One-Eyed Jack (The Deuces Wild Series Book 3)

by Irish Winters

  Chapter Fifteen

  Isaiah encountered not one, but three MPD cruisers on the drive back to the mansion. ‘Hey, Tuck,’ he sent to his boss over their private mental channel. ‘I’ve got heavy police presence on my tail. What’s up?’

  Tucker replied instantly. ‘Nugget’s missing.’

  ‘How’d he get loose?’

  ‘Jumped through a plate glass window on the second floor. He saw something outside the mansion he didn’t like. Went crazy and took off like a shot. Haven’t seen him since.’

  “Great,” Isaiah muttered out loud. How could he tell Darrin his dog was lost again? Or Kitty, who was asleep with her head on her mom’s shoulder?

  “What’s wrong?” Candace asked. After that awkward moment in the chapel, she’d settled back into motherly mode, but Isaiah had glimpsed a different side to her tonight. His confidence in her had dwindled.

  “While we’ve been busy at the hospital,” Isaiah whispered, wondering about the wild goose chase that might’ve actually been a well planned misdirect, “Nugget jumped through a window and took off. Has he ever done that before?”

  “He’s never even growled much before today. Why would he?”

  “Not sure,” Isaiah replied thoughtfully, but dogs pulled some amazing stunts while protecting their families. “Maybe he saw someone he didn’t like.”

  “Did he get hurt?” Kitty asked what her mother apparently wasn’t worried about.

  Isaiah passed the question along to his boss. ‘If he did, I’m not seeing any bloody tracks,’ Tucker replied. ‘Your ETA?’

  ‘Be there in five,” Isaiah replied, but to Kitty he said, “Nugget’s got a hard head. He’ll be okay.” I hope.

  ‘We’ll be waiting.’

  ‘Copy that.’ Isaiah drew in a deep breath of frustration. Roxy was right. The mansion posed more problems than it was worth. It was time to relocate. He queried his boss with that option.

  ‘Possibly,’ Tucker shot back at him, ‘but tonight, we stay put. Get that girl and her mother inside. We’ll re-evaluate come daybreak.’

  ‘Do me a favor. Cut the exterior lighting until we’re inside.’

  ‘Can do.’

  ‘See you soon, Boss.’

  ‘Count on it.’

  Isaiah cut his ETA by two minutes, then opened his window, and waved to the officers in the three cruisers as he glided through the gates and into the darkened garage. “Stay inside until the garage door’s secure, ladies,” he told his passengers. Once the doublewide door rolled to the concrete floor, he breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay, now let’s get you inside.”

  Candace seemed more obedient—or something—as she hurried past him with her arm around Kitty’s shoulders. The garage stood separate from the mansion, so they headed straight for the rear exit that would put them in the kitchen. Kitty stuck to her mother’s side while Isaiah followed closely, keeping an eye out and shielding the women from whoever was out there watching in the dark.

  For the first time in a long time, his pistol was snug in his hand. With the thoroughness of a man who could actually sense others in the dark, he scanned every dark shadow, every void, and everything that so much as hinted at movement. At the door, he reached around Candace for the handle, his hand in the middle of her back if push came to shove.

  A twig cracked at his right as Tucker Chase came into view. “Tate has the high ground,” he advised, meaning the Bureau’s best sniper, Agent Tate Higgins, was on the roof with his rifle.

  “Good to know,” Isaiah replied as he blocked the doorway now that the women had gone inside.

  Tucker lifted one boot to the railing that surrounded the Trex walkway running from garage to patio. “How’s the girl?”

  “They treated her there, then sent her home with a new inhaler,” Isaiah answered. “She’ll be okay once she gets some rest.”

  Tucker scratched his chin. “Seems odd, an asthma attack in the middle of the night. They know what set it off?”

  “Could’ve been stress. She’s just a kid and it’s been a tough day. You have a name for that guy in the chapel yet?”

  Tucker stared past Isaiah into the dark. The man went scary quiet sometimes. Like now. Icy fingers tap-danced up Isaiah’s spine, yet he held his position, glad his boss had his back. Until Tate bellowed in Isaiah’s head, ‘Son-of-a-bitch is hurting him!’ at the same moment that Tucker yelled, “Duck!”

