Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2)

by Irish Winters

  The car ground to a stop then, but didn’t that beat all? She pointed a gun at him over the steering wheel. Mexican standoff, nothing. This was suicide by sniper. The old bag just didn’t know it.

  Tate called her bluff and put one through the windshield, aiming next to her head, crackling the safety glass to oblivion. No one needed to die today. Least of all an old woman in a toy car.

  That shot should’ve scared her, but she got one off through the glass anyway, the round whizzing by his ear like a supersonic hornet. Enough was enough. He charged the car, bellowing profanities, his gun on target but not wanting to end her.

  Just like a crazed bear would do when its prey unexpectedly fought back, the woman hesitated long enough for Tate to elbow her window. The glass shattered to cubed crystals, and he dragged her out that same window by her scruffy gray hair. Damn her. She wanted to play rough, he could do that.

  For an old woman, she didn’t come easily, but pitched to her hands and knees on the concrete, scratching and kicking, shrieking, “Rape! Rape!”

  No way in hell. By then, his thigh was on fire, and he knew he’d been duped. She was alone in the car and the walls were closing in fast. Son-of-a-bitch.

  “Isaiah!” he bellowed mentally. “You got her?”

  “Yes, I’m tracking her,” Isaiah said smoothly as he and Tucker came up behind Tate. “Winslow I can read just fine.”

  Tucker pointed a key fob at his Challenger. “Isaiah, lock this situation down. Tate, you’re with me.”

  Bullshit! This is not happening to me! Not again!

  Winslow came to in the dark beneath mounds of smelly sheets and damp towels. Shoving her way through the disgusting hospital laundry, she lifted to her feet, swaying as the van she found herself in made a sharp left turn. With one hand to the ceiling overhead, the other gripping the edge of the bin, she lifted a leg over, then fell on her butt to the floor when everything shifted sideways again.

  She had to get out of this van. Now. Before Hattie stepped on the gas and got any farther away from Tate. He needed her. On her feet once more, Winslow sniffed gasoline fumes, not what she’d expected. The source? That ten-gallon, black-capped can by the back doors.

  Jesus, Mom, umm, Hattie. What are you doing?

  That was the question of the year, wasn’t it? Winslow knew then this was a fight to the death, and she wasn’t the one going to die today. Just then the van lurched to a stop, and she fell backward, her bare feet in the air. Every loose thing in the back of the van shifted too. The bin rolled alongside her, but the gas can ended up at her ankles before she trapped it there between her bare feet.

  When the driver’s door opened and slammed, Winslow scrambled to her feet. It was too late to jump back in that bin and hide, and she didn’t want to anyway. Those days were done. She was stronger now. Tate’s last word made sense now. Take. He’d given her something in that last caress. His knife. That was what he’d meant. Well, she’d taken enough.

  Tugging the folded knife out of her jeans pocket, she prepared to fight back with all she had. She lifted her fingers to her nose, her eyes instantly filled with tears. Her hands were sticky with Tate’s blood, but why was it still so red? It smelled sweet like—syrup. This wasn’t real blood. It was fake. He’s still alive!

  One of the rear doors jerked open, and there she was. Mom, Joyce, Hattie—Whoever.

  “You killed him!” Winslow shrieked despite what she was pretty sure she now knew. The bulletproof vest would’ve protected his back and chest. But that bullet hole in his thigh...

  “I did not,” Hattie shot back at her. “I simply winged him.”

  “Three times! You shot him three times!” Lowering her head, Winslow spread her bare feet. Tate’s open knife rested in the palm of her right hand, but hidden behind her thigh.

  “Well, if I did, he wasn’t much of a bodyguard, was he? Don’t worry. He’s a big guy. He’ll pull through. You’ll see.” Hattie sounded so sure of herself. Had she done this before? Shot people and walked away?

  Winslow steeled her nerve. Those new tennis shoes Dr. Keegan bought would’ve come in handy, but they were back in her room. It didn’t matter. She had what she needed to win this battle. A nearly toxic-free body. Memories of years of abuse to fuel her rage. Anger for a life wasted when it could’ve been lived. The knowledge that Tate was alive, and, oh yeah, his favorite word.

  “Bullshit,” she hissed at the psycho with the hypo. “Real funny, Mommy. Another hypo for old time’s sake? What’d you do, buy them in bulk?”

