket.

After a few moments of running through the grassland like superheroine Batwoman, her imaginary dog at her side, she allowed the jacket to blow through her fingertips.

A gust of wind caught it, lifting it off the earth like a tailless kite. After about fifty feet, the jacket glided to the ground. The big yellow FBI letters face up; a bull's-eye in the middle of the meadow.

Retrieving the blanket she had moments ago discarded, Jewels tied it around her shoulders. Though the blanket looked like a cape, Jewels ceased her cape-crusading antics and drifted into a state of carefree ecstasy.

The full effects of the drug were peaking in her system, continuing to block the pain of her bleeding bare feet, welts on her back, and the throbbing of her ankles and wrists. The painkiller had done its intended job. And much more.

Skipping lightheartedly through the tall grass toward the shanty, she merrily sang a song from her childhood. "Do you know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man? Do you know the muffin man that lives something lane-o," she sang to no particular tune, giggling uncontrollably at the _something lane-o_ part. She had forgotten the words which struck her as incredibly funny.

"WHERE DO YOU WANT us to start the search, Commander?" the helicopter pilot asked.

"Let's begin at the rescue point, then move up the mountain." He pointed in the direction the pilot should fly.

"You got it," the pilot responded, maneuvering the helicopter in the direction Marshall indicated.

_RAP-RAP!_ "Yoo-hoo, Pappy, are you in there?"

Tank leaped straight up from a dead sleep, blinking wildly as he gathered his senses and focused on the door.

_RAP-RAP!_ "Come on, Pappy. Open up."

He eyed his watch: 0717 hours. Someone was trying to get into his hideaway at this early hour. And not just anyone, but a woman. There was something familiar about her voice that made him uncomfortable.

_RAP-RAP-RAP-RAP!_ "Pappy, I want you to meet Boo-Boo Two. I know you'll just love her," the woman's voice called, raising an octave as her impatience escalated.

"Boo-Boo Two," Tank whispered. He rubbed his forehead in puzzlement.

"Oh well, Pappy, no Sweet Cheeks today," the female voice called in a tone brimming with personal rejection.

The voice. Boo-Boo. Sweet Cheeks. It could only be one person, "Julia Andrasy," Tank mumbled, finally making the connection. She sounded very different. More than that, what the hell was she doing way out here, miles from any distinguishable road, SPOF, or even Hines' cabin? And, Hines. Shouldn't he have taken possession and _cleansed_ her by now? Had she escaped?

Granted, the woman had a knack for launching daring escape attempts, but could she have gotten away from Theodore Hines? If so, Tank sure as hell like to know how.

"Come on. Pappy, is that you?" the woman anxiously called through the closed door.

A Cheshire cat grin germinated on his face. If this _was_ Julia Andrasy and she had escaped from Hines, he could capture her, return her to Hines.

No, wait. Better yet. Capture her and keep her for himself.

Ironically, just a few hours ago he had been thinking about Julia and what he might do if they ever crossed paths in the future. And out of the blue, their paths were crossing. _Right now_.

Padding to the door, he removed the two-by-four barring the entry. Flung it open. Sure enough, it was Julia Andrasy. His mouth widened as he eyed her.

A thin gray blanket tied around her shoulders covered skimpy white underwear. No other clothing. No shoes. Long blonde hair a tangled mess. Face, arms, legs, and feet smudged with dirt.

"Fuckin' train wreck," he judged.

She stretched her neck to peer around his body to see inside the cabin. "Where's Pappy?" she asked with a look of genuine concern.

Shit. Something wasn't right. Taking a step outside, Tank scanned the field, seeking _something_ that might explain this odd encounter.

Seeing nothing, he grabbed Jewels by the wrist and yanked her hard into the cabin, kicking the door shut.

She twisted her arm free from his hold and pulled an overexaggerated sad face. "Hey, you're playing rough. I'm gonna tell Pappy." Nudging her elbow into Tank's gut to push around him, she sauntered over to the cot and plopped onto it, making herself at home.

Suspicious bewilderment washed Tank's face. He approached the bed with caution. Latched onto her chin with his thumb and forefinger and tilted her head upward. Stared.

Her big blue eyes were unnaturally wide. Pupils dilated. Eyelids blinked in slow motion.

"What the hell are you high on?" Tank asked with the tone of a concerned father.

"High?" she echoed, expanding her eyes even wider.

Tank was positive she was tripping on something, especially since she didn't seem to recognize him. If she wasn't drugged, she would be terrified of him.

In a half squat position, he parked his hands on his thighs, eyed her. "Julia, tell me what happened. How did you get here?"

"Just out for a walk and stopped by to see Pappy," she answered with nonchalance. She patted the cot next to her. "Come Boo-Boo Two. That's it, good girl."

Biting his lip at the sight of Jewels interacting with an imaginary dog, he stood, brows arching in suspicion as he gazed at her.

Clearly, Hines' plan had gone awry. Otherwise Julia Andrasy would not be sitting in his hideout half naked and stoned out of her mind. Had to find out what happened.

To do so he would resort to his standard and proven results-oriented mode of operating: merciless brutality. His tactics would dispense the antidote to whatever drug had seized her mind.

Surveying the shack for something he could use to tie her up, a coiled piece of bull rope lying on the floor in the corner behind the cold potbelly stove caught his attention.

Scooping up the dusty rope, Tank marched over to her. "Time to play truth or consequences." He straightened the rope.

"Truth or consequences?"

_That's one helluva clueless act._ "Yeah. You're gonna tell me the truth and I will give you the consequences."

"Huh?"

"Give me your hands."

Jewels stretched her arms toward him, offering her hands palms face up.

Winding the thick rope around her wrists multiple times, he bound them together. Knotted the rope.

THE SUPER PAINKILLER not only suppressed physical pain, but mental anguish as well, blocking all recollection of the horror she had endured over the past several days.

However, the harsh binding of her wrists acted like an instant antidote. Bits and pieces of terrifying memories of the past days randomly rushed her mind, ousting the drug-induced euphoric state. "Noooo," Jewels shrieked, recoiling.

Holding on, he maintained control with ease. "So you _were_ faking la-la land."

"Faking?" Confusion swept her haggard face.

"Yeah. Like you were stoned. Like you didn't know who I was."

Jewels just sat, eyes fixed at the floor. Her mind spinning out of control.

"Who sent you?" Tank huffed, giving the rope a tug, jolting her entire body.

Jewels grimaced.

"No comment? Fine." Lobbing the free end of the thick rope up over the four-by-four beam near the ceiling, he pulled on it. Hoisted Jewels off the bed and onto her feet. Continued to crank the rope until he had reeled her into an upright position under the beam.

Groaning in agony, Jewels stood on tiptoes. Hands stretched high above her head.

After tossing the end of the rope over the rafter a second time as an extra measure to hold her in place, he anchored the loose end around the heavy base of the bulbous-bodied stove, then stepped back over to Jewels.

Her head was hanging, breathing labored.

Latching his hand onto her chin, he jerked it upward so she was looking him in the eyes. "Now, I'm gonna ask you again. Who sent you?"

"Nobody. Nobody sent me."

"Always the fuckin' hard way with you." Tank drew the multipurpose tool hanging from his belt and configured it into scissors.

Watching him, Jewels' mind blurred. Shaky images, like an old Super 8 home movie. Film spliced together in no particular order. Wrists bound to the bed. Black mask. Hanky shoved into mouth. Frantic running. Hood slammed over head. Leather restraints. Boo-Boo bleeding. Ball gag strapped in mouth. Face slaps over and over...

Jewels dissolved into tears. Couldn't help it. Whatever bravery she may have once had was all used up. If Tank thought he could torture an answer out of her, they were in for a long morning because she didn't know anything. She wasn't trying to protect anyone. No one sent her. By simple mistake, she just stumbled onto the shack.

_SNIP!_ Tank clipped the knot of the blanket around her neck, releasing it to the floor.

Forced to stand on tiptoes, her entire body quivered. A charley horse manifested in her right calf. Awkwardly balancing on the toes of her left foot, she wildly shook out her right leg.

"Muscles cramping already?" Tank asked rhetorically, his tone demeaning. Before bending down to rub her cramped leg, he watched her suffer for a moment.

Jewels flinched at the touch of his calloused hands.

He vigorously massaged her calf between his flat palms for a few moments. "Is that better?"

"Yes, thank you."

Pushing to his feet, he walked behind her. Gasped. "What the fuck?"

Dozens of long red welts peppered Jewels' back interspersed with little bumps, some of them covered in dried blood.

"What the hell happened to your back?"

"Theodore whipped me."

"What happened with you and Hines anyway?" He completed the circle around Jewels until he was facing her again.

"He's dead."

"Dead?"

"Yeah, the grizzly got him," she answered, followed by a fit of giggles; a side effect of the painkiller wearing off.

"Hmm. So that's how you got out here," Tank muttered, not the least bit disturbed by her inappropriate and poorly timed tee-hee. "You ran away when that bear attacked him," Tank concluded, relief in his voice, as he was well aware of the man-eating bear who had been terrorizing hikers and campers in the area for the last several months.

