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

by Irish Winters

  Maintaining their grip and their link, he and Eden kept up with their mental projections for minutes that turned into a half hour, then a full sixty minutes before he felt the first tentative vibration of someone at odds with their idyllic vision. A slow hum radiated up from Eden’s fingers on his forearm. She recognized the vibration, too. Someone out there in the universe was not happy. Someone intimately in lust with that five million.

  ‘Work with me, Eden. Think all of your happy feminine thoughts. They’re different from mine, but just as powerful. Maybe more powerful. You and she share the same gender. You talk the same language. Crowd Candace’s greed out with all the positive could-bees. Challenge her right to be rich at the expense of others. That alone will spur her avarice until it knows no bounds.’

  Then… Bingo. Isaiah felt Candace’s shadowy presence more than he saw her. Her mind lurked in the darkness as indiscernible as ever. But there.

  “She isn’t happy. It will happen soon,” Isaiah murmured. “We’ll want to be there when she strikes it rich.”

  “She’s hired a tow truck,” Eden answered, obviously clued into Candace in a way Isaiah hadn’t been. “You’re going to marry Roxy.”

  Isaiah opened his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted, still holding hands with a sister he hadn’t realized he’d had until this day. “I love her and I won’t live without her. I can’t.”

  “It could change everything.” Eden’s voice pitched soft and low as if she knew precisely what lay in store for him.

  He nodded, pleased to share this confidence. Because of her husband Ky, Eden understood what it meant to finally find the one soul in the universe that gave your soul its reason to exist.

  She gave him a final squeeze before she released his hand and lifted to her feet. “This could get messy. Tucker and Ky need to join us.”

  Isaiah agreed. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  In the end, apprehending Candace Bratton was as anti-climactic as scratching an itch. After their meeting of the minds, Isaiah and Eden hooked up with Tucker and Ky Winchester. Tucker set up a twelve-hour schedule: two agents on, two off, with Isaiah and Eden taking the first shift.

  Isaiah fully expected the end of this complex operation would take days, that it’d stretch into tedium long before she showed, but that same evening, a sturdy tow truck rumbled through the gutter and bounced into the lot at the abandoned garage, its yellow lights flashing as if it had a right to be there.

  Watching from behind the steering wheel of the twelve-year-old sedan Isaiah had insisted on using for this stakeout, the driver dropped out of the rig and looked around, his hands on his hips. The rig looked legit, but Isaiah called the plate into the FBI switchboard anyway.

  Eden leaned forward, peering over the dash. “There’s someone else in the cab.”

  Sure enough. With red hair flouncing off her shoulders like a celebrity, Candace Bratton slid to the ground, her hands stuck deep in the pockets of another trench coat, this one black leather instead of red.

  “The lady likes coatssssssssss,” Isaiah hissed.

  “Oh, my hell, those boots have got to have six-inch heels, and….” Eden pitched forward in her seat, craning her neck. “Is that a sequined mini-dress under her coat? Seriously? She’s wearing thigh-high boots, a leather gangster coat, and a dress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination? On another heist? If that doesn’t say ‘hooker!’” —Eden’s dainty fingers fluttered with air quotes— “nothing does.”

  And see that right there? That was precisely what Isaiah needed, a woman’s perspective. It made him smile, was what it did. He hadn’t noticed what Eden noticed—yet—because like any guy, he’d focused on the Chevy wrecker/tow truck. The rig’s dual wheels and sturdy suspension. The hefty push-bumper up front. The collapsible boom, winch, and metal cables on the raised bed at the rear. The hook at the end of the boom, and the sign below the driver side window that declared Henry’s Tow Service. The license plate. Important stuff like that.

  “Wonder if he’s got life insurance,” Isaiah offered to prove he’d been OTJ, too.

  “Or a tactical vest beneath his shirt.” Eden tossed her head. “That’s no woman, Isaiah. That’s a witch, through and through.”

  Another smile creased his cheeks. Yeah. Working with women definitely offered insights that working with men didn’t, and he loved it.