  Hattie grabbed hold of the rear door grip and put one foot to the rear bumper, prepared to pull herself in. Laughable. That’s what she was. A joke in her Halloween flip-flops with the dangling skeletons and orange pumpkins. Jack-O-Lantern fake nails. Enough studs in her ears to give snow tires a run for their money. You’d think she’d planned on shopping instead of killing her daughter.

  Argh! That word. All this time, Winslow hadn’t been a daughter. She’d been nothing. For years! How stupid was she? How blind! Soul sucking grief reached up from her gut for the lies she’d been fed, the evil medicine she’d swallowed like a good girl. For everything she’d missed and longed for and could never, ever get back again. For Tate!

  “I hate you!” Winslow spat at her worst nightmare. She’d been prepared to die, had even embraced the possibility of it until Tate came along. If this was the day, she meant to take Hattie with her.

  “I’m not going to kill you, baby girl,” Hattie soothed, one palm forward as she hefted her ass into the van. “Settle down. Let me explain.”

  Winslow kept her right hand behind her back. “So talk.”

  “You were the cutest baby,” Hattie said, both flip-flops flat to the floor by then. “Honest, you were every mother’s dream. Chubby cheeks and chocolate spirals all over your noggin.”

  “You’re not my mother!” Winslow demanded. “Just tell me who you really are.” And who I am.

  “I’ve had a couple names, Winslow, and yes, I’ve lied a little over the years, but only to keep you safe. Trust me, I—”

  “Stop with the trust-me bullshit, Mom,” Bitterness twisted that final word. “Tell me the truth for once in your life.” For once in mine.

  “Now, Winslow—”

  “Tell me! Who are my parents? Where are they, and how’d you get me?” The thought that her real mom might be out there, sick and sad and searching for her lost little girl, nearly bowled Winslow over. And a father. I might have a real father. A dad.

  Suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the van. The muscles in her throat constricted. She might have truly been loved—before Hattie came along. How did anyone recover from loss like that?

  Hattie shrugged her shoulders. “Trust me, I saved you from them, Winslow. Your real parents were a couple potheads from Amarillo, and you were their twelfth kid.” She stuck her neck forward as if Winslow hadn’t heard. “Can you imagine that? Twelve kids in one run down house, and all of ’em barefoot and playing in the dirty street. Screaming like a bunch of cotton-picking trailer trash was what they were. They had no grass, Winslow, not one blade in their dried-up yard, and some of them snot-nosed kids were sick. Why, it was mercy that brought me into your life and—”

  “Mercy nothing.” Winslow drew in a deep breath. “It’s sick and degrading to steal another woman’s child. What are their names? Tell me. Do you even know who you stole me from?”

  An odd smile quirked Hattie’s lips. She lowered the hand with the hypo in it. “Sure. I’ll tell you. Once we’re back in Amarillo.”

  “No. Now. I’m not going to Texas with you, so tell me, then get out of my way.”

  “That’s not how it works.” Hattie’s head canted to her right, her thumb on the plunger at her side. “We’ve got five days of hard driving ahead of us, and I can’t be late. So we can do this the easy way or you can fight, but it don’t matter. Either way, I’m going to win, and we’re going to Amarillo.”

  “Why?” Winslow bit out, tears threatening
. “Why should I go anywhere with you?” The thought of meeting loving parents tempted. Twelve kids? That meant she had brothers and sisters. She’d always wanted a sibling. Maybe cousins. Yes, Hattie might be lying, but—what if she wasn’t?

  She almost looked sincere when she said, “Because your father owns one of the biggest ranches in the state, and he finally got off his fat ass and offered a reward to the person who brings you home. You’re going to help me get it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The problem with tracking a vehicle on the road that left ahead of you was the gap. No matter how fast Tucker made that Challenger go, he couldn’t seem to close the distance between him and Hattie.

  After a quick stop at the Emergency Room, which Tate finally admitted he might need, they lost more time when Tucker stopped once more for clean clothes, snacks, and water. “These are for you,” he’d barked. “Now sit back and shut up.”

