Gold in Quartz: A Jewelry Hunter Thriller

By Ronald von Freymann

Gold-in-Quartz, a Jewelry Hunter Thriller

It has been a year since an Islamic cleric declared a fatwa against Bill and Jenn for averting a terrorist plot to blow up two fully loaded passenger ferries off the southern coast of California. Now, the Watsons must contend with another group of murderous thugs.
While on a jewelry buying trip in Northern Californias Gold Country, the Watsons inadvertently stumble into a gruesome shooting at the Speckled Gold Mine. Suddenly propelled into a set of circumstances that grows more mysteriousand perilousby the day, Bill and Jenn soon find themselves in witness protection. But their new enemies are never very far behind. From the Gold Country to Catalina Island, to New York City to Paris, they are forced to rely on the FBI, the French police, and hefty measures of their own quick wits, intuition, and marksmanship to survive.
When events lead them to Johannesburg, the Watsons and their alliesincluding the tough-talking, trigger-happy friend Tiffany and a drop-dead gorgeous FBI agent who refuses to carry a loaded weaponmust devise a plan to neutralize their adversary before their luck runs out.


In Praise Of
Gold-in-Quartz, a Jewelry Hunter Thriller

Reminiscent of police insider Joseph Wambaughs novels set in California, jewelry trade insider Ron von Freymanns Jewelry Hunter saga has its roots in the Golden State. His second installment of the Jewelry Hunter series, Gold in Quartz, a Jewelry Hunter Thriller, grabs attention from the start with fast-paced action and crisp dialogue. Already in the fatwa cross hairs of devout fundamentalist Islamic believers seeking that coveted ticket to paradise, Bill and Jenn Watson fall into false accusations that propel them on a worldwide race to avoid assassination by a new group of vicious, dedicated murderers. Von Freymann is the master of a unique genre.
Tom Anthony
Amazon-Best Selling Author of Rebels of Mindanao

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496918185

Ronald von Freymann

Ronald von Freymann is a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point and the United States Army Ranger School. As a combat command veteran, he possesses unique insight into the difficulty to detect and defeat terrorist cells before they act. He resides with his wife, Janet, among residences in Avalon, Catalina, California’s Central Coast, and San Francisco. Ronald von Freymann is a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point and the United States Army Ranger School. As a combat command veteran, he possesses unique insight into the difficulty to detect and defeat terrorist cells before they act. He resides with his wife, Janet, among residences in Avalon, Catalina, California’s Central Coast, and San Francisco.

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CHAPTER ONE

9:07 AM (PST) Sunday, January 8, 2012

Alleghany, California

Fifty Feet from the Speckled Gold Mine Office

Why does Jenn believe this trip to be so important that we had to take it in the dead of winter? wondered Bill. He leaned into the fifteen-mile-an-hour wind, whose chill was pushing the temperature down to twenty-four degrees. His boots sank through five inches of new-fallen snow into ankle-deep mud.

The merciless weather caused him to reflect on the First Gulf War. As a newly minted Second Lieutenant, Bill had served as a Platoon Leader in Major General Barry McCaffrey’s 24th Infantry Division. Although Bill’s unit had been destined for combat, he considered himself fortunate the combat would be in Iraq. He believed Iraq’s climate would mitigate the lingering effects of winter ranger school, which sent bone-rattling shivers throughout his body at the first hint of cold weather. Presently, he anticipated the warmth of the Speckled Gold Mine’s office. At six foot one, two hundred and seventeen pounds, Bill considered himself fit—his wife, Jenn, was not so sure. Maybe she had a point.

I’ll hear about this forever, lamented Jenn silently, trudging several paces behind Bill. Who could have known? She struggled to conserve body heat, hunched over, shoulders curled forward, and her arms wrapped tightly around her body. She had stuffed her gloved hands into her parker pouch and thought, Thank god we live on Catalina. Dazzling sunlight reflected off specks of frost clinging to her light blonde, shoulder-length hair, creating an illusion of twinkling stars. Her breath formed a cloud of glistening ice crystals that surrounded her head until dissipated by the brisk wind. Jenn was five foot seven, one hundred thirty-five pounds, and fit. Many considered her a knock-out—an attribute she rejected out of hand. The former Raytheon Manager of Military Response to Insurgent Tactics knew she was on the threshold of a long-sought personal milestone—acquiring the signature gem for her business.