  Without so much as a worry to the left or right to make sure the coast was clear, Candace strode to the office door instead of the garage doors. Once there, she spread her legs like she’d probably seen starlets do in the movies. She tossed that shiny red mane in the breeze, then drew a small weapon from her right coat pocket, and POP! She shot the handle off the office door. The muffled sound of a suppressor barely registered over the traffic noise from the street.

  “Damn, she’s brazen. I thought you guys left it unlocked?” Eden asked, her attention riveted on the B&E in progress.

  “We did,” Isaiah replied, wondering how long it would take Candy to use that same weapon on the gentleman friend she’d hooked up with, who even now, reached around her to hold the door. He was the nervous one, looking over his shoulder as he followed her into the work bay and closed the door behind him. “Also had the power company turn on the electricity so she can see what she’s doing in there.”

  Hence the flickering OPEN FOR BUSINESS neon sign now at the front window.

  “Wonder if she told him to bring a hazmat suit?” Eden asked as the overhead shop lights in the work bay kicked on.

  “Guess we’ll find out.” What Isaiah wouldn’t give to see that guy’s face when Candy coaxed him to climb down into that grimy mess. How long would she keep him around once she had the five mil? A month? A week? Or would she leave his dead body behind, face down in the pit, when she drove away in his truck tonight?

  On a dead run, the tow truck operator burst out of the garage and beelined to his truck. If he were smart, he’d climb up in that cab and never be seen again, but noooooooooo. In minutes, he’d backed the rig to the garage bay and was busy at the rear boom with cables, levers, and such. The big oaf had fallen under her spell.

  Candy must’ve decided to keep things on the down low. The doublewide doors were still closed, which meant her beefy friend had to drag the hook and cable through the office and into the garage.

  “Won’t he need to drain the pit to retrieve the safe?”

  “It’s not that deep,” Isaiah assured her. “Not anymore. We left the chain around the safe, too. All he’s got to do is anchor that cable over the engine hoist above the pit, hook that chain, and turn on his winch. Shouldn’t take long now.”

  “Good thinking. Tucker’s on standby.”

  “Alert Ky that she’s here, too,” Isaiah requested.

  “And Roxy,” Eden added. “She’ll want to be in on this bust.”

  “If you can reach her. She’s not answering my calls,” Isaiah admitted as shadows played across the narrow row of windows on the doublewide doors. “But it’s okay. Tate says she’s been busy with her dad and the kids. I’ll understand if she can’t make it.”

  Eden cocked a sideways glance in his direction. “Too busy for you?”

  Isaiah kept his gaze forward even as he nodded through Eden’s disbelief. Candy’s accomplice had just cleared the garage again to activate the winch, and things were happening fast, but yeah. Roxy’s silence over the last twelve hours—there was that damned number again—rattled Isaiah. He didn’t understand what could’ve happened since they’d parted ways, him to FBI Headquarters, her with the kids to her father’s place. Everything between them had been prefect the last time they’d been together. They’d made love in the shower and several more times in his bed at the FBI safe house. Due to the kids they’d had to be more circumspect at his place, but she’d been at his side every minute of this operation, only now… He worried.

  The radio sprang to life with DMV details on the tow truck, startling him back to the stake-out. Th
e rig hadn’t been reported stolen. Owner was one Henry Oliver. Home address in Silver Spring. Business address in Foggy Bottom. No citations and no criminal record. Not even a parking ticket.

  “Copy that,” Isaiah replied as he disconnected. “Looks like Henry’s branching out.”

  “Here she comes.”

  Isaiah stiffened in his seat as Candace ran to the rear of the rig and grabbed the rolled rubber mat tucked alongside the boom. “He must have the safe out of the pit.”

  “Which means they’ll blow it next. Might be what the mat’s for. A shield to protect them from the blast.”

  “Could be,” Isaiah mused. “Or she intends to roll her good buddy Henry in it.”

  Eden growled. “Focus, Isaiah. She can’t kill him. She needs him to carry the loot.”

  “True that,” he agreed as an explosion inside the building lit the windows, rattling the garage doors as the shock wave radiated outward. “Shall we?”

  Eden grinned. “Tucker and Ky will be here in thirty. Let’s have these two in cuffs by then.”