  Finally on the road, Tate snagged a bottle of water and reclined the passenger seat as far back as it’d go. Tucker had a point. Hydration was key to snapping out of the ozone layer a visit to the ER always left him in. His thigh was still numb from the anesthetic when Tucker hooked onto I-66 out of the District of Columbia and drove until it junctioned with I-81, headed west. Through Roanoke and onto Sugar Grove, Tate slept. When he woke, he felt better and they were speeding past Knoxville, Tennessee.

  In Nashville, they grabbed the I-40, still on Hattie’s trail and still behind. Not even with Isaiah and Eden advising where Hattie pulled in for fuel or food could Tucker catch up. Alerting the authorities from truck stop to truck stop made no difference. Hattie had gone into stealth mode.

  Throughout the chase, Tucker popped more energy drinks than anyone Tate had had the misfortune to work with before. Not that the caffeine made him chatty, but the man cursed traffic and drivers alike. F-this. F-that. Tucker was an arrogant brute at the wheel. Wild as a bull that had been cattle prodded one too many times and wouldn’t be tamed. Driven to catch up if not get ahead.

  It was the cramped space that drove Tate to rely on those two steady voices in his head. Isaiah and Eden. They kept him sane and informed. Even hopeful. Eden had a steady bead on Winslow’s emotions. Isaiah focused on her impressions of Hattie, but couldn’t put a pin in their final destination. Texas was a big state.

  Tate cast a sideways glance at Tucker. Talking psychically wasn’t difficult, not once a guy accepted that he was fairly decent at it, that he could control the flow and slam the door when he needed a time out. But Tucker was no dummy. There’d be hell to pay once he realized his team was talking behind his back.

  Eden popped up with a psychic “Holy Shit!” all the way from D.C. “I know where Hattie’s going,” she hissed into Tate’s mind.

  “Where?” he sent back to her.

  “Tate!” Eden squealed again. Her mental squeal was every bit as loud as her verbal ones. Tate was certain his mental eardrums hurt. “Amarillo, Texas. Hattie’s taking Winslow to Amarillo. I’m sure of it.”

  “Why?”

  “You won’t believe this!”

  “We will if you ever get around to telling us.” Isaiah’s calm drawl balanced Eden’s adrenaline rush.

  The crinkle of papers shuffling whispered in the background just as if they were on a conference call until Eden said, “Winslow isn’t Hattie’s biological daughter.”

  Tate lurched forward, his back straight, his shoulders squared, and his palm on the dash. “Say what?”

  “You need a break?” Tucker eyed him, his left hand on the wheel, his right on the stick shift, ready to pass the semi in the fast lane at the slightest provocation. His normal MO.

  Tate slumped into the comfy leather seat, his blood pumping. “No, I’m good. I’m good.” And pissed. He knew Hattie had a string of aliases, but this was despicable. Winslow isn’t her kid? Then what’s that witch doing with her?

  Eden again. “I’m still sorting through the last of what we pulled out of Winslow’s house, boxes of newspaper clippings. I wish you could see this.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t, so…” Jesus-Freaking-Christ! Tate stiffened and his pulse pounded up into his throat. There in front of him, so close it seemed he could reach out and touch it, a fragment of newspaper print materialized in the space between him and the dash, it’s edges torn and blurry. He tilted forward, looking at an obituary for a Mr. Felix Lockette. The words were clear, but there was no indication which newspaper it came from. The accompanying photo depicted an older male, not bad looking, smiling into the camera.

  “Who’s this guy?” he asked, still avoiding alerting Tucker.

  “Excuse me? Can you see it?” Isaiah asked, his psychic voice pitched high with disbelief. “You’re looking at the clipping, aren’t you? You can see it.”

  “Affirmative,” Tate replied, his tone not as strong as he liked. He cocked his neck, cracking it. Was it normal for psychics to see things floating in the air like this? Not like psychics were normal, but—

  “Ha!” Great. Now Isaiah was as pumped as Eden. “I knew it! Your talents are growing. What’d I tell you, Joker? Joker?”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Tate didn’t care what Isaiah thought he knew. This new development was just plain weird and a little spooky, but there the article was, and, well, okay. Might as well read it. He squinted to read the small print without drawing Tucker’s attention. “What am I looking at?” That I can’t believe I’m seeing.

  “Skip the first five paragraphs and look at the survived-by part down at the bottom,” Eden insisted, as emphatic as ever. “Do you see it?”