Rusted hinges groaned when Bill opened the weathered wooden door to the mine’s office and motioned Jenn inside. Two men in ski masks, followed by a blast of warm air, rushed through the open doorway pushing Jenn into Bill. He struggled to prevent her from falling into the mud. He shouted at the masked men. Pardon us…I’m sorry…please excuse us! The men did not acknowledge him. The intensity of Bill’s voice increased. I said pardon us, you bozos!

Jenn righted herself and straightened her parker. Not to worry, honey they’re just typical redneck jerks…I’m okay.

We’re in Northern California, not Northern Georgia, said Bill, then quickly regretted the inappropriate accusation, recalling the friendly people who lived in the village of Dahlonega, Georgia just outside the gate to the US Army’s Ranger Mountain School. Frigid temperatures characterized the mountain phase of ranger training. To Bill, the training seemed to have spanned three years rather than three weeks.

Jenn shrugged. Rednecks are everywhere, not just in the South. Forget about them. Let’s get out of this miserable weather. She dismissed the men’s ill-mannered behavior but resolved that next time she would plan better. Ski masks would have been a welcome addition to our wardrobe, considering the weather. She stepped into the building. Her eyes raced about the room as she tried to stifle a gasp with her hand. Oh—my—god, what the…was there an explosion? she asked in disbelief. I didn’t hear one.

A middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair lay sprawled across a desk, her clothes drenched in blood. In a burgeoning pool of blood, an older man lay on the concrete floor alongside several dusty, dented, gray file cabinets. Puncture wounds covered both of their bodies.

Bill studied the bodies and said, Neither did I.

Jenn wrinkled her nose. What’s that nauseating odor?

Cordite; it’s a stench you never forget. Bill scanned the room for people and undetonated explosives. The drawers of the file cabinets and desks, as well as two doors in the rear wall, were shut. The room was not ransacked. There had been no explosion.

Jenn fingered the woman’s mangled throat for a pulse while studying the extensive damage to the woman’s upper torso and head. She’s dead.

This guy’s alive. His pulse is weak, but it’s there, said Bill.

Jenn took her cellphone from her purse, punched 911, then said, That sound…what’s that sound…that whizzing sound?

Damn, this guy has a sucking chest wound—he needs immediate medical attention or he’ll suffocate. Bill looked up at Jenn and said, Honey, use the landline. A cellphone usually gets the highway patrol in remote areas like this. We need local paramedics—this guy’s fading fast.

Jenn grabbed the handset of the phone on the dead woman’s desk and dialed. Got them…Hello, my name’s Jenn. I’m at the Speckled Gold Mine. A shooting or somethi…excuse me?…Yes, I said the Speckled Gold Mine…That’s correct, the Speckled Gold Mine…Will you let me speak! There has been a shooting or something here…A woman is dead and a man seriously wounded. We need paramedics. My husband can’t keep the man alive much longer. What? Of course, not…We didn’t shoot them! For heaven’s sake, can the small talk and get the paramedics moving. We need help now! Thank you. What? Yes, the Speckled Gold Mine…off California Route 27…Wait.

You’re right, hon, said Bill.

Yes, Route 27, and don’t send a hook and ladder…I’ll hold.

Are they on the way? asked Bill.

Jenn covered the mouthpiece with her hand. God knows—no wonder 911 gets such bad press. Jenn removed her hand from the mouthpiece. Yes, I’m still here. I told you I’d hold…Thank you. Send police also. Jenn placed her hand over the mouthpiece and looked around the room. Bill kneeled next to the man lying behind a 1940s surplus gray metal military desk. The woman lay sprawled across a similar desk. The corners of the two desks touched to form a right angle. A fax machine sat on a squat, square table between the desks. The only window in the room was ten feet to the right of the dead woman’s desk. Several file cabinets lined one wall. Three wooden chairs, an aged Minolta copier, and two beige 1980s-era telephones completed the furnishings. An electric space heater struggled to warm the room. I wonder if the masked men were the shooters…They had to be. Where did they go?