"Not exactly," Jewels corrected, shaking her head in regret. "Noooo. That's not right. Not exactly. That's not exactly right. Really, not exactly," she rambled, continuing to shake her head; the powerful drug was relenting but in the process making her goofier.

"Not exactly?" Tank repeated with concern, his eyes narrowing.

Gazing around the room, as if ready to spill a secret and not wanting anyone to overhear, she leaned into Tank, whispered, "I ran away from the MTAF."

"Holy shit." Tank grabbed his bald head with both hand. Bolting to the door, he cautiously opened it. Popped his head out. Seeking signs of the elite law enforcement group, he scanned the horizon for movement. Seeing nothing, he cocked his ear toward the sky and held his breath, listening for the sound of a helicopter. Only the morning chatter of song birds broke the wilderness silence.

Closing the door, Tank dashed about the cabin, stuffing his scattered belongings into a giant green duffle bag with the urgency of one scooping up precious belongings about to be consumed by a house fire.

"What's going on?" Jewels' voice was oddly perky, but tone confused. Further proof the effects of the shot were nearly depleted.

After a quick visual double-check of the room, he zipped the duffle, then unfolded what looked like a camo-colored foil jump suit and quickly climbed into it.

"What are you doing?" Jewels' perkiness suddenly replaced by panic.

"Making sure those MTAF bastards can't track me with their infrared scanners when I get the fuck out of Dodge the mountain man way." He darted toward the door, duffle bag in hand, foil suit crinkling with each hurried step.

Looking up at the thick rope binding her hands, Jewels yanked on it. "Wait! Untie me. Please don't leave me like this."

Halting at the door, Tank watched her pointlessly toil for a moment.

"Take me with you."

Shock flooded his features. He mocked her tone. "Take you with me?" Growled, "You've gotta be joking. For all the grief you're causing me right now, letting you live is the extent of my generosity."

"Please, Tank, please take me with you," Jewels pressed in desperation. "I'll behave. I can be a mountain man, uh, _woman_. And I'll do whatever you want. Just don't leave me tied up like this to die. Pleeeeease."

Tank shook his head in disbelief. "You _want_ to go with me?"

"I don't want to be left here to die. Please, don't leave me. I have financial means and could help you get out of the country or whatever. I won't be any trouble. I promise. I'll do whatever you want. Please..."

The money part intrigued him and her pleas to untie her and not leave her for dead tugged at his heart, arousing feelings of compassion he hadn't felt in years; feelings he didn't want.

"Tank, I won't be any trouble. I _promise_. I'll let you tie me up, or do whatever you want. Please, just take me with you." The desperation in her voice was almost heartbreaking.

Tuning her out, he returned to the coiled bull rope in the corner, cut off about a three-foot length, stamped back over to Jewels. Stared at her. " _Let_ me tie you up?" he scoffed, toying with the length of rope.

"You're gonna take me with you, right?" Her voice and face optimistic. Eyes wide with hope.

"Hmph," he snorted. " _If_ you get out of this one, I'll be watching you. And when the time is right I _will_ take you, but not now." Pushing the rope between her lips, he forced her jaw open to create a gag.

"No! Please, don't."

Swiftly winding the rope around her head and over her mouth several times, he knotted it, but not as brutally tight as he would have just twenty-four hours ago. Though he hated to admit it, she had worn a bit of a soft spot into his killer heart. She was one helluva survivor and had the fight and stamina of a warrior. And for that earned a scrap of his respect.

Crazily tossing her head back and forth Jewels madly struggled to dislodge the gag. Hot tears scorched her cheeks. Her face and neck were brilliant red from screaming pleas for Tank not to leave her. Light pink liquid—a mixture of blood and saliva—drooled from her chin.

Tank stamped to the door. Jewels' heart-tugging solicitations were now unintelligible. Guardedly, he opened the door. Slipped his hulking foil-covered body out. Slammed the door shut behind him. Didn't look back or think twice about his decision to leave her.

"COMMANDER WE'RE GETTING low on fuel. We're going to have to turn back," the MTAF helicopter pilot reported.

"Shit." Marshall chewed on the edge of his lower lip for a moment, continuing to visually scope the mountainside with field glasses. "Swing by those meadows, over there to the right."

"It'll have to be a quick pass, Sir."

"Just check it out."

The pilot guided the helicopter toward the open grassy area.

Scouring the fields with binoculars, an image caught his eye. "Over there. In the middle of the meadow, an FBI jacket. Jewels was wearing one like it," Marshall said, hope in his voice.

The pilot maneuvered the helicopter toward the jacket.

"What's FLIR showing?" Marshall quizzed the copilot.

"I'm picking up a human heat signature over there, Sir," the copilot noted, pointing toward a shanty.

A green late model pickup was parked to the side.

"Isn't that Tank's truck?" the pilot asked.

"Sure looks like it to me," Marshall replied.

"I'm picking up a signature from one person, in the middle of that shack," the copilot reported.

"This isn't what we came for, but we can't pass up an opportunity to nab a surviving member of SPOF." Marshall slipped into a Kevlar vest. Addressing the copilot who was trained in dynamic entry tactics, "No doubt he knows we're coming, so we'll have to do this quickly."

The copilot nodded.

As they approached the building, the FLIR monitor indicated the person wasn't moving.

"It appears he's just standing in the middle of the room," the copilot surmised.

"A possible showdown. This could get bloody." Marshall double-checked the MP-5 to make sure the magazine was fully loaded.

It was.

The pilot landed the helicopter in the field about one-hundred yards from the targeted shed.

"Radio this in and if Tank comes out without us, light him up," Marshall authorized the pilot.

"Yes, Sir," the pilot replied, understanding he had been given the green light to fire the machine guns mounted on the front of the helicopter at the criminal, should he be lucky enough to survive the Commander and his highly trained copilot.

"Let's rock and roll," Marshall ordered the copilot.

The men jumped out of the helicopter.

EXHAUSTED AND FRUSTRATED, Jewels had tugged on the thick rope for the last time.

What was the point of struggling? The rope wasn't going to break. Wiggling her wrists out of her bonds wasn't happening. Escape was impossible. Why prolong the inevitable? She was going to die in the middle of nowhere in a decrepit shack. A hundred years from now maybe a hiker would find her skeleton, if the wild creatures had not torn her corpse from limb to limb as a meal in the meantime.

Defeated and with all sense of hope evaporated, her head drooped. Legs went limp. The full weight of her body forced to be supported by her wrists tied above her head. Every inch of her body ached, including her lips which were shriveled and manifesting hard, spiny ridges from lack of hydration. The tang of dirt from the old rope and blood from it gouging her face filled her mouth.

Aside from physical anguish, Jewels mentally tortured herself, rehashing everything she had done wrong.

Why didn't she turn on the alarm system at home?

Why did she hesitate shooting Tank in the kitchen?

Why didn't she trust Marshall in the first place?

Why didn't she shoot Hines at the cabin when she had the chance?

Why did she run away from the MTAF medic to end up in this godforsaken hellhole, the victim of Tank again?

Why, why, why!

"God, just please let me die."

Dwelling on her forthcoming demise, thoughts of those who had perished because of Hines' obsession with her trampled her mind

Robert had been the first casualty. Gone was her sweet Boo-Boo. Sharon, Kirk, and Sheriff Jodie Clarkston had been murdered too ... _because of her_. Lest she not forget, the four women buried behind Hines' cabin. Women she didn't even know, tortured and murdered _because of her_.

Plus, she had shot Bondage Master, presumably killing him. And the mighty man-eating bear had taken Hines' life.

So much death ... _all because of her_. Perhaps this was a fitting and deserving end.

Milliseconds later Jewels heard what she thought sounded like the whirl of a helicopter. Was it real or the audio equivalent of a mirage?

Suddenly the shanty door exploded with a blinding flash of light and an ear-shattering bang, like a bolt of lightning had zapped the floor mere inches in front of her.

She let out a shrill scream, her body straightening and tensing.

"Police! Don't move," a man bellowed with authority as a rush of hurried footsteps stormed the cabin.

Screaming her head off, she maniacally twisted her dangling body in a futile attempt to retreat from the chaotic invasion. Obviously paying no attention to the _Don't move_ command.

"Jewels," a masculine voice exclaimed.

Flailing her body about, she continued to shriek.

"Julia. It's okay." Marshall engulfed her nearly naked body in his arms to calm her and keep her from further injuring herself.

It took a moment for his words to register. Finally, Jewels stopped screaming and thrashing about. "Marshall," she whimpered, her tired eyes sparking with joyous surprise.

"Pull off the gag then cut her free," Marshall instructed the co-pilot.

"Right away, Sir."

As Marshall cradled her in his arms, the copilot slid the rope out of her mouth, letting it hang like a necklace then cut the rope binding her arms to the rafter.

"Honey, you're going home. Everything's okay."

Her body was limp, breathing weak.

"For sure, Jewels, this time you're going home because I'm personally going to take you there," Marshall promised.

