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

by Irish Winters

  “So he’s the best?” She needed to know.

  Tucker nodded. “Oh, yes. Isaiah and Eden are the only Level Tens in North America. Another two live in Russia. Siberia, the last I heard. Three more in China. One in Tibet.”

  “There are only eight Level Tens” —whatever that was— “in the world?”

  He nodded, a smile tweaking his lip as he lifted the drink back to his mouth. “Bet you wish you knew what a Level Ten was, huh?”

  “Hmmpf.” Humility was not her favorite flavor. Neither was having her mind read, which it seemed Tucker had just done. “So what is it?”

  In the course of the next hour, her head spun while he explained the differences between Clairsensitives, who sensed other psychics in the world; Telekinesists, who moved objects mentally; Telepaths, the real mind readers; Intuitives, who sensed others’ emotions instead of their thoughts; and lastly, Precognitors, people who were able to reach out and influence others’ decisions. Isaiah, it seemed, possessed most of these psychic talents to some degree. Talk about far-fetched.

  Roxy didn’t believe. “You mean he could convince a Catholic priest to commit murder?”

  Tucker shook his head as he lifted to his feet and took his mug to the counter. “That’s not how it works. A Precognitor’s power lies in his ability to accurately decipher another person’s aura, then influence decisions they might be faced with, like which flight to take or when to take a vacation. Where to go. What meal to choose at a restaurant. Precognitors can’t force people to act against their character, certainly not murder, not unless they tend that way already. But a savvy Precognitor could influence his mark to decide to be in the right place at the right time. He might want a certain person on a specific flight when the plane blows up. Maybe he needs them standing near the president when an assassin strikes. Real life scenarios like that.”

  Roxy ran her fingers over her lips so her mouth wasn’t hanging open. “So, umm, Isaiah’s like a police profiler?” Holy shit. What couldn’t the guy do?

  “More like an FBI profiler, but yes. Along those exact lines, only his level of skill is more like a finely honed scalpel in a surgeon’s hands. Need another drink?”

  Roxy didn’t miss Tucker’s hoity-toity slam against local profilers. “Only if you put something in it this time,” she muttered as she handed her empty mug over. The day had just taken a sharp left turn into LaLa-land, and no, she didn’t mean one of Hollywood’s latest movies. A good stiff burn would feel good going down about now. “Has he ever planted ideas in your mind?” She had to know.

  “As a matter of fact… yes.” Tucker sorted through several cabinets until he found the bottle he was looking for. “Ah, here we go. I knew it was here somewhere,” he said as he splashed whatever alcohol he’d found into the two mugs before filling them to the brim with coffee.

  Back at the table, he pushed her mug across the table with one fingertip. “I was up north in Canada when he first made contact. He had me hearing things. When I came to, I had the migraine from hell.” Tucker chuckled to himself as he tipped the cup to his lips and swallowed half of it.

  “Like what?” Roxy asked as she took a sip. Ahh, coffee laced with whiskey. Just what she needed. “What’d he say to you?”

  Tucker paused, his gaze fixed on the rim of his mug. “He didn’t say anything, just messed with my sat phone at first. I thought it was dead, but it wasn’t. Eden was there with me. She’d met Isaiah earlier, through some psychic channel, not in person. We didn’t know it then, but a couple of his old man’s enemies, Senator Bick and his psychotic wife, kidnapped Isaiah. They had him strapped to an autopsy table in a warehouse south of Boston. Cassandra Bick tortured him until he did what she wanted. You’ve seen his scars? That was her doing.”

  Suddenly it was hard to breathe. Roxy nodded, her throat gone dry. That was how Isaiah had gotten those scars. There were so many. All over his arms and chest. “That bitch did that?” I’ll kill her if I ever see her.

  Tucker nodded, his gaze still fixed on the mug in his hand. “Yeah. She cut him up pretty bad. Kept him weak. Senator Bick was the power monger of the two, but his wife…” Tucker rolled one shoulder as if he shared those scars. “Cassandra was one twisted bitch. The bastards had some insane notion of ruling the world. They wanted him and Eden for breeding stock. Figured the odds for producing Level Ten offspring would work in their favor. Shitheads.”