Bill glanced at Jenn. I’m not sure I can keep this guy together. I need the first aid kit from the car.

I’ll get it, said Jenn. She tossed the telephone handset to Bill and called over her shoulder as she darted out the door, We’re on hold.

Jenn stepped out into slushy snow and numbing wind, studied the jumbled footprints in the snow that went between the office and the far side of the parking lot, and concluded the masked men had made them. She considered the footprints around their dark-blue Subaru Outback and decided they were hers and Bill’s. She scrutinized the area around the building; there were no footprints. Satisfied the masked men were not lying in wait, she ran to the Subaru.

Inside, Bill realized, Oh my god, two people are shot and I just sent Jenn to the car by herself. He dropped the handset, scrambled to his feet, and charged after his wife. He stopped short at the doorway when he saw Jenn’s motionless body slumped halfway into the open hatchback of their Subaru. Bill drew his Glock and yelled, Honey!

Jenn bolted upright. She held her Glock pointed up in her right hand, waved the first aid kit over her head in her left, and shouted, I’ve got it! Then she elbowed the hatchback shut with her left arm and ran toward Bill.

Did you see anyone? asked Bill.

No…you mean the men in ski masks?

Yeah.

No, they’re on foot. See, their footprints go through the parking lot. Jenn pointed at the footprints and then waved toward the road. One set comes to the building, the other goes away from it. Their car must be on the road.

Bill perused the parking lot and said, We didn’t see a car when we drove in. Jenn dashed past Bill and ran into the office. Bill backed through the doorway after her, scanned the parking lot one last time, and then slammed the door shut. He picked up Jenn’s telephone handset from the floor and handed it to her, saying, I have to seal this guy’s chest. Is there another line?

Jenn studied the phone on the woman’s desk. There must be. This phone has two numbers. There…on your guy’s desk…5634.

Get the paramedics. I’ll need instructions…I’ll pick up when they get on the line. Bill inspected the first aid kit and smiled. Classic Jenn—there’s enough stuff here to open an urgent care center…enough, that is, except for what I need…something small, flexible, and impermeable to seal this guy’s wound. Air sucked in through the puncture wound in the space between the wounded man’s lungs and diaphragm and then forced out through the same hole caused the wheezing sound that Jenn had heard. The man’s diaphragm worked fine but it was unable to create a sufficient vacuum to inflate his lungs. If Bill could not seal the wound, the man would suffocate. A blood-splattered, folded newspaper on the dead woman’s desk prompted Bill to check trashcans. In one, he found a plastic bag that had held the morning delivery. I hope this works…It’s flimsy but impermeable.

Got them, said Jenn. The paramedic will be coming to the line.

Bill punched the blinking button on his phone. While he waited for the paramedic, he watched his wife. She had wedged the handset of the phone between her chin and left shoulder, held her Glock 19 in both hands at arms’ length, and aimed it at the front door. Better her than I. Jenn reacts on gut feel in emergencies. Someone coming through the door better have his affairs in order.

The paramedic came on the line.

Hello…I’m Bill…Bill Watson. I have a man with a sucking chest wound…Okay…good. I have vinyl, gauze, and tape…er…yes, vinyl…vinyl from a plastic bag, the kind newspapers come in when it rains…er…a credit card…Yes, I have one. Bill suppressed his indignation and anguish and thought. These people had better not request payment before they help me. Oh…I see…Use the credit card instead of the vinyl bag…Got it. I saw a movie on how this works when I was in the Army, but I’ve never done it. I don’t remember a credit card. Bill shoved the handset between his shoulder and chin and told the paramedic, I’m ready.

