Tucker nodded with a grin. “Sure did. Sam wanted to be there for his graduation party. Bobby’s nearly done with her business degree. It’ll be a hot time in Freetown tonight.”
“Alex will see you now,” Mark said politely.
“Later,” Tucker called to the guys and gals he wouldn’t mind working with some day. Stewart’s men and women were tough professionals. Like him.
Stewart stood stern and formal behind his desk, his arm stretched forward, one palm open for a handshake. “Tucker,” he said curtly. Business-like.
“Good morning, Alex.” Tucker returned the chilly greeting, but the second he took hold of the man’s hand, he met a bone-crunching challenge. Instant assessment flashed between Marine and SEAL, each testing the other’s fortitude to see who’d blink first. Was that an ultimatum radiating straight up Tucker’s arm from Stewart’s firm grip? A dare? It sure felt like it.
Tucker maintained eye contact, his face as expressionless as Stewart’s until the handshake ended. Stewart released first, but he hadn’t blinked. Tucker acknowledged the standoff for what it was—a simple turf war. He blinked, gave the guy the first round, and took his seat. Mark shut the door and parked his bulky frame in the chair at Stewart’s left like his private bouncer.
Tucker got down to business. “I’ll be blunt. I need your help finding my son.”
“Devlin?” Stewart’s brow arched. “Who took him?”
“My ex-wife.” Tucker lifted both palms forward to halt the next question. “I know, I know, she’s got custody, but here’s the thing. She took him out of the country and into Vietnam without my knowledge. That’s the first foul.”
“Did you contact the local authorities? The police?”
“Of course I did, but they keep telling me they’re working on it. I’ve filed a case with the National Center of Missing and Exploited Children, too. Guess what? I get the same run-around with no results. They’re all working on it.” He ended on a sarcastic note with air quotes for all the good following the rules did. That was why he needed Stewart. Alex could get the job done.
“I can check with the Federal Office of Children’s Issues,” Mark suggested. “They’re good to help out with cases like this.”
“Already done that. They’re working on it.” Again the air quotes.
“Then why are we here?” Stewart asked sternly.
“Because it’s taking too long.” Tucker bit his bottom lip to keep from shouting, ‘Duh! You morons!’ “And that’s not all. She hasn’t touched the child support I’ve deposited in our joint account for months now, and I can’t get her to answer any phone calls or emails.” He gulped at the note of desperation seeping into his voice. I’m not going to grovel, damn it.
Stewart leaned back in his chair. “I can’t help you, Chase. Sorry. My company doesn’t sanction or assist non-custodial parental kidnappings, nor do we—”
“No, no, no, that’s not what I’m asking,” Tucker shot back, his fingers raking through his hair. “Shit. I don’t sanction traumatizing my kid, either, but I do need to know if Deuce is okay or not. I’ve got visitation rights. I just need to see him. Can you find him or not?”
“You call him Deuce?” Mark asked, a gentle sting of rebuke in his tone.
“Devlin’s a sissy name.” Tucker faced the man who had every right to hate him for the grief he’d caused his pretty wife. It was Libby’s sister, Faith, who’d died that day in awful Wisconsin.
Mark was no pushover. The guy looked like he could get any physically demanding job done, only Tucker didn’t get the I-can-beat-your-ass-any-day-of-the-week vibe from him. Mark Houston was a giant of a man, but a gentle giant. Tucker cooled his jets.
“Just asking.” Mark crossed his arms over his broad and very muscular chest. “I just wanted to make sure we were talking about the same little boy.”
“I’ve only got the one kid,” Tucker pointed out, searching form common ground with Houston. “You?”
Mark held up three fingers. “Three girls. JayJay, Faith, and Taya.”
“Three girls?” For some reason, Tucker assumed Mark had a family of rough-and-tumble linebackers at home, not daughters. I mean, look at the guy. Six foot tall. All muscle. Wide in the shoulders, narrow in the hips, the guy was built of more brawn than most NFL players. Tucker found it puzzling, all those daughters. He almost asked Mark if he was trying for a boy—not that it mattered. But still. Didn’t every real man want a son in his lineup?