A faint smile dashed across her exhausted face. She wanted to bathe in the comfort of Marshall's handsome features, but her eyelids were too heavy. Unable to resist their pull any longer, Jewels slipped into an unconscious state.

### Fifty

**ABOUT 5:00 P.M. TWO WEEKS LATER**.

It was a beautiful sunshiny afternoon, not a cloud in the sky. Low humidity. The temperature hovered at a balmy eighty-two degrees. A gentle northern breeze blanketed cool air across the valley. The smell of freshly cut alfalfa seasoned the wind. It was a perfect day. Perfect for a homecoming. Perfect for a welcome home party. Perfect for a heartbreak?

With Belinda behind the wheel of her Subaru Outback, the eight mile ride home from the rehab center seemed more like an eighty mile journey. Jewels had tuned out Belinda's nonstop jabbering miles back.

The rehab stay was two weeks too long for Jewels' liking, but admittedly she had enjoyed the pampering and needed the time to recover. And physically recover she did. Aside from the abundance of wicked-looking little scars scattered across her back from Hines' flogger, which meant she'd probably never wear a backless dress again, her body had overcome the numerous tortures it had endured, healing nicely. Gone were the black and blue _bracelets_ around her wrists and ankles from her resistance to the straps, ropes, and handcuffs which had bound her. And the soles of her feet, shredded from her barefoot _adventure_ in the forest, no longer ached with every step.

But recovering mentally, she hadn't fared as well. Despite sessions with a therapist, fears of Tank coming after her still topped the fright element of her stress. But at the forefront of her anxiety was Marshall Watters.

The man was a mystery. There was so much she wanted to know about him. Where he lived. Where he grew up. His hobbies. How he became involved with the elite Militia Threat Assessment Force. And back at the SPOF compound, had she really knocked him out with the heel of her shoe? And, honestly, how in the world had he escaped those handcuffs in Hines' cabin without a key?

Closer to the heart, Jewels couldn't deny the intense sparks—no, more like a firestorm—she felt ignite between them while she was imprisoned at SPOF and during her rescue. There _was_ something there. Something much more than mere friendship and appreciation for saving her. At least that's what she thought at the time.

How could she have misread him so badly? How could her own vibes have deceived her so?

But no matter how much she chose to believe—and her vibes hinted—a relationship with Marshall was imminent, reality pointed to another conclusion.

Marshall Watters _must_ be married or otherwise committed because he hadn't even so much as telephoned her during the two week stay at the recovery hospital. The last time she saw him was when she collapsed into his arms in the little shanty in the middle of nowhere.

The voice of reason within rationalized she was simply a kidnap victim experiencing the aftermath of some form of Stockholm Syndrome. It was the only _logical_ explanation. If there would have been something more between them, Marshall would have at least telephoned. Wouldn't he?

But her heart was quick to pooh-pooh the logical explanation. Maybe the reason he hadn't called was because he was working undercover again and a phone call would blow his cover. Or maybe he had been sequestered while being debriefed. Or maybe he was ill. Or in a car wreck...

And suddenly there Jewels was again. Back on the Marshall Watters' wheel of fortune; he loves me, he loves me not. It was near maddening. Marshall Watters was all she could think about. Morning. Noon. And night. Especially at night.

Even as handsome Howard Dyson remained vigilant at her side while she was in rehab, Marshall dominated her mind. Worse yet, as Howard's arms engulfed her and she cuddled against his solid body, all she could see and feel was Marshall. At times she even went so far as to imagine Howard _was_ Marshall.

Ten days ago when Howard stopped addressing her as "Miz Andrasy" and started calling her "Jewels," should have been a clue he read more into their hugging, touching, and squeezing than she had intended. Even though Jewels _knew_ she was giving Howard the impression she felt more for him than that of a big brother, she couldn't help herself. He had become her substitute Marshall. At least until the real Marshall appeared. But would he ever materialize?

Jewels decided if she couldn't resolve this Marshall Watters obsession on her own very soon, she'd have to fess up her obsession to her therapist.

And Howard?

The question needing answered was, how soon was soon? At this point, Jewels had no idea and stared out the window.

Belinda making the familiar turn into her driveway jerked Jewels out of her mind maze. An iconic yellow ribbon was wrapped around the trunk of each of the dozens of towering trees lining the drive to her home.

"Everybody's missed you so much," Belinda gushed.

Jewels pulled down the vanity mirror. Double-checked her makeup. "I've missed everyone too." A hint of tension resonated in her voice.

She dabbed away the slight shine on her forehead and cheeks with translucent finishing powder and freshened her Cover Girl Espresso lipstick. Fluffed the soft curls of her long blonde hair flowing across her shoulders. Straightened the black vee-neck tee tucked into her dark blue Rocky Mountain jeans. Stuffing the makeup bag back into her black leather shoulder purse, she gave herself a mental pep talk. Convinced herself she was ready to mingle.

Though she didn't want to admit it, Jewels was troubled. Uptight. What if she wasn't ready to set foot in her house? What if she walked in the door then a rush of bad memories caused her to freak out in front of all of her friends?

By the second her muscles tightened. Breathing became more shallow. Damn. Maybe should have taken her therapist, Dr. Christensen, up on his recommendation for a prescription drug to relax her.

It had been three weeks since she last basked in her personal sanctuary of peace, tranquility, and security called home. Now, fear and doubt flooded her mind. Despite the deep conversations and numerous mind-relaxing and anxiety-coping drills with Doctor Christensen, dread still lurked within.

Would she ever be able to walk into the kitchen without reliving the horror of Boo-Boo's slaughter? Would she ever be able to stay in that house again ... alone?

A festive yellow and pink WELCOME HOME JEWELS vinyl banner spanned the width of the pretty white porch.

Several of the dozens of vehicles parked around her house she recognized. Secretly, she hoped there would be at least one she couldn't identify but would stand out.

Clueless regarding the type of car Marshall Watters drove, she imagined him behind the wheel of a fast, sexy sports car. A souped-up Mustang or Corvette. Black or red. Maybe even vintage.

Her eyes zeroed in on a shiny black Porsche. "Howard's," she whispered under her breath. Other than that, no sports cars, vintage or late model, regardless of color. Maybe Marshall was a practical, conservative guy driving a nondescript Ford, Chevy, or Toyota, and there were plenty of those.

As Belinda pulled in front of the house, friends poured out the front door, mobbing the car as if she were a rock star.

Jewels skimmed the sea of smiles, hoping to find Marshall Watters' face, but it was absent. "Who all did you invite?"

"Only about fifty, give or take, of your closest friends and a few others who wanted to talk to you _in person_."

Heart soaring, Jewels read a lot into Belinda's _in person_ comment. Could she be hinting about Marshall Watters?

"And everyone knows Doctor Christensen said the party can only last an hour, an hour-and-a-half at the very most," Belinda said, cutting the engine.

"Thank you, Belinda. What would I do without you?" Jewels smiled adoringly at her secretary and dear friend.

Howard was the first to approach her. As usual, he looked like a million bucks dressed in a formfitting navy blue suit, tailored to hug every inch of his lean body. He opened her and helped her out of the car.

"Welcome home, Baby." He lightly kissed her on the lips. Stepping aside, he waved for her to proceed to greet her guests.

"Oh, Jewels, you look as radiant as ever. Welcome home," Sarah Kimball, TV anchor and one of Jewels' BFF's said, hugging her.

"Welcome back..."

And so went the well-wishes as Jewels hugged and kissed her way through her friends to the front door. Those who had remained inside clapped and cheered when she entered.

The house smelled of luscious food. Roasted turkey breast, honey-baked ham, scalloped potatoes, and freshly baked rolls. Dozens of bouquets of flowers filled the expansive entry. Hundreds of multicolored helium balloons bounced freely around the room. Pink and yellow crepe paper twisted together encircled the railing of the winding staircase. B98.7, her favorite radio station, pounded rock and roll hits in the background. The sound of laughter and good times resonated in the house. A combination frat party and wake, Jewels thought with a pleasant sigh, her face radiating joy.

She was home. Home! And felt terrific. Muscle tension gone. Apprehension once churning her gut, gone. Just as Doctor Christensen had predicted, this party was all the prescription needed to advance the healing process. Without a doubt, Jewels knew she would be fine.

AFTER ABOUT AN HOUR of mingling, laughing, and enjoying the company of friends, amidst the party chaos a pretty black girl pushed her way to the front of the crowd gathered around Jewels in the spacious foyer. "Miz Andrasy?" she asked, extending her hand to Jewels.

The woman wore a raisin-colored silk blazer and matching skirt. A white blouse with a picot edged collar and French cuffs peeked out from under the blazer. Pearl button earrings accented her ebony hair pulled back into a neat bun. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties. A law student or junior executive, Jewels assumed. "Yes," she replied, shaking the girl's outstretched hand.

"My name is Alexis. My father was Doctor Leo Callahan." Sorrow filled the young woman's eyes.