Bill taped the credit card over the puncture wound and wrapped gauze around the man’s chest. Make the wrapping as tight as possible, spoke Bill, parroting the paramedic’s instructions. Bill was dismayed that the wound, blood-soaked gauze, and the man’s bloodied shirt had become as one. He left one edge of the credit card unsealed so it could open and close as needed. Bill wondered how that worked, but that was what the paramedic told him to do. Next was CPR. The paramedic said this was critical. He told Bill to be careful not to implode or explode the man’s chest—in this instance, CPR was like reinflating a fragile balloon. After Bill compressed the man’s chest for the third time, two blasts echoed in his ears—an explosion, followed by the crack of a pistol shot. A shower of glass slivers and wood splinters flew into the room, partially covering Bill and the man.

Get down! I missed the son of a bitch, yelled Jenn.

Bill peered from behind the desk and said, What happened?

A man fired a shotgun at us. Thank god he’s a lousy shot. The windowsill absorbed the blast. I shot back but missed him.

Bill glanced at the door and said, I didn’t lock the door.

Not to worry. I’ll have the advantage if someone bursts in. He’ll have to orient himself to find a target—so he’ll be dead before he gets a chance to shoot. I have a better angle at the door than you…Cover the window; the door’s mine.

Bill heard a low murmur. The wounded man shuddered, gurgled, took several faint, halting breaths, coughed, and then settled into slow, rhythmic breathing. The patch worked. I hope he doesn’t regain consciousness until the paramedics get here. I could have my hands full, thought Bill. He recalled his training at Fort Benning, which emphasized internalizing set responses that reduced future critical combat challenges to no-brainers. Today, defense trumps lifesaving, he concluded. If we come under attack, the wounded man will have to wait. How far away are the police and paramedics? yelled Bill.

Jenn’s eyes remained riveted on the door as she said, Ten minutes…I just asked—slick roads, they said.

Bill glanced repeatedly in succession at the wounded man, the door, and the window. He forced himself to keep his gun aimed at the window. Then Bill heard a muffled, scratchy, apparently distant voice. He glanced around the room and saw his telephone handset on the floor. Picking it up, he placed it to his ear. Hello…Yes, I’m here. Sorry, things went south for a moment…What did you say? Shots…Yes, there were shots. The shooters returned and we shot at them. Are you headed to the mine?…Great! Do you have police with you?…Even better. How far away are you? By the way, the wounded man has started to breathe…What?…Wait, I’ll check. Hang on. Bill put his hand on the wounded man’s throat. After about fifteen seconds, he made a mental calculation and then told the paramedics, About fifty…Oh shit, hang on. Bill covered the mouthpiece and screamed, Jenn, what the hell are you doing?

I want to see what’s going on.

Stay away from the window! They’ll see you.

Don’t worry, they won’t see me.

What do you mean they won’t see you?

They won’t…Cover the door.

Jenn positioned her feet shoulder-width apart and pressed her back against the wall next to the window. She held her compact mirror in her left hand and extended her left arm across the window opening while she continued to point the Glock in her right hand toward the door. She angled the compact mirror so she could see outside and then tilted it left, right, up, and down to examine the area surrounding the parking lot. I don’t see anyone. I bet they were surprised we’re armed.

Bill spoke into his phone, How far away?…Good, but pick it up; we have our hands full.

Jenn returned to the dead woman’s desk, jammed the handset between her shoulder and chin again, and aimed her automatic at the door. I’m back…I’m here, she said into the phone. Then sunlight reflected off the barrel of a shotgun pointed at the window. Shotgun…get down! yelled Jenn. A blast shook the room…Glass, metal, and wood fragments ricocheted throughout the space. Bill fired three rounds through the window. Just then, the front door crashed open. A masked man rushed into the room, stood upright, glanced around, and leveled his shotgun at Bill.

You’re dead, Mr. Ski Mask, mumbled Jenn evenly, then fired two quick shots from her Glock 19. The man’s head snapped sideways, then backward, his gun flew into the room, his body twisted and jerked wildly, and then he slumped to the floor. Jenn’s second shot splattered the man’s chest as he fell, but it was unnecessary; he was already dead.