  Isaiah and Eden? Breeding stock? Didn’t that trigger the annoying green troll on Roxy’s shoulder?

  A grumbly growl vibrated deep inside Tucker’s broad chest. “Death was too good for those sons-of-bitches. If I had my way, I’d dig Bick and his wife up just to kill them again. After I tortured the shit out of them. After I burned them alive. After I dismembered—”

  “I get the picture,” Roxy said, her fingers curled around her mug because suddenly, she needed something warm to hold onto. “How’d they die?” She needed the particulars.

  “Special Agent Ky Winchester and Mark Houston, one of Stewart’s men, tracked Eden. You know Alex Stewart, right?”

  She nodded. Everyone knew the former USMC sniper who’d built the elite covert surveillance company known the world over as The TEAM. “Go on.”

  “Well, anyway, they found her along with Isaiah, his father, and the Bicks, south of Boston in one of Bick’s many warehouses. If I recall the deets correctly, Ky ended the senator on the scene, but Isaiah, even as cut up and weak as he was, still managed to taze that bitch.” Roxy saw the glow in Tucker’s eyes. He was proud of Isaiah.

  “So he messed with your mind and gave you a headache?”

  “No. I got the headache when I threatened Eden, and she hit me with a brick of ice. We were still in Canada then.” Canting his head, he pointed to three square-cornered scars in a row on the side of his forehead. “She might look like a little girl, but that woman’s got a mean right hook. Don’t make her mad. She damned near took my head off.”

  “She hit you?” I have got to meet her!

  “That she did, but I asked for it. I was ready to kill her, again because of what I thought I’d heard. It was Isaiah who planted that notion in my head, and I—”

  “He told you to kill her?”

  Tucker shook his head. “No, that’s on me, but he did infuse my ego with the need to be a hero. Back then, I was a different guy. I thought Director Strong ordered me to take Dr. Zaroyin down with extreme prejudice. I’m still sure I heard him say extreme prejudice, only… he didn’t. All he wanted was Eden out of Canada and me to keep her safe. But the way my brain worked then, it automatically kicked into search and destroy mode instead of rescue mode. God, help me, I could’ve killed her.” His voice had grown softer with every word. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

  Holy shit. “That was how you knew what Isaiah was capable of?”

  “No, that’s when I knew for damned sure that I didn’t know everything,” Tucker admitted. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he downed the last of his drink. “Believe it or not, this FBI team is the most powerful team I’ve ever worked with, and I’ve worked with the best.”

  And they were all Navy SEALs, no doubt.

  He finally met her gaze. “Freaks you out, all this psychic bullshit, huh? But you do realize that we as a species haven’t come anywhere near our full psychic potential, don’t you?” He pinched his index finger to his thumb with no space in between. “We use such a small portion of our brains. Maybe there’s, for lack of a better word, more to us than meets the eye, Roxy. Scientists once thought the world was flat, remember?”

  She stared at the mug in her hands. “You do know we’re on duty, right?” she asked, still not sure what to think.

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t put enough in your coffee to water your eyes.”

  But how much did you put in yours? “So then…” She had no idea what question to ask, other than—are you guys all crazy? Yet she believed every last word he’d said because she’d witnessed Isaiah’
s vision. From the get-go, she’d known he was too good for her, but to realize that he belonged in a loftier sphere than common, ordinary people like her? That was something else entirely. Isaiah really was out of this world.

  What on Earth did he see in her? She had no psychic talent. All she’d offered up to this point was distraction. To be all he could be, to truly serve and protect others, Isaiah needed distance. From her.

  Tucker huffed through his nose. “Yeah, I couldn’t believe it the first time I heard it, either, but trust me. Isaiah’s the real deal, and he’s the only one who can find Candace Bratton, Chester Bratton, and Garrett Randall. Isaiah just needs to focus. On that. Nothing else.”

  And no one else. There it was, the truth exposed and her heart along with it. Still fingering the handle of her mug, Roxy swallowed hard at that bitter reality. Tucker was right, but he’d made it sound easy. Forget about Isaiah. Let him do his job while you do yours. Stop thinking about him, and he’ll stop thinking about you.