Flashing an empathetic smile, Jewels draped her arm around Alexis' shoulder and guided her away from the crowd into the solitude of the dining room converted to home office. "Your father loved you very much."

Alexis shook her head. "I know." She slinked out from under Jewels' arm of friendship. Focusing her attention on the floor, she fidgeted with her skirt, ironing out imaginary wrinkles with opened palms. "I know what everybody's saying about Daddy being mixed up with that group of murderers." Her voice quivered. "I-I just wanted to say I'm sorry for what Daddy did to you. He really wasn't a bad guy."

Hugging the girl, Jewels' eyes brimmed with tears.

The young woman sobbed.

"Alexis, there's no need for you to apologize or to feel guilty. Your father was a good man. I knew it from the first time I met him," Jewels whispered.

Continuing to cry, she clung to Jewels. "I know he did terrible things to you," she lamented.

Jewels closed her eyes. Swallowed. Remembered Doc's interactions with her. After a moment, she peeled the girl off, looked her square in the eyes. "I want you to know, despite whatever your father was _ordered_ to do to me, he always treated me with as much compassion and kindness as possible in the situation."

"You're as nice as everybody said you were." She smiled and brushed the tears from her face with the back of her hand.

"So, Alexis, what do you do for a living?"

"I want to be a writer."

Jewels' eyebrows elevated with approval. "That's wonderful. Fiction or nonfiction?"

Alexis sniffled. "I want to write a story about my dad. I want people to know Daddy was a true patriot, which is how he got suckered into that awful militia."

"Let's do lunch next week," Jewels suggested. "I'd like to hear more about your writing aspirations and learn more about you and your father."

"Really?" Alexis' face brightened.

"Absolutely." Jewels rooted around the hobo style purse she had earlier plunked down next to her computer on the dining table. Pulled out a rectangular gold case. Opened it. "Just call my office and set up a time with my secretary, Belinda Parker." She handed the girl a business card.

"You're the best, Miz Andrasy!"

"Please, call me Jewels."

Thanking Jewels again, Alexis scurried out of the dining room.

Glancing around the room, Jewels sighed. It felt good to be home. The healing process was moving forward. Alexis Callahan would help.

"Jewels? Where are you?" Belinda called as if searching for a hiding child. She popped her round head into the dining room. "Oh, there you are. People are asking for you." Her eyes flickered with excitement as she playfully grabbed Jewels' wrist and towed her back into the crowd. "There's somebody who _really_ wants to talk to you."

Could it be Marshall Watters? Jewels' heart flip-flopped.

"Jewels," a feminine voice called out from the living room, located opposite the dining room.

Standing on tiptoes, she gazed over the wave of heads filling her entry. Long red hair bouncing atop a short head plowed its way through the crowd toward her. "Lilly Rochester," Jewels shrieked with delight, trotting over to meet her.

As usual, Lilly looked dynamite. Shiny red hair framed her flawless face, made up to perfection. She wore a chestnut crepe pant suit over an ivory stretch lace shell accented with oodles of gold jewelry. Lilly had her emotional act together as well. For only two weeks passing since the funeral, she was handling the murder of her lover as well as could be expected. Probably better.

The two friends hugged long and hard.

"How are you doing?" Lilly inquired of Jewels.

Shaking her head back and forth, Jewels' eyes teared up. "I'm so sorry about Jodie."

"Oh, Honey, come here." Lilly wrapped her arms around Jewels again. After a few seconds she shed Jewels off and held her firmly by the shoulders, looking her square in the eyes. "Jewels, it's not your fault. Jodie died doing what she loved. Police work ... helping you." Her voice calm. Reassuring. Strong.

Jewels forced a smile. "You're a rock, Lilly, and such a good friend. Thank you for coming."

"I wouldn't have missed your welcome home party for the world."

"Julia?" It was Belinda, again, motioning for Jewels to come into the living room. Wildly she pointed at her watch. It was almost six-thirty.

Widening her eyes Jewels slightly kicking up her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Lilly, I think the witching hour is approaching and I might turn into a pumpkin or something," she said with an odd little giggle.

Lilly tilted her head back in laughter. "Actually, I think it's the _carriage_ that turns into the pumpkin," she corrected, rapidly flicking her wrist, waving permission for Jewels to move on. "We'll meet next week. Maybe have dinner."

"Call me." Jewels mimed a phone being held to her ear as Belinda beckoned her away.

"Can I get everyone's attention," Howard said, raising his voice as Belinda ushered Jewels into the living room to stand next to him.

Gulping dryly, Jewels' face heated up. _Oh, God, please don't let this be what I think it might be._

"Hello. Everyone. I need your attention, please," Howard called again, raising his voice a little louder this time.

The crowd hushed and congregated around Howard and Jewels.

"This is a special day," Howard proclaimed. "Jewels has survived a horrific ordeal and has come home. I want to thank each of you for being here for her."

Everyone clapped. A few whistled.

Palms sweating, Jewels' head felt helium balloon light. Legs like rubber.

"Under doctor's orders, this special evening has to end now, but I hope to make it even more special and wanted all of you to be here as witness."

Dropping to one knee, Howard pulled out a tiny black velvet box from his jacket pocket, opened it, and presented it to her. "I know this is sudden, but Julia, your disappearance sent me into panic mode. Made me realize life is too short and too precious not to be lived to the fullest every day with the most incredible woman in the world. Julia, will you marry me?"

Instant gasps of surprise and sighs of admiration floated up from the gathered crowd.

Gazing at the massive sparkling diamond, Jewels smiled sweetly. Her body swayed for a moment, then fell forward collapsing in Howard's unsuspecting arms.

"She's fainted," Belinda screamed.

Howard scooped Jewels into his arms and deposited her limp body onto the sofa. "I'll call Doctor Christensen." He dug his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, pounded out the number.

ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES LATER.

AROUND 7:00 P.M.

All of the party guests had left except for Belinda and Howard, who remained at Jewels' side.

Sitting on the end of the living room couch, Jewels leaned her body against the arm with her legs curled to the side, propping them on the cushion. Howard stood next to her, his fingers relaxed on her shoulder. At the opposite end of the couch Belinda sat rigid, anticipating the worst.

"You've experienced vasovagal syncope," Dr. Christenson diagnosed.

Whatever _that_ was, it sounded dreadful. Jewels' muscles tensed, shoulders crunched up toward her ears. Horror consumed her face.

Belinda gasped. Leaned across the couch cushions and placed her palm on Jewels' ankle, preparing for the other shoe to drop.

Howard gently squeezed her shoulder in support.

Mouth gaping slightly, Jewels gazed at the presumed bearer of bad news sitting in front of her: Doctor Neil Christensen, a tall, slender man in his mid-forties.

Inclining closer and patting Jewels' forearm, "Nothing to worry about," he assured with a smile. "In lay terms, it's called situation-induced fainting."

An audible sigh of relief exited Jewels' lips. Muscles visibly relaxed.

"Thank God." Belinda swiped her fingertips across her forehead and dramatically collapsed back into the corner of the sofa as if exhausted.

Brows pinched with intrigue, "I had a fainting spell?" Jewels quizzed with a little chuckle.

Nodding, the doctor's tousled sandy blonde hair bobbed about. "It's very common. Occurs at least once in a lifetime to nearly fifty percent of the population and can be triggered by a scary, embarrassing, or uneasy situation," Dr. Christensen explained, his expression animated, eyes widening behind the gold-tone round wire frame glasses. "You've suffered a horrendous trauma and this being your first day home, I thought the party would be a good idea. But maybe we rushed it a bit." Regret in his voice and on his face.

Shifting his stance and waving like a student with a question, "Uh, I think I caused it," Howard admitted, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets. "I proposed to her ... in front of everyone."

"In front of everyone? When Belinda informed me you had proposed, I assumed in private. I wish you would have consulted me about proposing before you did so," Dr. Christensen said, his tone chastising. Lowering his head and peering over the rim of his glasses, he frowned. "And I wish you would have told me you were planning to put her in a high pressure situation in front of dozens of her friends."

"Indeed, I should have. And I apologize to both of you." Howard eyed Jewels then the doctor, shame in his voice.

Neither Jewels nor Doctor Christensen immediately responded.

Rising from the wingback chair set directly in front of where Jewels was seated, he scrutinized Howard. "Give her some space." He turned to Jewels. "Take these tonight." He handed her an amber colored pill bottle he pulled from his pants pocket. "They'll relax you. Might even help you to sleep."

"Oh. Uh, okay. Thank you." Jewels accepted the drugs with a bit of reluctance.

The doctor looked at Howard. "I assume you're staying with her tonight. She shouldn't be left alone. And if she has another fainting spell, I want you to call immediately, no matter the time of night." He handed Howard his business card. "My private cell number is on the back. You can reach me twenty-four, seven."

"Thank you." Howard accepted the card. Glimpsed at the handwritten number on the back before stuffing it into his pants pocket.

"And don't pressure her for an answer to your proposal," he emphasized as Howard walked him to the door.

"I understand."

Before stepping outside he leaned into Howard. Lowered his voice. "A couple things. Has she ventured into the kitchen yet?"