“How long has it been since Nicole left the country?” Stewart kept on track, his steepled fingers to his lips. God, the man had the icy stare of a cold-blooded killer. He might look the part of a dapper businessman, but the soul of a predator lurked beneath that crisply ironed white shirt and navy blue tie. The soul of a brother. Tucker also recognized that Stewart had done his homework. He knew the ex-Mrs. Chase’s first name. Deuce’s too.
Tucker stared him down, wondering how much more of his personal life Stewart already had at his fingertips. “She took off right after she married Nguyễn Vin Li. Vinnie. And she married him right after our divorce was final. Six months ago.”
“And you haven’t been able to reach her or speak with your son since?”
“That witch hasn’t let me see him since she told me she was leaving. She called once after the wedding, left a voicemail, said she’d moved into Vinnie’s place on the Saigon River. She said she was inescapably happy, her words, and that life was so much better in Vietnam than it ever was in America. That people were nicer. Bullshit like that.” And all of it aimed at me.
“You’re getting the slow roll from the authorities because you don’t have joint custody, Agent Chase. Why don’t you?” Mark asked quietly. Diplomatically. It still felt like a shot below the belt because it was, damn it. What kind of a man lost custody of his only kid?
Tucker rolled his eyes. The kind of a guy who was dumb enough to trust his two-timing wife, that’s who. As quickly as she’d remarried, Nicole had to have known Vinnie awhile.
“It’s not hard to figure out, is it?” He didn’t need to lie. “You know how it is in the Navy. I was a SEAL. One of the best. One of the guys who did the impossible every damned day, and I was good at it. I roamed the world, and I got the hard jobs done. I did what I was sent out to do. Didn’t you?” He couldn’t help it if his voice rapped up higher the more he defended himself.
“And I’ll bet you had a girl in every port,” Stewart said evenly, his gaze narrowed as if he could see the core of the problem.
“So?” Tucker rolled the bullshit off his shoulders. He didn’t need to explain anything to this guy. This was a job, pure and simple. Money in the bank. Stewart could take it or shove it.
“Why exactly do you want to see your son now? What’s changed?”
That was the question of the day, wasn’t it? Tucker swallowed his pride again. His life was empty, that’s what had changed since Deuce disappeared. To be honest, Tucker didn’t like what he saw when he looked in the mirror anymore. He’d screwed up big time. Being a hero meant nothing without someone to come home to at the end of a long day or a tough night. He was desperate for the chance to set things right.
“I want to see my kid on a regular basis—is that so much to ask? I’m not going to abduct him, though I’ll admit I’ve thought of it, but no. I just want the right to see him a couple times a year, more if she’ll let me.” The notion of Nicole holding his leash curdled in his gut. “Shit, Stewart, he’s my son, too. You know what it’s like to miss your kids. I know you do. That’s all. I want a father/son relationship with Deuce. He’s a good boy, and I... I miss him.” There. I’m groveling. Are you happy now?
“You know nothing about me.” Stewart threw up the first roadblock even as he offered the barest hint of a smile. “You’ll need your director’s permission to go into Vietnam. You do realize that, don’t you?”
Tucker bowed his head and raked both hands through his hair, letting his too-long-for-government locks drop over his brow. That was th
e fly in the ointment. Strong and Stewart were bi-polar buddies. Clones. Both hard hitters, but both decent men. Stewart might not like the Bureau, but he damn sure liked the Bureau’s current director for some reason.
But that was the last straw.
“You know what? Never mind.” Tucker stood, shoving the chair away with the backs of his legs. “Coming here was a waste of time.”
“Sit,” Stewart commanded softly.
Tucker waved him off, headed for the door and a shot of bourbon for lunch. He’d humbled himself enough for one day. It hadn’t worked. No fucking more. In the last six months, he’d gone from a respected ex-Senior Chief SEAL who ruled the FBI world, to a lousy dad who’d lost parental custody and communication with his only kid. Now he’d lost Melissa. His heart had turned into a barren wasteland. He’d paid a hard price, and yeah, he’d had it coming. He knew how to be a hero; he just didn’t know how to be a loser. There was no way he’d tell Stewart that.
“Sit down, Agent Chase,” Stewart said more firmly. “I can get you into Vietnam. That’s no problem. I can even get Strong’s approval, but you have to promise me one thing before I’ll accept this job.”
