King of Hearts (Deuces Wild Book 1)

by Irish Winters

  “Don’t you worry, Mimi,” Simon answered with a smile and a wink. “This little snake bite’s nothing. I’ll save your mama.”

  “Are you sure?” Melissa asked quietly, not wanting to give the child or her mother false hope. She found it interesting that some of the children spoke English.

  Simon cocked his head at her. “Mostly,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “The pit’s poisonous and it’s nasty tempered, but it’s also slow-witted. Chances are it hasn’t gone too far from where she ran into it. We’ll know in a minute.”

  A triumphant yell went up from the east side of camp.

  “See? They found it. What’d I tell you?” He called to the men, “Bring it in.”

  A group of three men and two boys ran excitedly into camp, a serpent swinging from the fork of a branch in the one guy’s hand. They waved its still wriggling body close enough that Melissa shivered with revulsion. The thing had to be eight feet long. Okay, maybe not. Make that two feet of writhing, vicious snake. It was brown with black-edged triangular blotches along its back. It reared its pointed snout and hissed before it struck out, missing the nearest man’s arm.

  They laughed. These foolish men laughed like they couldn’t get hurt if it bit them. Men! If she lived to be a hundred, Melissa would never understand them.

  “That’s a pit all right.” Oreo unlatched the med-kit and drew out a small vial and an already filled IV bag. He tossed a foil packet at Melissa. “Thirty milliliters of anti-venom, coming right up. Melissa, swipe the inside of her arm. Let’s get this antidote going.”

  She hurried, certain time was of the essence. When she fumbled the antiseptic wipe and it fell into the dirt, Simon cupped her shoulder. “Hey. Slow down. She’s not dying. It was just a pit.”

  “But it’s poisonous, and...” Melissa brushed her hair out of her face, all but hyperventilating. This poor family had suffered enough.

  Oreo tossed another foil packet at her.

  “Pits are nasty, but she’ll be okay,” Simon reassured her. “We got to her in time. She might get nauseous. She might lose some healthy tissue to a little necrosis, but she won’t lose her limb. She’ll live.”

  “How do you know?” Melissa retorted, annoyed at his lackadaisical answer as she barely caught the antiseptic wipe. “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because of this.” He lifted his arm showing off his bicep. An ugly red scar the diameter of a tennis ball marked the back of his arm above his elbow.

  “You were bitten, too?” she asked, amazed at the size of the pockmark that snake had left. She could’ve sunk two fingertips into the depression if she’d been so inclined. She wasn’t, but she could have.

  “He’s wearing the skin of that devil snake on his boonie hat to prove it,” Oreo bragged as he inserted a line into the IV bag. “Simon’s a badass.”

  “When did it happen?” Melissa asked, swiping the woman’s arm. “How long have you been in Vietnam?”

  A look shifted between Oreo and Simon, one of those looks only guys understood.

  “I didn’t get it in Vietnam.” Simon settled cross-legged on the ground, still holding the woman’s wrist while Melissa and Oreo hurried. “I was in Nepal. The snake sneaked into my tent to snuggle one night. Damned scary is what it was—for the snake.” He waggled his eyebrows at the little girl, now smiling, and he said something to her in Cambodian. She nodded solemnly, her lashes lowered, her dark eyes shy with the attention.

  “Smart girl,” Simon said as he turned to Melissa. “I asked her to take good care of her mother, and to be sure to tell me if her mama gets sick to her stomach or has trouble breathing. You might want to watch for those symptoms too, just in case.”

  “In case we’re too late?” Melissa asked, worried.

  “Settle down. She’s okay, I promise, but she might be allergic to the anti-venom. I don’t want to kill her while I’m helping her. I’m just glad her little girl wasn’t bit. That’d be a whole different story. We’d be holding a funeral. The pit’s venom works faster on little kids.”

  Melissa shook her head, overwhelmed at the jungle teeming with risk on all sides, but just as aware of this unlikely hero’s concern for these people. She’d honestly thought she was going to die at the hands of drug runners when this bizarre adventure began, but seeing this village and the families caught up in the latest Cambodian tragedy, she knew better.