"Not that I know of."

"Given her fainting spell, you might want to discourage her from going in there until tomorrow."

"No problem."

"Either intentionally or unintentionally, she's suppressing feelings. I suspect regarding the man who was her prison guard then ended up rescuing her. I believe his name is Marshall Watters. Has she talked to you about him?"

Howard's face deadpanned. "No. No, she hasn't."

He sighed and reached for the doorknob. "Very well. Good night." Before closing the door, he popped his head back in, grinning. "Oh, and I hope congratulations on your engagement will be in order ... just not tonight." He smiled and closed the door.

Returning to Jewels, Howard parked in the wingback chair the doctor had vacated. "Belinda, would you excuse us, please?"

"Oookay," Belinda replied, a hint of indignation in her voice as she pushed herself out of the couch. She eyed Jewels. "I'll start cleaning up."

"Thank you," Jewels answered with a thin smile.

Propping his elbows on his knees, fingers splaying wide, Howard slowly tapped his fingertips together waiting for Belinda to leave the room.

Eyes smoldering in his direction, Belinda marched out of the room.

Howard tilted his body closer to her. "Julia, why haven't you asked me _why_ I was at the rescue sight?"

She shifted her position on the couch. "I don't know. I guess I never thought about it."

"Weren't you surprised to see me? The fact I was part of the rescue team, the _MTAF_ rescue team no less, should have you curious about my background. Yet, you've asked me nothing. Surely that reporter mind of yours has questions."

Gnawing her bottom lip, Jewels stared down at the plaid sofa cushion. Of course she was curious. And of course she had questions. Tons of questions. But she knew her inquiries would eventually lead to hurting Howard deeply and she didn't want to do that. He didn't deserve it.

"And I'm surprised you haven't asked me about Marshall Watters. I was his SEAL team leader and have known him for many years." He chuckled. "I think I'm kind of like a big brother to him."

Remaining silent, Jewels picked at the piping on the edge of the couch as if loosening a bit of imaginary caked-on food. Dread inched up the back of her throat. Was her obsession with Marshall Watters about to be exposed at the horrific expense of a man who had been her rock for the last two weeks?

Lowering his voice, he took up her hand in his. "Julia, is that what I am to you too? A big brother?"

Unable to look him in the eyes, all Jewels could do was swallow the lump in her throat. Blatantly and knowingly she had used Howard Dyson for her own designs and benefits. Busted. Party over. Time to _pay the piper_.

Releasing her hand, he collapsed his back into the chair, sighed. "You're in love with Marshall Watters aren't you?"

Jewels raised her head to look at him. "I'm so sorry." She burst into tears, burying her face in her hands.

Slapping open palms on his thighs, Howard rose to his feet. "Well, I think this calls for a farewell, _Miz Andrasy_. My letter of resignation will be on your desk by morning," he said without emotion, briskly walking toward the door.

Leaping off the couch, "Howard, wait," Jewels called, running after him.

But he didn't pause or look back. Just walked out, closing the door in her face.
Fifty-One

8:47 P.M. IN THE LIVING ROOM.

Curled up on the couch, sitting side by side, Jewels had poured her heart out to Belinda, who, like the best of friends, listened and consoled her. However the issue of Marshall Watters remained a dilemma.

"Maybe Dr. Christensen will have some ideas," Belinda suggested, throwing her hands up gesturing she was at a loss.

"You're probably right. Tomorrow I'll call him." Jewels stretched her arms above her head, arching her back. "As for the moment, I can only _imagine_ the mess in the kitchen, shall we clean up?"

"Uh, are you _sure_ you want to go into the kitchen?"

An odd look scampered across Jewels' face. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well..." Belinda cleared her throat. "That's where, you know, _it_ started."

"Dr. Christensen said I had to confront my memories. Acknowledge they are _only_ memories that couldn't hurt me, then move forward with my life," Jewels proclaimed with certainty.

Belinda eyed her with skepticism. "Ooookay. If you're _sure_."

"I'm sure. Give me a second." Jewels closed her eyes. Relaxed her body. Inhaling and exhaling several long slow breaths she visualized walking into the kitchen. Confronting the rush of memories Dr. Christensen warned would surely flood her mind. Memories that included visions of Tank dressed head to toe in black and holding a huge knife, followed by the violent slaughter of her dear pet. _It's only a memory. I'm safe. It's only a memory. I'm safe. I can do this._

After a moment, Jewels opened her eyes. "I'm ready. Please let me do this myself. If I need you, Belinda, I'll call out for you."

TEN MINUTES LATER.

Victory was hers. Jewels had confronted the terrible memories of the kitchen and controlled her fears. The healing process _was_ progressing.

As for the current state of her kitchen, it was a train wreck of party aftermath. Although Jewels had attempted to help Belinda with the clean up, she wouldn't hear of it. Instead, jammed an icy can of Diet Coke in Jewels' hand and pointed for her to sit at the breakfast nook. "Supervise."

Jewels didn't argue. She was tired. Practically exhausted. Within the forced spurts of small talk with Belinda, every so often Jewels' eyes cut to the spot on the travertine floor where Boo-Boo's blood had spewed. Now, of course, there was no evidence such a horrific act of violence had ever occurred. If only her memory could be cleansed so easily.

During the quiet spells between the idle chit-chat, Jewels' mind drifted. Mindlessly she picked at the pop can top while staring down at it, recapping the evening.

The day had been fun and enjoyable until Howard proposed, then it nosedived into disaster. Of late, chaos and mayhem seemed to follow her wherever she went. Perhaps she attracted it. Even caused it. Guilt ridden over how the evening had gone sour with Howard, she shifted thoughts to Marshall.

Jewels cleared her throat. "Belinda, you _did_ let Marshall know about the party tonight, didn't you?"

She looked up from loading the dishwasher. "I never talked to him personally, but I left a message for him at the MTAF headquarters about a week ago and another reminder last night."

Jewels scratched the top of her head.

"I'm so sorry, Jewels. Maybe he's working a case and will show up in a few days. Or maybe he couldn't get a flight out of D.C. or..." Belinda twitched her shoulders, continuing to stack plates into the dishwasher.

A speck of disappointment festered within Jewels' heart. Marshall Watters knew about the shindig and hadn't shown up. She had hoped—expected—he would.

Time out. Who are you fooling, Jewels? Dr. Christensen said I needed to be honest with myself. Well honestly, there's no "speck" of disappointment. I'm experiencing a rip-your-heart-out, throw-it-on-the-ground, stomp-it-until-it's-pulverized kind of disappointment. Perhaps deservedly so. Had I caused Howard to feel the same way?

JUST BEFORE ELEVEN O'CLOCK the kitchen was sparkling clean. Belinda tossed the last of the wet dish towels into the main floor washing machine, just off the kitchen. Wiping her damp hands on her butt, she turned to Jewels. "What do you want me to do with the flowers and balloons in the entry?"

"Please just leave them. They're so festive. I'd like to enjoy them for a few days."

Belinda nodded. "I thought I'd stay here tonight, brought my overnight bag and everything."

Smiling, Jewels stood. "Oh, Belinda, you're a true friend, one heck of an amazing secretary, and the best _little sister_ a gal could have. But, no thank you. I need to do this alone."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I'll be fine. Besides..." She pulled out the amber bottle from her jeans pocket. "The doc gave me _something_ to ease anxiety," Jewels chuckled, waving the pills at Belinda.

Eyebrows lifted with concern and disbelief, "Oooookay. You're the boss," Belinda agreed, more than a tinge of speculation in her voice as she engulfed Jewels in a long friendship hug. "You call me if you need anything. Anything at all."

"I will," Jewels promised, teary-eyed. Walking Belinda to the door, she thanked her again.

Jewels watched the tail-lights of Belinda's car disappear down the driveway. Closing the door and engaging the deadbolt, she leaned her back against it, scanning her home.

As far as she could tell, every light in the house was on. Decided right then she would leave them _all_ on. _All_ night.

Haunted by Tank's promise to collect revenge on her, Jewels pecked in the code for the house alarm. "Not gonna make the same mistake twice." She watched the little green light lit up, indicating the system was armed.

The house was silent and void of life. She was alone. And lonely. Feelings she hadn't experienced since the night after Robert's funeral resurfaced. Worse yet, no furry friend to console her. Before, at least she had Boo-Boo. Now, no one.

She opened the pill bottle, flattened the palm of her left hand and lightly tapped the side of the container until a tiny white pill rolled out. "Wow. That's small. Don't even need water to swallow this." She popped the pill into her mouth. After replacing the pill bottle cap and stuffing it back into her jeans pocket, Jewels strolled to the fancy bombe cabinet nestled between the stairs and swinging doors to the kitchen.

Snatching the remote for the Bose sound system from the black marble top of the entry table, she turned on the radio, B98.7. _"_ The Sign," by Ace of Base was playing.

In time with the perky beat, she added a bit of a spring to her feet as she pushed through the swinging doors. Just then it dawned on her someone had repaired the one door she had ripped off the hinge. Made a mental note to find out whom to thank.