Tucker looked over his shoulder, not willing to bend more than he already had. Mark leaned his elbows to his knees and his eyes on his boss. Damned if that smart-ass Stewart wasn’t smiling. “What?”
“Take extra good care of my newest junior agent while you’re in country.”
That made no sense. Stewart’s agents were all top-notch snipers from one military department or the other, each and every one highly trained. None of them needed oversight. Tucker had to ask, “What?” because he didn’t dare ask ‘what the hell are you talking about?’
Stewart nodded while Tucker returned to his seat. “This particular junior agent has never seen combat, but I’m certain he can help you locate Devlin. He’s good at finding lost people.”
“Deuce,” Tucker corrected. “Who is he? Some Air Force flyboy?”
“Mr. Stewart. You wanted to see me?”
Tucker glanced up at the guy peeking into the office, the guy in a red-and-white checkered button-up shirt, pleated black dress slacks, and shiny black loafers. The dark-haired guy with horn-rimmed glasses who looked more kid than man, certainly not SEAL. The guy with dark, black eyes who resembled Clark Kent, a total nerd instead of a reliable operator. Shit. Isaiah Zaroyin. The doctor’s kid. The son of the madman who’d wreaked havoc on a hundred or so FBI volunteers with his ill-fated drone program and lousy brain implants. Why him?
“He’s working for you?” Tucker groused in disbelief.
“Actually...” Stewart waved Isaiah in to take the chair next to Mark. “Isaiah’s on loan from the Bureau. He’s the first FBI/TEAM exchange agent. Didn’t Director Strong tell you?”
Tucker had to admit, “Yeah, I heard a rumor. Just didn’t think it was true.” Isaiah was a level-ten psychic, not a trained covert operator. What help could he be in Vietnam? “Can you shoot?” he asked the kid bluntly. “Diffuse a bomb? HALO jump?” Any-friggin’-thing?
Isaiah nodded, his black hair shaved close to his scalp and most of his scars faded. He’d endured a few rounds of torture at the hands of one of his father’s more psychotic partners-in-crime. In the end, Ky Winchester and Mark Houston had rescued Isaiah and FBI Agent Eden Stark from the despicable Senator Bick and his demented wife. But did Tucker want to go all the way to Vietnam with the kid? On a real mission? Where someone could get hurt? Stewart’s solution was ludicrous with a capital Hell No.
Tucker stretched one long leg out in front of him and stuck his shoe under the center of Stewart’s elegant desk. Looked like black granite and polished steel, maybe titanium. Man, the man had done well. “What’s he going to do? Read his crystal ball while I hunt for Deuce?”
“Not at all,” Isaiah spoke up. “I’ve been in training since I’ve been here. Agents Cartwright and Lennox have taught me to shoot, field strip, and clean every weapon in the vault. Izza Maher has been teaching me to infiltrate without making a sound.” He rolled his eyes. “I have to be good and quiet at that. She busts my chops if I so much as breathe hard. I’ve even gone on a couple parachute drops with Agent Torrey—low altitude though, not high. I’m not a black operator, but I’m not a liability, either. I’m trained. I’m good enough.”
You’re trained, my ass. Tucker drew in a slow breath. Not being a liability didn’t mean a thing, not in a foreign country where anything could go wrong. He lifted his gaze to Stewart. “You expect me to take a FNG with me. That’s the best you can do?” FNG as in fucking new guy. Military slang for it sucks to be me.
“It is,” Stewart agreed as if Tucker’s snarky question merited a calm answer. “Isaiah will handle communications with my office. He’ll keep me and Strong informed. Trust me, Tucker, if anyone can find Devlin, Isaiah can.”
“Deuce,” Tucker growled. Get my boy’s name right. He looked to Mark Houston, wondering how much of this was a set-up. A mind game. But Mark didn’t blink. Not once.
Isaiah’s mental voice filtered through the bad taste in Tucker’s mouth and ended inside his head. “Your wife and Deuce will be at an outdoor concert at the Bến Thành Market in Hồ Chí Minh City in two nights. Do you have a passport? I can get the airline tickets, but can you be ready to travel by three p.m.? We might be able to intercept Nicole there if we leave right away.”
Tucker met the kid with a hard gaze. He’d forgotten Isaiah’s psychic talent for mind reading, and he hadn’t expected to actually receive a mental message from the kid. That was new. Hồ Chí Minh City? Three p.m.? Yeah, I can do that, he thought.