  Simon wasn’t so bad, either. He seemed to be one of those guys who knew how to lead a beleaguered group of men, women, and children, but also how to protect them. That was what he and his team were doing, standing between that vicious viper and a sweet little girl.

  “It’s all good, Melissa,” Simon insisted again. Just like Tucker would’ve said if he’d been there. How many times had he admonished her for her compulsory attention to detail in the same laidback way?

  Melissa held the IV bag steady while Oreo attached the line to Mimi’s mother’s arm. “It’d be better if she were prone, but I doubt she’ll leave her old man,” he said quietly. “This will have to do.”

  “Move them into my hut,” Melissa insisted. “The whole family. There’s room, and that way they’ll all be off the ground.”

  “What are we going to do about him?” Oreo’s eyes scrolled over to the man on the mat, the one covered in sweat and in obvious pain, then to Simon.

  “There’s no choice, is there?” Simon muttered under his breath, one brow raised. There was that look again. It was almost as if these men had a secret code between them. “The leg’s got to come off.”

  “I... I don’t know how to do that,” Melissa whispered, faint at the thought. “Do you?”

  Was that why they’d kidnapped her? Had they thought she was a nurse? Was that what that shifty guy-look was about?

  Simon nodded. “I do, but I’ve been holding off to see if we’ve got any antibiotics strong enough to knock the infection down first. I’d hate to take his leg if there’s no need to.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She gulped past the dry lump in her throat. “He needs to taken to the clinic then. Dr. Hanks will know what to do.”

  “I won’t send a man to his death. Spies will be looking for him there.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. Simon meant to save these people, and deep down she agreed with his motivation. “When do you want to do it?” she asked reluctantly.

  Simon blew out a deep sigh. “Let’s get Mimi, Peewee, and their mother settled first. Oreo, you got any painkiller in that truck?”

  “You know I do. Morphine. Oxycodone. The usual.”

  “We still got some of that brandy?” Simon asked, running his hand over his head.

  “You’d rather give him liquor than the morphine?” Melissa asked, appalled at the thought.

  “The brandy’s for me after the surgery. Will you assist, Nurse Melissa?”

  He could’ve knocked her over with a feather. “Me?” she asked, her voice as squeaky and as timid as a mouse’s. “I’m not a nurse.”

  His brows furrowed. “Of course, you. Do you see anyone else around who’s smart enough to help me do it?”

  She rolled her eyes at that ridiculous compliment. Her? Help him? Amputate? Never.

  “You have very pretty eyes,” Simon said quietly, “especially when you underestimate yourself and do that silly eye-roll thing. But I can see a different world in there. You’re braver than you think. Please say yes. I really need your help.”

  She had to look at him then, this man with a big attitude about himself and life in general. What did he know about her? Nearly nothing. Still, the light of sincerity glimmered in his soft green eyes, like a jungle pool of calm in the middle of mayhem. Like a man who meant to do what he could as long as he could. Just like Tucker.

  Melissa girded up her audacity at the thought of Tucker and determined to be more like him and less like her. “Okay. I’ll help.”

  Chapter Eight

  The rats came out in the
Vietnamese jail at night.

  Big rats.

  SEALs called it a blanket party when guys rolled a teammate up in his own blanket and beat the crap out of him. It was a rowdy form of team discipline. He’d seen it once in the Navy where a certain corpsman got taught a rough lesson in personal hygiene. The guy outright refused to shower daily, said it wasn’t good for his skin or some other bullshit. His team wouldn’t put up with the daily stench anymore, so he got one final hint. A sound thrashing. Problem solved.

  But this?

  The guy the bully guards were beating wasn’t going to live the night. He’d stopped calling out, wasn’t even grunting when they hit him with those damned batons. Or whatever those slimy bastards were doing to him. He wasn’t the first. The ruthless gang moved from cell to cell, selecting certain prisoners for their night game, leaving others alone.

  Certain that he was on their hit list, Tucker hunkered in the shadows with his back to the wall, his head down, and his body coiled and waiting. He should’ve known better than to be caught in this predicament, but there he was, headed for another beat down. Given how much he was already hurt, his chances for survival were just as slim as that other guy’s.