Now alone in the house for the first time since the kidnapping, she reentered the kitchen. Goosebumps sprouted. Her body tensed. For a heart-pounding moment, she relived Tank slicing Boo-Boo's throat.

The background music faded to silence in her mind. Palms sweat. Covering her face with her hands, she wilted onto one of the bar stools around the expansive island. She burst into tears. Suddenly she sprang to her feet as if someone had poked her in the butt with a straight pin. "My gun," Jewels shrieked, just then realizing she was defenseless.

The police had confiscated the Glock she shot Tank with as evidence and had yet to return it.

"For goodness sake, Jewels, you have an entire safe full of guns," she assured aloud to calm herself.

Dashing out of the kitchen, she dodged the flower arrangements decoratively placed about the floor and plowed through the half dozen balloons that had lost the lift of helium. Grabbing onto the handrail, Jewels leaped up the stairs two at a time.

Down the hallway she sprinted to her bedroom. The lights already on.

Entering the bedroom, her eyes fixed on the big rose colored Fort Knox safe standing in the corner. Instantly she was flooded with more terrifying memories. She scrunched her shoulders up to ears and crossed her arms over her chest as her body became paralyzed. Her heart thumped erratically. Fingers turned to ice. She sucked short gasping breaths, reliving the kidnapping sequence.

The masked monster hot breath overcoming her. The agony of her hands and feet being bound. The horror of the rubber ball being stuffed into her mouth...

"Stop it, Jewels!" She thrust her hands down to her sides, pulled her shoulders back, and lifted her chin to sport the perfect, confident posture. "It's okay. Breathe. You're just reliving bad memories. There's no lurking danger," she assured herself, just as she had practiced repeatedly with Dr. Christensen.

Gulping several long breaths, she exhaled through flushed cheeks. Wished she had taken Belinda up on her offer to stay.

"You can do this, Jewels," she continued to reassure herself. Nonetheless, as a caution, she pasted her back against the bedroom wall. Inched toward the gun safe, acting as if she were preparing for attack. "Once you have a gun, you'll feel more secure. More in control."

Reaching the gun safe, Jewels entered the code on the electronic keypad. Opened it. Perused the shelves. Her eyes stopped at a hard plastic black box. Her second favorite handgun, the Heckler and Koch P7M8. Often referred to as a _squeeze cock_ because of a unique safety built into the front of the handle to cock the gun. The gun wouldn't fire unless there was a firm firing grip around the handle.

Loading the magazine with 9mm hollow-point cartridges, she fed the magazine into the grip and chambered a round. With the gun in her hand, she instantly felt better. At least a little. The tension in her shoulders faded, as did the tightness in her chest and on her face. Maybe the slight relaxation she experienced could be attributed more to the tiny pill she had taken a little while ago than to possessing the gun. Either way, the dissipation of anxiety was welcomed.

Closing the gun safe door, out of the corner of her eye a spray of light shining into the front bedroom window caught her attention. She did a double-take. Poking her head nearer to the window for closer inspection, Jewels inhaled a short startled breath. "Headlights."

A vehicle crept down her driveway.

Suddenly its lights went out.

Her heart shimmied up her throat. Was Tank coming to collect the revenge he promised?

Thank goodness she had armed the house alarm.

Her white-knuckled hands drew the pistol close to her chest. If not Tank, could this be Howard returning to talk? Maybe she shouldn't take any chances. Lock herself in the bedroom, engage the Doorricade, and call nine-one-one ... just to be safe.

Escalating fear took her common sense hostage. Her mind erased to blank, unable to make a decision. Staring out the window, she stood wide-eyed. Frozen. Dumbfounded.

DING-DONG!

The sound of the doorbell liberated Jewels' mind. She glanced at the digital clock glowing on top of the gun safe: 11:48. "Who would be calling at midnight?"

DING-DONG!

The caller was impatient. Probably Howard, but Jewels wasn't taking any chances. With the handgun firmly grasped in front of her, she glided through the hall and down the stairs, kicking deflated balloons out of her path.

Once at the bottom of the stairs she could see the silhouette of a large man through the decorative etched glass in the door. Suddenly that helium gas feeling of her heading floating off hit. Was she going to faint again?

DING-DONG!

If that was Tank coming after her, he wouldn't keep ringing the doorbell, would he?

No. The silhouette guy _had_ to be Howard. Right?

Still, she wasn't going to let down her guard. Inhaling a few deep breaths in hopes of clearing the helium balloon sensation, she pep talked herself. "Come on, Jewels." Reviewing the mistake she had made with Tank in her kitchen when she hesitated pulling the trigger, consequently only winging him, she continued to coach herself. "Be ready to fire. Front sight. Center of mass. Trigger press."

Swallowing hard, Jewels mashed her back flat against the entry wall a few feet to the side of the door. Compressed the back of pistol close to her chest. Aimed the muzzle toward the entry. "Who is it?" she called through the closed door.

"Jewels, it's me. Marshall. Marshall Watters."

Was she dreaming? Her heart thumped double-time. Without regard to the house alarm, she bolted to the door, disengaged the deadlock, and flung it open.

Sure enough, Marshall Watters stood before her, but like she had never seen him. Or imagined.

A black Garth Brooks Stetson was perched on his head. A fancy black and white western shirt tailored to fit perfectly across his muscular chest was tucked into a pair of black Wranglers that looked painted on. An oval-shaped plate of a silver belt buckle rested at his small waist. Eel skinned Tony Llamas with three-inch competition heels adorned his feet. A vase of long stemmed roses rested in the crook of his left arm. He was a cowgirl's version of the legendary knight in shining armor.

Standing goo-goo eyed, mouth gaping, Jewels stared starstruck at him, gun aimed at his gut. The helium balloon sensation returning.

_AAAAARRRRRHHHHH!_ The house alarm went off.

Unthinking, Jewels screamed, whirled around toward the house, accidentally tapped the hair trigger of the squeeze cock, discharging the weapon in Marshall's direction.

"Jewels! Don't shoot me!" His hands shot into the air as if under arrest as he rapidly retreated down the porch steps.

The vase of two dozen yellow roses crashed to the ground.

_AAAAARRRRRHHHHH!_ The house alarm wailed.

Jewels froze. The bullet from the accidental discharge had hit the porch floor, not more than a foot to the left of where Marshall had been standing.

Statue-like, Marshall stood on the sidewalk at the bottom of the porch steps, his hands in the air. "Put the gun down, Jewels," he calmly instructed, raising the volume of his voice enough to be heard over the screaming alarm.

She threw the gun onto the porch as if it had suddenly required a pot holder to handle.

Hands still up and out to his side, Marshall ascended the steps. "Jewels, go turn off the alarm. Your security company will be calling any second. Just answer the phone and tell them your _safe_ phrase."

Sure enough, just then, the land line phone rang.

Darting into the house, she turned off the alarm and handled the security call, precisely as Marshall had instructed. Flustered, Jewels returned to the entry, planted her right hand on her hip, pushed her hair up her forehead with her left hand and sighed.

"I'm so sorry, Marshall. I've never had an A.D. before. I'm so embarrassed, I could have killed you." She tapped the side of her head. "I'm gonna blame this on the drug. My doctor gave me a pill he said would ease my anxiety." She widened her eyes and shrugged. "But I think it made it worse."

"An accidental discharge can happen to anyone." Marshall remained fixed at the top of the stairs, his arms relaxed at his side.

"I'm-I'm so sorry, Marshall. Won't you please come in." She stooped to gather the scatter of roses. "Oh my, they're beautiful. Thank you."

Smiling, he crossed the porch and helped her pick up the flowers. "If you get me a broom, I'll clean this up," he offered, referring to the broken vase while collecting the larger pieces of glass in his hand.

"Uh, thanks, but don't worry about it. I'll get it tomorrow." Jewels rose to her feet. "Just come in." Backing through the front door, she made a broad waving motion with her hand as a signal for him to enter the premises.

Marshall piled the glass pieces he had collected against the house at the side of the door. With the toe of his boot he kicked a few more of the larger stray fragments into the heap that was once a Lenox crystal vase. Then picked up the gun Jewels had abandoned and stepped into her house. "We should probably dig the bullet out of your porch floor. Evidence," he noted in jest.

Peering past Marshall's broad shoulders, the exterior lights illuminated his vehicle. A shiny Ford F-250 Kingcab, decked out with a chrome roll bar, mag wheels, and big knobby tires. A truck man. Hadn't figured him for that, but then again, she hadn't figured him for a cowboy, either. To her credit, she did have his vehicle color pegged. Black.

Standing in the entry, Marshall checked the gun. It was loaded. "H&K makes a nice weapon. Bet you could drive tacks with this baby." His eyes searched the room for somewhere to lay it.

The air was thick with anticipation.

"Uh, yeah, the fixed barrel helps with accuracy." She walked over to the elegant entry table that sat below a huge, ornately framed mirror. Taking advantage of the opportunity, she glanced at herself in the mirror.