  And that was precisely what happened. Isaiah and Eden found Candace on her hands and knees with her butt in the air and her face in the locker-style safe. Now out of the pit and on its side, the blast of whatever they’d used had twisted the safe’s door enough that she couldn’t get it to open. Hence her unladylike position and the expletives pouring out of her mouth at what she now knew was in that safe.

  Absolutely nothing.

  Did you really think the FBI would have—ever—left five million United States dollars sitting in a safe in an unlocked abandoned garage just to catch a thief?

  “Fuck!” she hissed as one now muddy hand swiped at the red tangles hanging in her eyes.

  “FBI!” Isaiah proudly announced, his pistol on Candace, and Eden’s pistol drawn on Henry. “Candace Bratton and Henry Oliver! Hands over your heads where I can see them. Do it. Now!”

  “Isaiah?” Candace asked as she complied, all while blinking her big, gray eyes, a ruse Isaiah knew was not compliance. He was willing to bet that, once again, she had something up her sleeve.

  “Candace Bratton, you’re under arrest for the murder of your father-in-law, Chester Bratton, and—”

  “Ex,” she huffed, even as her chin lifted in defiance. “He was my ex-father-in-law, Agent Zaroyin. Get it right.”

  “No, once again you lie. You never divorced Bob. Chester was your father-in-law when you knifed him, Candace Bratton, but he was also your lover and Kitty’s real father. Yet you kept stringing Bob along. You couldn’t let him go, could you?” Isaiah could feel Eden’s sharp eyes on him as that truth settled.

  “You still love Bob?” Eden asked.

  The cold-blooded murderer morphed into the sultry liar that Candace Bratton truly was. Her shoulder lifted in a coy shrug like she stood a chance of deceiving Eden—a real mother. “Can I help it if men like me?” Man, if she were a psychic, she’d be damned lethal.

  “Whatever,” Isaiah bit out before Eden answered. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Chester Bratton. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you…”

  By the time he finished reading her rights, Eden had cuffed and read Mr. Oliver his rights. She’d moved to cuff Candace next, but Isaiah stopped her. “Don’t touch her, Eden. Back away. We can wait.”

  “Oh, come on,” Candace complained, her brows furrowed as if she were in pain. “This floor’s killing my knees and I’m cold and—”

  “And you don’t know when to shut up,” Isaiah told her evenly, his pistol still trained on her forehead. “You’re not going anywhere. Shut. Up.”

  She huffed through the strands of grimy, red hair hanging in her eyes. “You know where it is, don’t you?” She meant the money.

  “I do. It’s where you can’t reach it.”

  Her teeth clenched. “But it’s mine. After what I’ve been through, I deserve every last penny of it. Do you have any idea what I’ve had to put up with? How long I’ve waited?”

  That pissed Eden off. “Who cares how long you waited? Your kids deserve that money for the hell you’ve put them through. Did you even think about them? That money should put them through college and buy them a future, not hooker-high heels and a boob job for you!”

  Isaiah shot a quick glance at Eden. He’d never seen her so angry. A boob job? Yet another little detail he hadn’t picked up on and never would’ve guessed.

  Candace tossed her head, the mud on her pricey leather coat and her knee turning her into a pitiful beggar instead of the rich bitch she’d strived to be. She leaned forward and shrieked, “What would you know?”

  And the catfight was on. Eden turned downright nasty. “I’ll tell you what I know, Mizz Bratton. I know good mothers don’t use their kids like you’ve used yours. Good mothers don’t lie, and they don’t steal, because they want what’s best for their kids, first and always. But you...” Eden sucked in a deep breath. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  ‘Tone it down, Sis. She’s the one on her knees, not you.’

  Eden huffed once, message received. ‘Did you just call me Sis?’

  Isaiah sent her a cocky grin. ‘That’s what you are. My sister. My friend. And one bad Mama Bear. I think I love you.’

  That put a satisfied smile on her face, even as she swished her blonde hair over her shoulder, cocked her head and stared Candace down.

  Within seconds, Tucker and Ky cleared the door behind Isaiah and Eden. Sure enough. Candace was carrying—a lot. Tucker relieved her of two pistols, one revolver, a switchblade hidden up her sleeve, a cell phone tucked in an inside pocket, and another blade hidden in a boot sheath. She bitched and complained about her knees during the whole search, but at last, Candace Bratton had been apprehended and the mission was done. Almost.