  A cell slammed shut. Some guy growled a menacing sort of chuckle, and shit. They all stopped at Tucker’s cell. He stuck his chin out, sure as hell not going peacefully into the night. He jumped to his feet, made a production of flexing his muscles and rolling his bruised shoulders, trying like hell to shake off the after-effects of the last beating. These guys wanted a piece of him? Some of them would die trying to get it.

  Suddenly, the overhead lights burst on, blinding him and the thugs outside his cell. A stern voice shouted in Vietnamese, and the guards snapped to attention. Not a second too soon. A uniformed officer with brass buttons and medals pinned to his chest marched up to the guards, and stared them down.

  Tucker waited, hoping for the best, but prepared for the worst. If this was the joker behind all the rough treatment, things could get ugly real fast.

  “Mr. Chase,” the leader of the pack said in perfect English, his gaze still riveted on his men’s faces. “It is your lucky day. You will follow me, sir.”

  Tucker blew out a huff through his nostrils, not believing his nightmare was over. Not yet. He tensed for an ambush, a stab in the back the minute he cleared the cell, another lie the instant he foolishly thought he was free. That was when it always happened.

  The officer had to cock his head to look up at Tucker, his lips pinched tight while his eyes scrolled over his prisoner’s bruised and bloodied face. His broken nose. His split lip and swollen eye. The officer’s upper lip twitched right before he hissed, “You Americans.”

  Whatever that meant. Tucker kept his fists clenched and his one good eye on the bastards behind him while he followed the officer down the narrow aisle and out the exit into another room where he’d been forced to don the black uniform earlier. The officer handed him a woven basket with his clothes and boots and directed him to change.

  Tucker still didn’t believe. Getting a guy’s hopes up was the cruelest form of mental torture of all, and these guys were low enough to do it. He stripped quickly out of the black prison getup while the officer watched. Finally back in his own clothes, jeans and a T-shirt, he dropped to the single chair to put on his socks and boots, wondering how long this game of cat and mouse would last.

  If it was a game.

  Wearing his own clothes bolstered his confidence. Still... he didn’t believe.

  The officer retrieved a gray vinyl pouch from the desk at the other side of the room and tossed it at Tucker with a curt, “Your valuables.”

  Tucker made quick work of examining his passport, something he’d thought he’d never see again. His wallet had been rifled through, his American Express card in its slot, but his US currency gone. “I had cash in here. Where is it?”

  The man didn’t so much as blink. “I’m sure you are mistaken.”

  And I’m sure you’re a lying, thieving son-of-a-bitch, Tucker thought, but he stuffed his things into his pockets. At least his kid’s school photo was still in its place.

  With his palms on his knees, Tucker was ready to go. He could take this guy, maybe break his skinny neck before anyone was able to intervene, and the guy knew it. He maintained a respectable and safe distance. “Now what?”

  “You have important friends, Mr. Chase,” the officer murmured, his eyes narrowed to slits, “but make no mistake. There are places in my country where your friends cannot help you, not if they searched for a thousand days.”

  Yes, and if not for your army of goons, I could make you disappear in a vat of phở.

  They stared each other down, Tucker still seated on the chair, the officer lording his position of power over his prisoner, one hand on his hip. Until Tucker had enough. He lifted his butt from the chair and stood, amused when the officer was again forced to raise his chin and look upward to maintain eye contact, when this puny little guy finally realized what a bug he was in comparison to the real man in the room.

  “Are we done here?” Tucker kept his fingers straight instead of clenched for battle, his tone level instead of threatening while he looked down at the officer.

  The man nodded toward the exit. “The next time we meet, I will kill you,” he enunciated very clearly, “and I will do it slowly.”

  Tucker kept his opinion to himself as he did the gentlemanly thing and reached for a handshake. The last rule of negotiation: Always ask for one more concession. The first rule of a good SEAL: Never let an opportunity for one-upmanship slide.

  The officer sneered at what he most likely perceived as a weak American offer of friendship, but he did return a limp handshake.