  A shot rang out, the round splintering the doorjamb just beyond Isaiah. Slivers and chunks of fragmented wood sliced through the air, nicking his forehead. “Shit,” he hissed as he slammed the door, then dropped to his haunches, craning to see whatever Tucker and Tate had seen that he hadn’t.

  Tuck stood unflinching as he fired one, two shots over Isaiah’s position and into the night.

  Blood ran down Isaiah’s face and into his eyes, screwing with his vision even as he cast his inner eye, the one that could see and influence most people, into the dark streets beyond the safe house. Like a high-powered scope, it narrowed on the broad back of an angry man hurrying at a fast clip due south. His aura swirled around him in a blurred blend of blacks and reds and—enough pain that Isaiah could taste it. Blood. Isaiah saw blood on the man’s hands and in his heart. This attack wasn’t about the money. It was about revenge.

  Tucker stopped shooting, his pistol still lifted, his shoulders squared. “Bastard dropped a package over the gate before he fired on us. Two of your MPD buddies took after him.”

  ‘He’s bleeding!’ Tate supplied from the rooftop. ‘Get your asses moving!’

  Oh, shit, shit, shit. Isaiah knew precisely what the shooter had dumped over the fence and who was bleeding. Wiping a hand over his bloody brow to clear his sight, he ran with Tucker on his six. There in the dark of a day that wouldn’t end, he found Nugget, the golden fur on his ribs glistening with blood.

  “What the fuck?” Tucker bit out as he dropped to his knees beside Isaiah. “Dispatch,” he snapped into the two-way clipped to his collar. “I need emergency services at our safe house on Embassy Row. Make that a veterinarian. Stat!”

  Isaiah smoothed his fingers over Nugget’s big head, down his neck, and over his ribs to locate the precise source of all that blood. Jumping through glass should’ve sliced his snout, maybe his muzzle, but Nugget face wasn’t injured. The poor guy lifted his head, looked past Isaiah and whined again.

  Tate was suddenly there, his rifle slung over his back as he elbowed Tucker out of the way. “I’ve got you, big fella. You’re not dying on my watch. Just breath. Help’s on its way.”

  Isaiah leaned back on his heels. If anyone could get through to Nugget, it was this guy. Tate had an in with animals, a psychic link. If Isaiah had been a practicing Catholic, he’d think Tate was Saint Francis of Assisi reincarnated.

  Tate worked methodically over the dog’s chest with big, gentle hands, searching for the elusive wound Isaiah hadn’t yet found.

  “You feeling anything besides blood and fur?” Isaiah asked. Damn, there was so much of it, and all of it slick, warm, and deceitful. He’d never forgive himself if Nugget bled out this close to safety and the boy he adored.

  Tate grunted, his eyes focused, his lips set in a thin line. “He’s been stabbed under his arm. Here, see?”

  “Shit,” Tucker hissed when Tate lifted Nugget’s front leg and blood spurted onto Tucker’s hands. “What kind of asshole stabs a dog, then dumps him like this?”

  Neither Isaiah nor Tate answered the rhetorical question.

  “How bad is it?” Isaiah asked, even as he looked down the street across from the gate. Was this attack just another distraction to keep him and his people running in circles? That didn’t feel right, not as viciously as this dog had been hurt. This attack seemed more—personal.

  “Two fingers deep,” Tate replied grimly. No wonder Nugget shuddered and groaned. Tate had obviously stuck two thick fingertips into the wound. “Hold him steady,” he ordered. Reaching into one of his m
any jacket pockets, he pulled out what Isaiah now knew every Marine and SEAL carried—his blow out kit. And in that blowout kit? Two packs of Quik Clot, a powdered clotting agent used in combat to slow blood loss from bullet wounds and—stuff. Thank God.

  Tate tore the foil packet open with his teeth, spat, then lifted Nugget’s front leg and doused the gushing wound with the powdery clotting agent. “Steady,” he told the dog as he wadded a handful of cotton packing and compressed the wound. “This is gonna sting.”

  Damned if Nugget didn’t calm as if he’d understood the husky Alaskan hunched over him was there to help. Why wouldn’t he? Isaiah had no doubt Tate was keeping up some kind of a mental link with the dog.

  Isaiah bowed his chin to his chest, so damned thankful for warriors who knew how to save other warriors, even the furry kind. There weren’t enough men like Tate and Tuck in the world, and every day Isaiah strived to be more like them and less like his father. They stood for what they believed in, and they believed in noble things worth dying for, like liberty, freedom, and covering your brother’s asses. Even your four-legged brother’s asses.