She was a mess! Her face was tear-stained. Hair was sticking up in the front and out to the side, and her T-shirt was twisted around her waist. Marshall had seen her worse. Much worse.

"Uh, I have several H&K's. That little squeeze-cock is one of my favorites," she shared, nonchalantly patting her hair down and fidgeting with her clothes.

Cramming several of the table's flower arrangements together to clear a spot for the gun, she motioned for Marshall to set the weapon on the marble tabletop.

"Sorry for the late hour." He strolled over to the table. "Since I didn't have the chance to even call you over the last two weeks, it was important to me that I showed up for your homecoming." He laid down the gun. "Had to wrap-up some details at the office today so I could take the next few weeks off," he said, retreating toward the front door still gaping open.

_Next few weeks off?_ Jewels' heart raced.

Closing the door, he turned to face Jewels, hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his tight-fitting jeans and shifted his weight to one side. "So I'm here. Better late than never, right?"

Jewels stared. _Oh, good gawd, he was sexy, like the fantasy hunk on the cover of a steamy romance novel._ Eyes wide, she bobbed her head repeatedly. "Right. Of course. Sure. Better late than never," she responded awkwardly, doing her best to maintain composure and not let on she wanted to jump his bones.

"So how _was_ your party? Belinda called yesterday with a reminder." He laughed. "Like she thought I'd forget or something."

"The party was wonderful. It felt good to be home and surrounded by friends." Jewels' eyes cut to the bundle of long stemmed roses cradled in her arms. "Uh, I better put these in water. I'll be right back." She spun around toward the kitchen. Rapidly crossed the expansive entry to the cafe doors and disappeared between them.

IN JEWELS' ABSENCE, Marshall surveyed the interior. Having read the reports, he visualized the knife-wielding masked Tank chasing Jewels from the kitchen and up the stairs. Could only imagine the terror she must have felt. Couldn't help but wonder how she was going to live in this house. Alone.

His mind floated. Maybe she wouldn't have to be alone. Maybe he could make sure she was never alone again. But he was getting ahead of himself...

BURSTING THROUGH the swinging doors, Jewels beamed. "They smell so good." She inhaled a deep breath of the fragrant petals as she carried the huge bouquet of yellow roses in front of her like a shield.

"Glad you like them."

Setting the arrangement onto the entry table, Jewels slid the crystal vase to the side of the mirror and fussed with the spray to catch the reflection of the bouquet in the edge of the mirror. When done, she turned to face Marshall.

"Looks like I missed quite a party." He gestured at the flowers and balloons scattered around the entry.

"Uh-huh."

Awkward silence.

"I understand Howard Dyson works for you. He taught me practically every—"

"Not anymore." Tension stole the joy from her face. "He _won't_ be working for me anymore."

"Sorry to hear that." His tone almost celebratory. "What happened?"

Raking her bottom lip with her teeth, she stared at the ground. Abruptly she stood at attention, eyes glistening with intrigue, devilment on her face. "Did I _really_ knock you out when I popped you in the head with the heel of my shoe, or were you faking?"

A mischievous grin skipped onto his handsome face. "The fact you're asking the question tells me you think I faked it."

"Well?" She widened her eyes. "Did you? I thought I saw your eyelids flutter a couple of times."

Marshall laughed. "Damn. I guess I'll have to work on that, won't I?"

She turned serious. "Marshall, I never thanked you for..." Her voice quivered, gaze dropped to the floor.

"Jeez, you don't know how hard it was for me not to blow my cover."

Sniffling, Jewels brightened. Looked up. "When?"

"Pretty much every time I had to manhandle you, restrain you, or force you to do something against your will."

"Really?" Jewels' voice raised an octave with delight.

"More than once I considered, seriously considered, telling you the truth that I was undercover then absconding with you before Hines got you."

"That's why you kept saying, _Trust me_." Ah-hahs sounded off in her head. "Did you know Theodore was behind this all along?" Her voice serious, reporter-like.

"You bet. We've had our eye on him for some time. Not only for his tie to Jefferson's Warriors, but for his _amazing_ ability to bust crimes with no suspect ever living to tell about it." He glanced down at the floor then back up. "I just wish we could have taken him down before you got involved."

"But if you had, I would have never met you..." Her voice faded. Stuffing her hands into the back pockets of her Rocky Mountain jeans, Jewels jiggled her right leg. Bounced on the ball of her foot like a little girl who had to go pee badly, but was forced to hold it.

More awkward silence.

"Did you guys catch Tank yet?" She gained control of her wiggling her leg. Stopped bouncing it.

"Nabbed his cohorts, but Tank's still out there. But we'll get him."

Despite everything Jewels and Marshall had been through together, they acted like nervous teens on a first date.

The the DJ for the radio station announced they'd be playing a sexy Latin song by Pitbull.

Stroking his imaginary beard, Marshall took stock of the impressive entry and expensive, but inviting, country furnishings of the adjoining rooms. "Nice place you have here."

"Thanks." Jewels removed her hands from her back pockets. Massaged her bare wedding ring finger. Nibbled the inside of her cheek.

"I Know You Want Me" radiated in surround sound from the Bose speakers.

Jewels listened. How apropos. The lyrics expressed how she felt about Marshall right now: she wanted him! Goosebumps of excitement embellished her arms.

Marshall cleared his throat.

Jewels arched her back.

Simultaneously, they both began to talk.

Chuckling, "I'm sorry, go ahead," Marshall said, shaking his head, taking a step toward her.

Waving her hands in front of her as if shooing a swarm of pesky mosquitoes, "No, no. I'm sorry," Jewels insisted, taking a step toward him.

They both laughed.

Marshall sucked in a deep breath.

Getting her flailing hands under control, Jewels took another step toward him. "What were you saying?" Her Nordic blue eyes sparkled as she gazed into his dark eyes.

His eyes locked onto hers. He stepped closer, now within arms length reach of her. "I was just going to say how I ... how much I'd like to, uh, how very much I want to—"

"Want? What?" Jewels stepped closer to him, her heart pounding triple-time, eyes dancing with eager anticipation.

"How much I want to kiss you!"

Beaming a knowing smile she longingly gazed up at the studly cowboy. "Then kiss me, Marshall Watters." Her voice lowered to a sexy tone.

Not needing a second invitation, Marshall enveloped her shapely body in his thick arms and pulled her tightly against his iron chest, pressing his lips against hers in a full blown kissing assault.

Throwing her arms around his neck, she squashed her breasts harder into his chest, returning the blistering invasion, stabbing her tongue deep and vigorously into his mouth while moaning in extreme pleasure.

They kissed long and hard.

Never had Jewels felt such passion. His kisses were commanding. Scorching. Hypnotic.

Finally Marshall released his embrace, took a small step back, readjusted his Stetson that had gotten pushed back on his head, then rested his hands on her shoulders.

Jewels stood spellbound, her big blue eyes blinking. Mouth gaping. Then the helium balloon sensation hit her again. _Oh, gawd, not now!_ Her body swayed slightly, but she bit her lip, really hard, to keep herself from fainting.

Concern wiped his face. "Jewels, are you okay? You're not going to faint on me, are you?"

"No, I'm okay. I just haven't been kissed like..." Her voice trailed off as she continued to stare at him.

"You don't know how long I wanted to do that," he confessed, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. "From the first moment I saw you charging me in handcuffs swinging, long blonde ponytail wildly flowing behind you, the most gorgeous blue eyes I'd ever seen brimming with fiery determination... Right then, I _knew_ I had to learn more about this fearless little fireball."

Dreams really _do_ come true. And not just in Disneyland! This was the welcome home present Jewels had fantasized about for two long weeks in rehab. Except the real thing was better. Much better.

Chuckling, Marshall admitted, "You don't know how many cold showers I've had to take just _imagining_ kissing you." He shook his head and forcefully blew out a burst of air. "And that show you put on for Hines in your bra and panties, I thought I was going to pass out."

She flashed her sexiest smile. "Good, because I did it for _you._ "

"I know." Marshall's facial expression turned serious. "I never thanked you for what you did _for_ _me_ at Hines' cabin. Jewels, you saved my life and paid a heavy price. I'm sorry for everything that lunatic made you do, but..." He eyed her with adoration. "I appreciate your sacrifice. You're as tough and trustworthy as any man on my team and I mean that in the most positive and sincere way." He brushed her long hair over her shoulder. "Julia, you really _did_ save my life and I'll never forget it."

"And you, mine."

"All part of the job." He winked.

"Regarding that _show_ in my bra and panties..." A naughty grin blossomed on Jewels's face. "I did it not only to keep Hines from torturing you, but I did it _for_ you." Her fingers smoothly brushed across his chest. "I imagined you and I were alone and I was luring you in." Jewels licked her lips.

Marshall swallowed hard.

She leaned in closer. "By the way, you don't know how long it took me to recover from that classic bodybuilder pose you teased me with in your bare chest after rescuing me from Tank." She stroked his jaw line, her fingertips wandering to lightly dance over his lips.

"So you like muscles, huh?" He ran his hands down her back to rest at the top of her buttocks.