That levels the playing field—we’re on offense! shouted Jenn. She aimed her pistol out the window and fired three shots. Intentionally, the first shattered the top of the windowsill and created a shower of splinters. The second and third shots barely cleared the windowsill. She followed those with three chest-high shots over the lifeless body of the masked shooter, which blocked the doorway.

Bill shouted into the handset. We’re under siege!

There was no response. He looked at the blood-splattered handset. A flechette from the shotgun blast had grazed Bill’s right index finger and then lodged in the handset. My phone’s dead; toss me yours…Are you okay, honey?

Yeah…Here, catch.

Bill yelled into the handset. How far out? We can’t hold on much longer, we’re out-gunned…Good…but try to do better. We killed one of the shooters…We have no idea how many there are…What? Of course we’re armed; if we weren’t, we’d be dead!

CHAPTER TWO

9:31 AM (PST) Sunday, January 8, 2012

Alleghany, California

The Speckled Gold Mine Office

Jenn steadied her arm on the dead woman’s desk and pointed her pistol at the door. Her eyes focused sequentially on the window, the door, and back again. She saw a distant flash of light through the window and yelled, I see red light blinking off snow on tree limbs…Now I see trucks.

Paramedics? asked Bill.

No, police.

Bill spoke into the telephone handset. We need paramedics; this guy’s in bad shape!

Please hold, droned a female voice.

Police have parked their vehicles on the far side of the parking lot…I still don’t see paramedics, said Jenn.

Bill asked the 911 operator, When will the paramedics get here?

Silence…Bill wondered whether the 911 woman had disconnected. Then an electronically amplified voice boomed from the far side of the parking lot: This is the police! Throw out your gun…Come out with your hands up. You’re surrounded.

Bill and Jenn exchanged incredulous looks. Did we hear correct? What the hell is going on? fumed Bill.

The police are behind their vehicles with their guns pointed at us…I’d guess we heard right.

Bill removed his hand from the mouthpiece and asked, Is anyone there?

Listen to the police, droned a different but more authoritative female voice.

What are you talking about? What’s with the police? asked Bill. They want us to come out, with hands up. For god’s sake, the police wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t called them. This man needs medical help! Hello…hello…Is anyone there? Silence. Bill glared at the handset as if he could will it to provoke a response. Then he shouted into the mouthpiece, Hello! Hello! Still no response. Then a gruff, no-nonsense male voice came from the handset. This is Lieutenant Lewis of the Sierra County Sheriff’s Department. Throw out your gun and come out with your hands up. Lewis had patched into the 911 system.

What! For god’s sake, we got here after the killers left. You should be looking for them and not hassling us.

We don’t know what has happened and don’t know who you are. We can’t put the paramedics at risk. If you’re reasonable, you’ll understand why we have to handle it this way.

"What do you mean not put the paramedics at risk? Be reasonable? Understand? You’re the unreasonable ones."

We have procedures…We have to take precautions. Throw out your gun and come out with your hands over your heads and your palms facing forward. If you are who you say you are, everything will be alright.

"No way. Without this gun, we’d be dead…We’d all be dead. We’re the ones who shouldn’t be taking risks."

We don’t want to harm you…The man lying in the doorway…is he in need of medical assistance?

Are you serious? He’s in need of a mortician. We shot him. He’s dead, as in doornail.

You shot him? asked Lewis, surprised.

What is this, twenty questions? He tried to kill us…my wife, me, another man.

Throw out your gun and come out with your hands up, responded Lewis. Do as we say and no one gets hurt.

There’s a seriously wounded man in here. If he doesn’t get medical attention, his blood will be on your hands. We’re victims, not criminals.

Lewis grew guarded. We cannot put the paramedics at risk.

Don’t you understand? If this man dies, it’s on your ticket, it’s your fault, responded Bill.

Throw your gun out and come out with your hands up, then we’ll be able to assist the man. Our patience and your time are running out.

What’s going on? asked Jenn. Where are the paramedics?

Bill put his palm over the mouthpiece and said, The jerk thinks we’re the shooters.