  With an exaggerated stretch and a yawn to throw Tucker off, Tate rolled his shoulder and narrowed in on the lower half of the obit. Preceded in death by wife and parents, blah-blah. Survived by son, Booker, and wife, Emma. Two grandsons, Rhett and Gunn. One granddaughter, our—Oh. My. God. Our angel Brooklyn, the baby girl stolen from us all those years ago.

  Tate’s heart stopped. Just plain stopped. He jerked his gaze back to Tucker even as he told Eden, “Winslow’s Brooklyn.”

  Another mind-piercing squeal hit his psychic nerve endings. “Yessssss! You feel it too, don’t you? You know!”

  “Shit, I…” Really hate to say this, but... “I do. This guy was Winslow’s paternal grandfather.” And she missed knowing him. Being kissed by him. Held. Loved. The cancer scam was bad enough, but this sin was unforgiveable. I knew she had a good reason.

  “That’s why she went willingly, guys. Hattie’s taking Winslow back to her family. There must be a reward.”

  Another “Yessssss!” rocked Tate’s psychic ears, and Eden needed to tone it down. Her enthusiasm was deafening.

  “Holy shit,” Tate hissed at his reflection in the window.

  “What’d you say?” Tucker cranked his neck, his Oakley’s high on his head, and his gaze stone-cold sniper sharp.

  Tate could only stare back at his boss, dumbfounded. Did I say that out loud?

  Eden kept going. “As soon as I touched this obit, Tate, I saw a younger man. Sage green eyes. Handsome, you know, like Liam Hemsworth handsome, only with black hair. Maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. He was sitting near a Christmas tree with a pretty woman and two little boys.” A younger version of the guy in the picture. “She had tons of long black curls over her shoulders and down her back, and she was holding a little baby wrapped in a pink receiving blanket. Those people were her parents, and that baby girl is…”

  Tate’s mouth went dry. “Winslow.” Out loud again. He couldn’t seem to control his big mouth, but damn. Tucker needed to know.

  “Yes, it’s Winslow. This is Winslow’s grandfather’s obituary from three years ago.”

  “What’s wrong, Tate? You need a break?” Tucker asked. “You look like you’re coming down with something. You carsick?”

  Wasn’t that the truth? Heartsick. Love sick. Just damned sick at the pain Hattie had caused Winslow and her parents, her grandparents. She’d ruined their lives. This was a real-life
story straight out of one of Grimm’s grimmest fairytales.

  Tucker’s forehead crinkled in that fatherly way that annoyed Tate. He didn’t want to like this guy. Had fought it since Tucker assisted with Eden’s rescue out of Canada, but now…

  But now…

  Tate swallowed hard, his throat muscles rebelling at the effort, his mouth as dry as the autumn prairie outside his window. I’ve got to tell him.

  Eden rattled on, her passion out of this world. “I checked with our field office in Dallas, and it all lines up. The Lockette case is an unsolved kidnapping that got worldwide attention nearly twenty years ago. I don’t remember it, because I was just a kid, but the profile fits Winslow, Tate. Brooklyn was five-months-old when her nanny stole her out of her bassinette and disappeared without a trace.”

  “And get this,” Isaiah chimed in. “The Lockettes own a huge ranch outside Amarillo—”

  “Isn’t this great? Winslow’s got a dad!” Eden again, damn her. Tate jumped as if she’d screeched in his ear.

  “Who is Booker Lockette, Inc., and—” Isaiah was much easier on a guy’s nerves.

  “Just this week, he renewed his offer of a three-million-dollar reward to the person who brings Brooklyn home!”

  “It’d sure be nice if I could finish my own sentences,” Isaiah groused at his partner who was still pinging so hard that her joy vibrated all the way from D.C.

  Tate glanced sideways at his boss. It’s time for true confessions.

  “What confessions?” Tucker put his foot in it, and the Challenger growled its compliance, its tachometer pinging as much as Eden was. For some reason, Tate caught an image of an enraged bull let loose from its chute, only—

  “Boss,” Tate said, swallowing hard, facing the bull in question. “I know where in Texas we need to go. Hattie’s taking Winslow to Amarillo.”

  “You know?” Tucker muttered, the cords in his neck tight. That vein in his forehead too. “How do you know? Jesus Christ, you are psychic, aren’t you? Either that or you’re talking with Isaiah.”