She cast her arms around his neck and once again smashed her full breasts against his muscular chest. "Kiss me again." Her tone demanding.

The feverish kissing resumed. Continued as he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the sofa in the living room, gently laying her down.

After several minutes of torrid necking, she planted her hands on his iron chest and pushed him away. Her nipples were hard. Femininity oozed in moist anticipation. She was nearly breathless. Felt faint. Was it the tiny pill or...?

Gazing upon her Aphrodite face, Marshall smoothed her silky long hair. His eyes full of tenderness. And want. "Jewels, you're the most amazing woman I've ever met—"

"Shhhhh." She placed a single finger over his lips to quiet him. Tossing his Stetson onto the floor, she raked her fingers through his wavy dark brown hair. Unbuttoned the snaps of his fancy western shirt, slowly, one at a time, "Make love to me, Marshall Watters. Right now. Right here." Her fingers grazed the muscular details of his well-defined bare chest and abs.

His eyebrows raised in pleasant disbelief.

Smiling archly, Jewels teased, "And then you _have_ to tell me how you escaped those handcuffs without a key back at Hines' cabin."

### THANK YOU FOR READING Mistaken Trust

**I HOPE YOU WERE ENTERTAINED** reading my debut work of fiction, _Mistaken Trust_. If you have a moment, and especially if you enjoyed this novel, I'd appreciate you leaving a review on the ebook retailer where you downloaded this novel. If you don't want to write a review, that's okay, too. Positive reviews are "social proof" that a book is worth reading and are the life-blood of authors, both traditionally published and self-published. If you don't want to write a review, that's okay, I understand. However, if you share your review with me via my email me – mailto:ShirleyASpainAuthor@yahoo.com – I'll respond with a personal note of gratitude.

I've included "Book Club Discussion Prompts" to help start the conversation with your friends.

_Mistaken Trust_ is the first in the six-novel "Jewels Trust M.U.R.D.E.R. Series" chronicling the hair-raising adventures the sexy heroine embarks upon, sometimes unwittingly and sometimes as a direct result of her strong-willed independent nature and innate curiosity.

In book two, _Ultimate Trust_ , Jewels and Marshall marry, but at least one deviant has explosive plans to ensure the sexy rich woman and herculean hero do not live happy ever after. Here's a brief overview of _Ultimate Trust_.

**Known around town** as the creepy Scarecrow Man, Marty's desperate. Life has dealt him a losing hand. Never-ending and insurmountable challenges seemed to be his lot in life. He's broke. Unemployment benefits ended weeks ago. House in foreclosure. Mouths need fed. His wife is on her deathbed. And he hasn't had good old fashioned sex for nearly two years.

Newspaper images of a beautiful rich woman in town captured his attention months ago. He's become fixated on her. Jewels represents everything he is not. Good looking. Influential. Famous. Wealthy. Sexy. Adored by the public, the list painfully long. And for that, he hates her.

To the rescue Butch, Marty's "alter ego." Money will solve all of Marty's problems and Butch knows how to get it: Take Jewels hostage. Savagely restrain her. Brutally gag her. Agonize her at will. All for public viewing on TV. Marty's magnificent _bomb chair_ is the key. If the explosion doesn't kill her, the assault rifle rigged to fire a bullet into the back of her skull will. There's no hope of escape for Jewels. Or rescue. The dead man's switch anchored to Marty's wrist is the guarantee. Jewels' super cop husband, Marshall Watters, will be powerless. Forced to give in to Marty's every demand. Otherwise helplessly watch Jewels endure his torturous wrath.

Or will he?

Marty and his alter ego can't amply prepare for Marshall's knack for solving tough hostage situations, often unconventionally. Nor do they comprehend the depth of his love for Jewels. Factors which may ultimately become a huge disadvantage to Marty's plans.

However, Marshall faces an almost impossible challenge. Orchestrating a flawless extraction of Jewels from Marty's well thought out and deadly _bomb chair_ won't be easy. Marshall will have to outwit Marty—and Butch—to save Jewels before the bomb explodes or her head is blown off. Such a feat may appear doable. But there's a bigger problem: Jewels' strong will and defiance. And her relentless pursuit to free herself. Jewels' disobedience to her captor and failed escape attempts rapidly escalate the danger to her, Marshall and the others assembled to help save her.

Will Jewels survive the explosive intentions of this desperate family man driven to madness? And if she does, what will be the price of her freedom?

Continue Jewels' "dark and chilling" journey by downloading _Ultimate Trust_ TODAY at your favorite ebook retailer.

For more information about the "Jewels Trust M.U.R.D.E.R. Series," or any of my other books and series, please visit my website, www.ShirleyASpain where you can receive the thriller ebook _Forever Breathless_ FREE!

Again, thank you for reading, _Mistaken Trust_.

I look forward to _meeting_ you again in another of my novels. Until then, may all your reads be killer-good thrillers!

Shirley Spain, Author.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and uprooted to Utah by her family when she was only twelve years old, she quickly adapted to the western lifestyle with the help of her horses. Married at age twenty to Curtis Spain, their children ended up four-legged critters, rescued from animal _kill_ shelters in the Salt Lake area to live out their days lounging on the couch or bed, or wherever they darn well please in the Spain home.

Shirley's a graduate of the West Jordan Citizen Police Academy, a trained fingerprint tech, a certified member of CERT (Community Emergency Response Team) and a VIPS (Volunteer In Police Service) in the West Jordan Police Department.

She enjoys the variety of "research" opportunities her stories offer, including police "ride alongs," interviews with law enforcement experts regarding matters such as escaping handcuffs without a key and creating "dead man switches" for bombs. You might be surprised at the experiments she has done on herself and wrangled some of her friend into doing—all for novel research purposes, of course—involving handcuffs, duct tape, chains, rope, the trunk of car, a body bag...

Hmm. Knowing this, when you read her novels, you may wonder how many of the stunts described in the story she might have tried on herself... she'll never tell!

Visit www.shirleyaspain.com for more information about the **Jewels Trust M.U.R.D.E.R.** series and other books written by Shirley. And don't forget to claim your FREE stand-alone novel, _Forever Breathless_ in the "Killer Among Us" collection of psychological thrillers.
Book Club Discussion Prompts

WARNING!

SPOILER ALERT

**Do not read this you haven't started/finished** _Mistaken Trust_

1. Could you relate to any of Jewels' real-life dramatic events, such as being stalked or coping with the unexpected death of a spouse/significant other/beloved pet at the hands of another?

If so, how were your experiences similar or different than Jewels'?

2. Could you identify any "political statements" the author weaved throughout the book? If so, what were they, do you agree or disagree with them, and why?

3. What is your opinion of owning firearms for self-defense and why?

4. Did you learn anything about firearms or defensive tactics? If so, explain.

5. Jewels relied on her "vibes" (gut feelings) to guide many of her decisions.

Are you aware of your own _vibes_? If so, do you more often follow those feelings, or ignore them? Ever regret ignoring them?

Share a time when your _vibes_ told you to do or not do something, but you chose to ignore them and did opposite, then regretted it.

6. Have you ever deliberately and knowingly used someone or mislead a person for your own emotional or physical gain, perhaps like Jewels used Howard? If so, how, why, and what was the end result?

7. What were some of your favorite scenes or chapters and specifically why?

8. When Tank attacked Jewels at her house and she considered ripping his eyes in self-defense, had you ever thought of eyeball ripping as a defensive tactic?

In a life or death situation, would your _moral code_ permit you to actually rip out another human's eyes? Why or why not?

If you decided that you _could_ rip out a man's eyes in defense of your life, do you think you could muster the courage to actually do it? Why or why not?

9. Who did you first suspect as the mysterious Commander and what clues drove you to arrive at that conclusion?

At any point in the story did you waffle on your initial impression of who the Commander might be? Why or why not?

10. Who was your favorite character and why? Did he/she remind you of someone you know? If so, who and why?

11. Who was your least favorite character and why? Did he/she remind you of someone you know? If so, who and why?

12. Did you learn anything from reading this book? If so, what, and is it something you might use in your own life sometime in the future or share with others?

13. If this book didn't have a title, what would you call it, and why?

14. Do you think Jewels and Marshall make the perfect couple? Why or why not? Be specific.

15. What character surprised you the most in the book and why?

16. What scene was most shocking to you and why?

17. What are some alternate endings for _Mistaken Trust_?

18. What question(s) you would like to ask the author, Shirley Spain, about a character, scene, chapter, or anything else?

19. Now that you've had discussions about _Mistaken Trust_ , what answers/thoughts would you like to share with Shirley?

20. Will you snap a photo of your book club group (or just yourself) and send it to Shirley to perhaps post on her website?

**email:** ShirleyASpainAuthor@yahoo.com

**website:** www.ShirleyASpain.com

**facebook:** <https://www.facebook.com/authorshirleyspain>

Please visit www.shirleyaspain.com for more information about Shirley's books and And don't forget to claim your FREE stand-alone novel, _Forever Breathless_ in the "Killer Among Us" series.