Jenn shook her head and said, And I thought Evans was tiny-minded.

We’re not dealing with rocket scientists, said Bill.

I know, but we’ve got to get help for this guy…We’ll have to compromise, said Jenn.

Bill removed his hand from the mouthpiece. Okay, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll come to the door with my gun pointed up and then you send in the paramedics. Are you good with that?

Bill heard muffled background discussion coming from his handset but could not make out the words.

Wait… said Lewis, …wait, I’ll get back to you.

Bill said angrily, This man only has so much blood, and most of it is on the floor.

That will get his attention, said Jenn.

Bill grimaced and glanced at Jenn. I doubt it. He’s not listening…and now he’s talking with someone else.

Lewis returned. He stammered, Er…I don’t know…Please hold.

We don’t have time, Lieutenant. Blood’s a-dripping, said Bill, confident his antagonistic rhetoric would yield results.

Honey, don’t push it…What’s he doing?

Thinking, I think.

Lewis returned to the phone. Okay, both of you come out with your hands over your heads, move away from the doorway, and drop your gun. Don’t make quick moves, and keep your hands over your heads at all times.

Terrific…Get the paramedics ready! barked Bill.

10:34 AM (PST) Sunday, January 8, 2012

Alleghany, California

Inside the Speckled Gold Mine Office

Lieutenant Lewis pointed at the dead man lying face down in the doorway. You said there were two men. Where’s the other one?

Lewis was dressed more for a ceremony than for an investigation into a double murder at a backwoods mine in the dead of winter. He wore a gleaming silver-plated badge pinned to the left breast pocket of a pristine starched shirt, razor-sharp creased trousers, and spit-polished boots. He had stuffed a highly polished chrome-handled pistol into a shiny black leather holster that hung from a thick leather belt. Cartridges, old west cowboy style, ringed the belt. Affixed to his service cap was a flashy silver emblem that indicated he represented the Sierra County Sheriff’s Department. He was tall and beefy with silver-gray hair. Altogether, he looked like an aging middle linebacker in the wrong uniform. A sergeant in camouflage uniform, with an ear bud connected to the radio attached to his belt, stood beside Lewis. The sergeant held a carbine at the ready and methodically scrutinized the room. Jenn presumed the sergeant was Lewis’s bodyguard.

How would we know where he went? said Bill. Your ranting about us being the shooters, and the throw-out-your-gun nonsense, gave him more than enough time to escape. If you’d acted as you should have, you might have caught him.

Bill, back off, said Jenn, singsong. Her voice trailed off on a high note.

Mr. Watson, I suggest you take your wife’s advice. The quicker I get your story, the quicker I can start to look for the shooter.

Quicker…Who ate up the shot clock with inane questions? I bet the shooter’s on a flight to Timbuktu by now.

Honeeey… Jenn intoned softly.

Okay, okay. There were two men…two men wearing ski masks. As we approached the mine office, they ran from the building towards the road… Bill and Jenn related what had happened.

*     *     *

Lewis pointed at the body blocking the doorway. So, both of you were holed up in this room when that man burst in?

Yes, said Bill.

Lewis faced Bill and said, And you shot him.

No, Jenn did.

Lewis faced Jenn and said, Mrs. Watson shot him? Mrs. Watson has a gun?

Surprise! chuckled Bill.

Jenn shot a nasty glance at Bill and sighed. Yes, lieutenant, I have a gun.

Lewis faced Bill and glowered. Very funny, Mr. Watson. You’d best be more forthcoming. This isn’t a joking matter. Lewis faced Jenn again. Lucky shot, Mrs. Watson. How many shots did you fire?

Lucky! shrieked Jenn. I can shoot a round through a keyhole at thirty feet. I shot twice…The second was unnecessary.

Jenn took the fatwa seriously. Concern for the Watsons’ safety after the Catalina incident had caused FBI Agent Frank Evans to authorize the Watsons to carry concealed weapons. Jenn committed herself to becoming a markswoman. She spent hours at the pistol range, attended courses on the technical aspects of firearms, and studied defensive strategies that emphasized recognition