  Isaiah holstered his weapon once she was under armed guard and on her way to FBI holding downtown. But damn. He had another long night ahead of him. In processing the suspects. Questioning Henry Oliver. Interrogating Candace. Filing reports and then more reports, and, holy hell, suddenly Isaiah was bone tired. He looked west to where—somewhere out there in the dark—Roxy lay sleeping in her bed in her father’s house. He wished he were there with her. Under the covers. Tangled up in the sheets. Kissing her full, lush lips. Loving her.

  Eden came into his mind like a whisper. ‘Go to her.’

  Isaiah locked eyes with her as Tucker headed for the vehicle he and Ky had arrived in.

  ‘I’ll cover for you. Go now before Tucker notices you’re gone.’

  Isaiah wanted to, but did he dare? Arresting agents had responsibilities, and Isaiah never broke the rules, well except for all those times with Roxy, but—

  “Do what the lady says, Agent Zaroyin,” Tucker barked over his shoulder. He turned from where he stood at the SUV, a lopsided grin cracking his big chin. “All of you. Go home and get some rest. This op’s over for the night. We’ll start fresh tomorrow… afternoon. Make it count.”

  “But Boss….”

  Tucker cut Isaiah off. “I said, go. Randall and the Brattons can sure as hell wait. Officer Thurston can’t.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Roxy couldn’t sleep. She’d never admit that she had it, but the struggle with Post Traumatic Stress was real. She found herself ready to fight at the silliest things, like when Kitty dropped her fork tonight. They’d ordered pizza and ate in while the kids watched one episode of Sponge Bob after another. Roxy thought she’d finally settled back into a normal zone, but the metallic clink of that single fork when it hit the floor was all it took.

  She could no more sit there as if nothing happened than she could swallow one bite of the pizza on her plate. Keller and Tate had no problem eating. Neither did the kids, and for that she was thankful. They’d slept through the terror of their near deaths by fire. But Roxy hadn’t.

  Fighting the need to get the hell out of there, she shrugged into her shoulder holster and d
onned Isaiah’s leather jacket. Yes, she saw the approval in Tate’s covert glance when she zipped up and flipped the collar against her neck, but she ignored it. She caught the question on her father’s face, but this was all she had of Isaiah at the moment, and she needed the scent of him in her nose right now, and something that belonged to him wrapped around her, and… and… Argh! Why am I defending my actions? To me!

  “I’m going for a walk,” she said brusquely, then gave Tate and Keller her most business-like nod. If she didn’t leave now, she’d scream, so she slipped out the back door and left the tension in her father’s place—that apparently no one but her noticed—behind.

  Roxy took to the streets, her home away from home. Spring nights in the District were still chilly and damp. Fog from the Potomac had invaded the neighborhood at sunset, and the sidewalks were wet with condensation. She was glad for that, even needed it. The fog offered the muffled sense of privacy and aloneness she needed.

  Her boots led her to Saint Pat’s. Locked up for the night, its windows were dark as if no one was home. But Roxy knew better. Father Tom Diego might’ve gone to the rectory, but the person Roxy needed never left.

  Careful to not let the sliding hasp clank, she let herself through the side gate onto church grounds. Instantly concealed in the deep shadow between the cathedral’s spires and its sixteen story neighbor to the East, she followed the stone path past the magnificent stained glass windows at her right until at last, she came in stealthy silence to the hidden garden in the corner. This had always been her mother’s favorite place, the shrine of the Blessed Virgin.

  The lovely white marble statue stood in the hedge of roses that had been here for as long as Roxy could remember. In May, it glowed in warm sunshine with a myriad of pink rose blossoms hugging it, but now Mary stood alone in the dark. Shadowy thorns instead of rose petals stretched around her as if daring anyone to hurt the Virgin they protected.

  Roxy let her tired butt sink to the cold surface of the curved stone bench at one side of the shrine. Another bench curved opposite her, with a flat-topped, four-foot stone kneeler between them at Mary’s feet, completing the intimate circle of divinity and sinners. Like me.