  “Hey,” Tate snapped, jarring Isaiah out of his reverie. “Are you okay?”

  Isaiah nodded, concerned what Tate might’ve seen in his eyes. “I am now. Thanks guys. Thanks for… for everything.”

  Tate stuck a bloody hand on Isaiah’s shoulder, instantly diffusing the ragged emotions swirling in his head. He’d never be tough enough or mean enough to be a Marine, but if he could be half the man Tate was, well… That was good enough for him.

  At last he looked his buddy in the eye. Big mistake. Tate didn’t use a lot of words and tonight was no different. He grunted once, then gave Isaiah a quick nod that plainly said, ‘I’ve got your six, brother.’

  Isaiah swallowed hard. He’d never had a brother until he’d joined this ragtag team of psychic misfits, who, even now, were learning more about their psychic powers than any scientist in a lab could ever teach them. Tucker and Tate, Ky and his sweet wife, Eden—family didn’t get any better than this.

  “Let’s move him inside,” Tucker said quietly. Even he seemed to be touched by the tenderness taking place on this very different battlefield.

  Isaiah looked over his shoulder to where one of the three MPD cruisers was still parked. An EMT wagon had just skipped the curb alongside them, its red and blues flashing. Damned if it wasn’t Harley Mortimer, one of Alex Stewart’s men, now working his part-time job, the graveyard shift for the emergency animal clinic in the District, unfolding his long legs from the driver’s seat.

  Alex owned one of the best covert surveillance teams on the East Coast, possibly in all the USA. He’d successfully competed for jobs that normally fell under the FBI’s charter, but when he’d proved he could do their job better, cheaper, and with considerably less loss of civilian life, he’d indirectly challenged the Bureau to rethink their burdensome procedures. And they had. Finally, the FBI was back in the business of serving America instead of covering its ass with reams of bureaucratic procedure. Harley was one of Alex’s best, God bless him.

  Tucker tagged Roxy to, “Open the gate. Harley Mortimer’s here. We’re coming in.”

  Roxy had to be tense being out of the loop like she was. The gate opened just barely enough for Harley to squeeze through before it closed again. “What have we got here?” he asked as he joined the huddle around the downed animal. The medical kit swinging from his hand belied the concern glistening in his eyes.

  Isaiah could barely speak. Turned out he didn’t have to. A little boy’s voice shattered the muffled silence of the night. “Nugget!”

  Damn. Darrin knew. “I’ve got to go,” Isaiah told Harley, his voice as hoarse as shit. “This is Nugget. He’s Darrin’s dog, and Darrin’s just ten, so please…” Damn, this was hard. “Please don’t let Nugget die.”

  The sweet dog lifted his head, the whites of his eyes wild as he searched for his boy. Harley settled the animal with one word, “Stay,” and to Isaiah he whispered, “This dog is not going to die. I won’t let him. Go tell that little boy I said so.”

  Isaiah pushed to his feet, wiping his eyes so he could be the man Darrin needed to see by the time he made it to the front door. Before he knew it, he was inside where Roxy stood with Darrin. The boy had crumpled to a heap, sobbing his eyes out, his shoulders heaving and his heart broken. Yeah. Old Yeller had nothing on reality.

  Without saying anything, Isaiah sank to his knees and instantly, Darrin climbed into his lap. “I wanna see my dog,” he cried, his whole body sweaty and shaking. “Nugget,” he called out again. “I wanna be there right now! He… he needs me!”

  ‘Tell him Nugget’s alive,’ Tucker whispered on their private link. ‘Lie to the kid, damn it. At least until we know if Harley can work miracles like he thinks he can.’

  “He’s alive,” Isaiah said softly, his chest tight and hurting. Harley was a good soul, a kind soul like no other. Maybe he was a miracle worker, too.

  “But…” Roxy murmured from the window where she watched the goings on, and Isaiah looked up into her teary face. “We saw that guy dump him over the fence and what if—?”