  She doubted that. Her lashes fell to the black beverage swirling in her mug, the same color of Isaiah’s eyes when he’d gone into that trance. There was no sense bluffing Tucker, but there was also no way to stop what her heart told her.

  She and Isaiah were linked beyond the chemistry flying between them. This was no one-time affair. The sex was phenomenal, but that wasn’t all that connected them. Hell, no. She loved Isaiah, and Tucker knew it. He wasn’t dumb. Roxy was.

  She’d let Isaiah leave without telling him she loved him. She wished she had, though now Roxy knew she wouldn’t have just kissed him. She would’ve kissed him goodbye.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Instead of searching after Candace Bratton’s nonexistent psychic vibes, Isaiah zeroed in on Garrett Randall’s. Neanderthal vibes were easier to locate.

  “He’s at Bashar’s Brazier, seven blocks south of the safe house on Embassy Row,” Isaiah murmured. “Back room off the alley. Studio apartment. He’s there, but he’s alone.”

  “Guess that’ll have to be good enough for now.” The vehicle lurched forward as Tate engaged and Isaiah held onto the vision. The stench of cheap booze hit Isaiah’s nostrils as if he were in the dingy room with Randall. “He’s been drinking and he’s waiting for someone.”

  “Hope it’s Bratton,” Tate replied as he headed toward the interstate. “Keep talking.”

  “Not much to tell,” Isaiah murmured, his eyes closed and his head against his seatback. “Other than he could use a shower and a breath mint. He’s drowsy from drinking all day. This is our chance.”

  The miles flew by while Isaiah gently probed the sleeping man’s mind. So many thinking errors had clouded his judgment over time. So much anger. The man operated on gut instinct that, nine times out of ten, ended in a bare-knuckled fight. Or worse. The blade strapped to his calf belied his mistrust of everything and everyone.

  As psychic forays often did, this one ended with Isaiah’s mental fingertips sinking deeper into Garrett’s unguarded childhood memories of abuse, neglect, and outright torment. A cocaine addict, Luella, his mother offered no protection to any of her four sons. All in turn were pimped out to boyfriends and one night hook-ups, battered and sorely used until Dirk Randall came along and gave them his name. Then things went from bad to worse.

  That the Randall boys lived through those ugly times proved Nature’s harshest law: survival of the fittest. That their stepfather mysteriously disappeared when Garrett reached the hardened age of thirteen, proved the law of the jungle. The Randall boys were finely honed survivors—and killers—by then.

  They’d simply waited until, as usual, Dirk drank himself into oblivion one late afternoon. By morning, the bloody mess of his death struggle had been cleaned, and Mama Randall was none the wiser. Not that she would’ve heard anything in her coke-induced haze. Not that she would’ve done anything to intervene. Luella only cared about one thing by then, and it went up her nose. She still lived in the same two-room, dirt-poor shack in the mountains of West Virginia. Garrett kept her supplied with enough coke to keep her quiet. Manageable. And for now—alive.

  Isaiah pulled out of his trance just as the afternoon sun dipped below the western horizon behind him. Shadows stretched long and dark. The bright lights of the District glittered ahead. Tate had already crossed the Potomac and now aimed for Embassy Row.

  “Take the next right, then an immediate left,” Isaiah whispered. Randall hadn’t moved since he’d fallen asleep. This part of the op might actually go easy. “You’ll pass a pink neon flamingo on the corner to the left. That’s Bashar’s sign. You can’t miss it.”

  Tate brought the vehicle to a stop in the alley Isaiah had seen in his mind. Two black FBI vans were already parked and waiting.

  “You called for back-up?” Isaiah asked, surprised he hadn’t heard his partner making that call.

  “He’s not getting away this time. Two more units are parked out front. Metro’s got three a block away in case things go bad. Say when.”

  Isaiah had to know. “You’ve got a private link with Tucker, don’t you?”

  Tate’s grunt was answer enough.

  “Then let’s do this,” Isaiah ordered.

  Tate flashed his headlights to signal the units ahead, and everything went like clockwork. It took seconds to breach the shabby hollow core door. Without another exit, Randall never stood a chance. Surly as a bear out of hibernation, he charged Tate head-on before Tate delivered a fist to Randall’s forehead. Randall dropped flat to his back and that was that.