Isaiah nodded, message received. “Good. I’ll meet you at the airport at one,” he said out loud. The kid’s bright-eyed hope and willingness to help breached Tucker’s negative opinion, nudging him into action. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
“Wait a minute. Did you just read my mind?”
The smart-ass had the nerve to smile. “And you answered me. This is going to be fun. Better yet, Alex and Mark don’t know we’re talking to each other. Think about it.”
Tucker put both hands on his knees and jumped to his feet, not admitting to anything. He wasn’t psychic or psycho, and he hadn’t mentally communicated with anyone. Whatever just happened, he and this wannabe agent could figure it out in Vietnam. “Come on, kid. You’re with me.”
Chapter Two
Melissa McCormack kept a close watch in Hồ Chí Minh City for her friend, Kim Lành, another volunteer for Doctors for Charity and an especially pretty Vietnamese woman. Kimmie had come into the busy metropolis for three truckloads of medical supplies a couple days earlier, but hadn’t returned.
When attempts to reach her by phone went instantly to her voicemail, Dr. Chet Hanks, the manager of the newly established Doctors for Charity clinic west of the city, had no choice. He needed those supplies, but he couldn’t get away from the over-loaded clinic, so he’d sent his least medically skilled assistant, Melissa. He’d given her enough Vietnamese dong, paper currency, for a couple of meals and bus fare, and a copy of the invoice.
Melissa had the address of the warehouse near the Tân Sơn Nhất International Airport where the supplies were waiting. Dr. Hanks had assured her the freight company was legitimate, that he knew the owner and drivers. There was nothing to worry about. All she had to do was take the bus there, and the drivers would bring her back to the clinic with them. If she came across Kimmie, good, but the supplies were her first priority.
Kimmie might have changed her mind about working at the clinic, and Melissa couldn’t blame her. The work was brutally hard, the tropical climate stifling, hot, and humid. Not to mention the deplorable state of the refugees streaming eastward out of war-torn Cambodia where a bloody coup between rebels and the current prime minister’s regime was in process. Aid workers were desperately needed, but more—the medical supplies.
Melissa hurried to the bus stop just outside the clinic, paid her fare, and w
orked her way to the empty seat in the middle of the bus. She would’ve preferred not to go into the city alone, but there was no choice. For the moment, her mastery of the Vietnamese language consisted of xin chào for hello, tạm biệt for goodbye, and her favorite, ở đây để giúp đỡ for I am here to help. Cục kẹo for candy came in handy for the children, and Melissa never failed to keep a pocketful of peppermints just in case.
Her heart went out to the children in this country. She’d never get used to the horrible cost of conflict. Many smiled, but so many did not. Even now, the young man in the seat across the aisle glanced furtively in her direction. Not smiling. Maybe scared? He seemed frightened, but Melissa clasped the strap of her bag just in case. That was another thing she’d never get used to. The tender age of pickpockets and muggers.
She had yet to be targeted, but she’d seen it happen the day she arrived, and she couldn’t risk losing her bag. It held her passport and cell phone, her way back home.
She relaxed, despite the dirty cushion beneath her backside. She’d been in the country for two weeks, thrilled to be needed but bone-tired every single night. She’d no more than closed her eyes when her mind brought up the handsome face of Tucker Chase, complete with his scruffy chin pinched between his thumb and fist, and a world of mischief in those dark, sexy eyes of his.
Ah, that man. He was eye candy, and he knew it. Ego, his greatest asset and his biggest fault. Vanity, his second. Truth be known, she adored him. What woman wouldn’t? Tucker was drool-worthy, a man’s man with a streak of bad boy a mile wide. Ruggedized. That was what he was. An ex-Navy SEAL, ruggedized from the work of war and proud of it, he challenged anyone who got in his way. And that was the problem.
Tucker had a way about him that made her feel protected, as if he could take on the world with one hand tied behind his back. But she’d been down that same road with Brady, her deceased husband. All that raw masculinity came at a high price. Brady and Tucker were the kind of men who needed to serve, and in doing so, they’d put their lives on the line. Melissa wasn’t convinced she could endure another hero in her life and the baggage that came with him.
King of Hearts (Deuces Wild Book 1) Page 3