  Isaiah shook his head at her. Darrin needed to believe, so Isaiah told him the same lie every combat medic in the field told the wounded men and women he’d served. “He’s going to be okay, Darrin. Nugget will be okay.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tucker led the way, bringing the stretcher with Nugget inside the home. They were worried about more shooters, and this vet Isaiah called Harley couldn’t operate in the dark. Agent Higgins must’ve gone back up to the roof since he didn’t come in, and that was encouraging. As quickly as he’d bolted off the roof to get to Nugget’s side, Roxy had a feeling if he thought he could leave the dog in Harley’s care, then everything would be okay. She clung to that feeling because, well. She wasn’t so sure.

  Roxy watched the sad procession pass by her with a beautiful golden dog that looked to be sound asleep, his long pink tongue lolled out of his mouth, and his chest heaving as he panted for his life. She’d watched Isaiah kneel, and she’d seen how eagerly he’d gathered Darrin into his arms. She saw his beautiful blue eyes fill with tears and she saw his hands enfold a tender little soul against his great big heart.

  Then she was on the floor with him, holding them both and fighting her tears. Unexpectedly, Tucker Chase knelt with them. Not her favorite guy, but so be it.

  “Knock it off,” he murmured gruffly. “For God’s sake, the dog’s not bleeding anymore, and Harley’s ready to do some quick surgery. Nugget’ll be back to normal before you know it.”

  But Roxy recognized a fatherly lie when she heard one.

  Darrin lifted his tear stained face from where he clenched the front of Isaiah’s shirt. “Can I see him, Mister? Can I, huh, please?”

  Tucker stalled. His gaze softened as he studied Darrin, and damned if the gentleness in his eyes didn’t boost him up a notch in Roxy’s esteem. “Would you mind if we clean him up first? He’s a little bloody.” What an understatement.

  “But I wanna see him, in case…” A hiccup wrenched out of Darrin. “In case… you know… in case he—”

  Tucker skimmed his big manly finger under Darrin’s quivering chin. “Hey, tough guy. Nugget’s not going to die, you understand? Now let me go see if Doc Mortimer says you can see Nugget. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  “’Kay,” Darrin murmured, his throat muscles working as he swallowed his tears. “I can wait, but Mister…” He lunged out of Isaiah’s lap and into Tucker’s arms, and hung on as only a desperate little boy could, his head against Tucker’s massive chest. “Would you please tell him I love him more than anything in the whole, entire world? Would you tell him I’m waiting for him, and I promise I’ll play ball with him every single day for the rest of my life and I’ll brush him and walk him and I’ll let him sleep in my bed too?”

  “You bet,” Tucker replied, his voice gone gru
ff and low. When his palm cupped the back of Darrin’s head and tears shimmered in Tucker’s dark eyes… Ah, shit. Roxy couldn’t take anymore. The shadow darkening this tough guy’s face was so damned sorrowful, she turned away to keep from bawling. There was more to this alpha male than she’d given him credit for, and like it or not, Tucker seemed to know precisely what Darrin needed to hear. But when he enfolded Darrin under his chin with his nose in the kid’s hair like he did? She lost it.

  Lifting to her feet, Roxy stepped away and put her back to the wall, automatically in self-defense mode. Damn these guys! They were breaking her heart, and that just didn’t happen. It couldn’t. They were supposed to be tougher than her, not a bunch of Stay-Puft Marshmallows in disguise. Scrubbing her hand over her face, she swallowed her tears and her pride.

  It was a good thing Candy and her daughter weren’t there, probably because Kitty wasn’t feeling well enough to be on her feet. They might not even know this drama was unfolding. But still…

  Roxy looked through the kitchen and down the hall. Candace sure had a knack for not being around when her kids needed her.

  By the time she’d gotten control, Tucker had eased Darrin back onto Isaiah’s lap. “You stay here with Officer Thurston and Agent Zaroyin. Be right back, kid.” Pushing of the floor, he made a hasty retreat, but he came back just as quickly. Holding out his hand, he fluttered his fingers for Darrin to join him. “Come on, kid. Get your butt in here.”

  Darrin scrambled to follow, as did Roxy and Isaiah, but she hung back at the door. It was enough to watch whatever unfolded next from a safe distance. Be it sorrow or joy, she didn’t need to be in the middle of it.

  Tiptoeing to where Harley stood over the prone animal now laid on the formal dining room table, Darrin peered up at the man with the lopsided grin. Harley stood a good six feet, three or four inches tall. Sandy-haired and one of those gregarious types, he stuck his hand out, and thankfully, it wasn’t encased in a bloody glove. “Hey, little buddy. Are you the proud owner of this knucklehead?”