  Then—Tucker believed.

  He stuck the keys he’d just stolen into his jeans pockets, rolled the last two days of hell off his shoulders, and turned his back on the man.

  The next room was empty, except for an armed guard at the exit and Isaiah. The kid’s mouth dropped when he caught sight of Tucker, but he kept quiet. Tucker offered one nod to let his companion agent know he was good. Finally on the street, he blew out a deep breath.

  The cool night air felt good. Tucker sucked in a deep lungful and let it slowly escape, but it hurt too. He coughed and rubbed the tender spot under his left arm, stretching his spine and self-diagnosing the multiple complaints registering. He’d had worse, but these were enough for the day.

  “What’d they do to you?” Isaiah danced at his side, his eyes bright with concern. “You’re bleeding. Your... your eye.”

  “I’m good. You got any water on you?”

  Isaiah produced a bottle from the backpack slung over his shoulder. “Take this. I’ve got more. They beat you?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Tucker opened the bottle and drained it in one gulp. He screwed the cap back on and grabbed the second one Isaiah had waiting for him. “Shit, that feels good going down. I’m hungry. Let’s find something to eat while we make plans.”

  “You need to see a doctor. That eye looks bad,” Isaiah said quietly, glancing over his shoulder while they walked away from the station.

  “This?” Tucker scoffed it off, his fingertips to his swollen eyelid. The thing felt as big as a soft ball, only puffy and twice as tender as he’d expected. Ouch. “This ain’t nothing. You got wheels?”

  Isaiah motioned toward the lime green mini-truck parked at the curb. “It’s economical.”

  Tucker bit back his comment at the clown car. “It’ll do.”

  Isaiah scrambled to the driver’s side and climbed in. “I know a place.”

  Tucker folded his aching, beat up body into the cramped passenger seat. Eating would be good, but better? He jangled the keys he’d stolen in front of Isaiah’s nose. “Don’t let me forget. Before we leave town, I need to come back and pay my friends a visit.”

  Isaiah shot him a withering glance while he cranked the engine. “It’s not funny, Tucker. They could’ve killed you. You’r
e not going back. I’ve been waiting for hours. If I’d known they were mistreating you, I would have—”

  “You would’ve what?”

  Isaiah pulled away from the curb. “I would’ve made them pay. I hate bullies.”

  Tucker cupped Isaiah’s shoulder, for the first time noticing the kid had some muscle on him. “I need a beer.”

  “You need medical care, but you won’t listen to me, will you?”

  Stupid question.

  Isaiah wove through the city streets like a pro, finally stopping at a noodle parlor. “You can’t go in looking like that. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  He was out of the truck before Tucker could argue—a good thing. He didn’t have the strength for it. He collapsed into the small seat, one elbow on the open window, and his head on the headrest. What a godawful day, even for a tough guy like him. He’d seen his share of cruelty, had dispensed some of it himself a time or two, but nothing was better than getting away before the beatings got worse. Those jail guards were as low and as depraved as men could get. They were predators and did what they did for the sick pleasure of degrading another human being.

  The night sounds of a city that never slept drifted through the open truck windows. The Hồ Chí Minh City night market came with all sizes of people on bikes or mopeds. Motorcycles. Mini-cars. You name it. Horns honked, squeaked, and dinged. He shielded his tired eyes from the flashing neon lights and willed the vision of something pleasant into his mind.

  Melissa. He could almost smell her. Vanilla and cinnamon. Apple pie and freedom, that was what she smelled like. She was his true American girl, all the way down to the scent of her sexy body.

  A scent of cinnamon drifted on the breeze to his nose. He inhaled deeply, savoring the tender changes Melissa had brought into his life. Yes, her self-control and uppity morals had hurt his ego, but in so many ways that he’d never admit, he liked that she was strong enough to set personal boundaries and make him stick to them.

  She posed a unique puzzle in a world gone crazy with sex, prescription drugs, and pornographic selfies. Most women threw themselves at men like him. That kind of vapid attention used to impress him. Not anymore. Melissa wasn’t them. She was something above them. She was worth waiting for. Maybe even worth changing for.