  Tate shook his fist. “Got him,” he growled as he dropped one knee to Randall’s side, rolled him to his belly, and cuffed him.

  Tate helped the dazed man to his knees, and then to his feet while Isaiah read Randall his rights. Randall told them all to go to hell, and Tate showed him to the holding cell in the rear of one of the FBI vans. Isaiah took a deep breath even as he sent Tucker a mental update. ‘Garrett Randall is in custody. No sign of Candace Bratton.’

  ‘Good job,’ Tucker sent back. ‘You know what to do.’

  ‘How’s things on your end?’

  ‘All’s quiet on the western front.’ Tucker chuckled. ‘Kids are playing some video game in their room. Roxy’s cleaning up after dinner. Almost feels like home.’

  The domestic image of Tucker watching Roxy in the kitchen irked Isaiah. The guy hadn’t meant anything salacious by his comment, but still. He was there and Isaiah was not.

  ‘I’ll keep you informed.’ Isaiah signed off before Tucker made it worse. It was bad enough that in-processing and questioning Randall would take the rest of the night, maybe most of the next day. He didn’t need images of Tucker getting cozy with Roxy in his head while duty dragged on.

  “Hey, Zaroyin,” one of the other FBI agents called out from the back room. Special Agent Keller Boniface. One of the Bureau’s finest. “You need to see this.”

  Isaiah ducked into the rental’s bathroom. There in the tub lay a wooden carton of pasty-white bricks of C-4. Detonators. A spool of det cord. Several burner phones still in their plastic cases. Lead pipes. Duct tape. “No wonder he smells.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Boniface replied. The man never smiled. “Blond haired, stone-faced and built like Tate, he tugged at his dress slacks when he crouched near the tub, his massive forearms on just as massive thighs. “We should be able to trace all these back to their sellers without much trouble. The C-4’s stolen, I can tell you that right now. I recognize the first four digits of those MSNs on the wooden box, the military stock numbers. Looks like Randall’s got am Army buddy who’s willing to go to jail with him.”

  Isaiah peered over Boniface’s shoulder. He recognized something in the jumbled mess of bomb making materials, too. A red negligee. Had Candace been here with Randall? “Looks like he’s got a lady friend.”

  Producing a mechanical pencil from an inner suit jacket pocket, Boniface maneuvered the silky scrap of fabric from beneath the supplies. “T
his should give us plenty of DNA evidence.”

  ‘No! Stop! Not that!’ Isaiah froze as a vision poured over his psychic channel. Someone, a man, screamed through a thick, dark fog. His hands came up. Terror welled in his eyes. ‘I can tell you where it is, just don’t, God, please don’t!’ He angled his shoulder, one hand raised as if deflecting an attacker. ‘If you kill me now, you’ll never know! God, woman! You’re crazy!’

  The frightened warning zeroed in on Isaiah as if he were witnessing one side of the attack. ‘I’ll never know what?’ Isaiah asked. ‘Who’s hurting you? Who are you?’

  The man, whoever he was, turned and looked at Isaiah as if they were standing feet apart and side-by-side, as if he’d heard Isaiah and could see him. ‘You! Help me! It’s Candy! Candy Bratton’s going to k—’

  The connection burst like a water balloon splattering on concrete.

  “She’s killing him,” Isaiah told Boniface.

  Keller leapt to his feet and spun toward the door, his service weapon instantly in one hand, shielding Isaiah at his rear. “Who, sir? Who’s killing who? Where?”

  “Stand down,” Isaiah replied evenly. The man seemed unusually tight considering his practiced calm just moments ago. “She’s not here, but Candace Bratton is killing someone, a man, right now. I didn’t get a good enough look at his face, but I’m almost sure it was Chester Bratton. I just don’t know where they are.”

  An odd shadow shifted over Keller’s stern face. With an angry huff, he holstered his pistol. “Sorry, sir. You’re the psychic. I should’ve known you were seeing things that I, umm, c-c-couldn’t.” He ran a quick hand over his brow. “What n-n-now?”

  Had tough-guy Keller just developed a stutter? Tate was back in the room by then, his black eyes ablaze, and Isaiah didn’t have time to decipher one more mystery. He let Boniface’s strange reaction slide.