“Oh, my,” she breathed, not believing the reach of these men or their thoughtfulness. “You did this for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Oreo beamed even as he flashed another one of those secret guy looks at Simon. “Me and some of the boys been working on it since you showed up. While you and the boss were engrossed in your surgery last night, we finished off the sewer line. It runs to a septic tank downhill a ways. Aaron sneaked into town and bought you a bunch of soaps and lotions. Some more Deet. We didn’t put in any windows ’cause we figured you’d want your privacy, but once you’re inside, there’s a door you can lock. Aaron installed a hook behind the door for your clothes or your holster, whichever you’re wearing. Hope you like it.”
“I’ll haul one of my chairs in later,” Simon added, “in case you want to sit down while you brush your hair or paint your toes.”
She could’ve laughed at the outrageous notion of painting her toes in the jungle, but swallowed hard instead. So this was what those guy looks had been about. They’d been planning a surprise. The genuine thoughtfulness behind this simple modern convenience took her breath. Until then, she’d gone into the jungle like everyone else to do her business. Her backside still bore the most outrageous mosquito bites on it, but she’d been more worried she might run into a snake each time. The last thing she needed was Simon taking a slice out of her and sucking pit viper venom out of her butt cheek. Wouldn’t that be the sight?
“And the shower works.” Simon’s eyes twinkled like raindrops hitting some hidden jungle pool. “I broke it in last night after you fell asleep.” The man had bedroom eyes. Deep, dark and the sexiest shade of green. Even though he’d just shot Oreo another guy look.
She took a step back, needing distance between them. “Yeah, about that...” Melissa ran a hand through her thick tangles and shoved them out of her eyes and off her face. “Did I honestly just fall asleep?”
Simon winked, the brat. He waggled those handsome brows like he’d done with Mimi. “Mostly. You did kind of brag how some guy you know is better than me before you passed out. Who the hell is Tucker Chase anyway?”
“I didn’t?” she gasped. “Did I?” Please tell me I didn’t do that, but then she thought twice. Naming Tucker was the perfect thing to have done.
“Your exact words were: ‘worlds’ better. Like out-of-this-universe better. Like he’s stronger and cuter and braver. Tucker’s a lucky man,” Simon said quietly, his brow lifted. “He must mean a lot to you.”
Melissa swallowed hard at that absolute truth. What could she say? She lied just the tiniest white lie, but it felt smoother than that brandy had felt sliding over her tongue last night. “Tucker Chase is my fiancé.” He was. Almost. He just needed to ask. “Thank you, Simon, and you too, Oreo. This is very thoughtful. I’m speechless.”
Simon growled and rolled his eyes. “You sure weren’t last night.”
“Yeah, the boss said you drink like a sailor. I’ve got some whiskey in my hooch,” Oreo teased, “if you wanna come over later.”
“Oh, stop,” she joked back. “I had one or two little drinks and I’ll never do that again.” Ever!
“Come on now, don’t never say never.” Oreo’s black brows lifted. “Never has a way of coming around full circle. First thing you know, that never comes true, and there you are, doing exactly what you said you’d never do and eating crow while you do it. My place is always open. You might enjoy it.”
His crass insistence bugged Melissa. So did Simon’s lack of running interference. What exactly did they take her for?
Aaron ducked his head into the doorway. “You like it, ma’am?” he asked, his chocolate-colored skin accentuating the whites of his eyes. Of all the men, he was the youngest.
“You bought me all those toiletries?” she asked.
The cutest dimple showed up on his right cheek, and like a shy little boy, he toed the wooden flooring. “Just got you a few things my mama would like. Hope they meet with your approval.”
“Your mother must be proud of you. Thanks, Aaron.”
“Yes, ma’am, she’s a died-in-the-wool patriot, just like you.”
Melissa cocked her head at him. What an odd thing to say. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck lifted in warning. She looked intently at Aaron, trying to understand why she felt ill at ease.
When Simon led the way outside where a group of excited children and adults had gathered, she waved them to join in. “Come see the house that Simon built.”
“Great,” he muttered. “Now everyone’s going to want one.” He and Oreo moved off to the side, their backs to Melissa’s shower, their heads tilted together, obviously not wanting to be overheard.
The noisy static and squeal from someone’s walkie-talkie broke the spell. The world stopped turning and, all at once, Melissa was standing in the chattering crowd, yet outside of it at the same time. Her heart thumped at the contradiction she found herself caught up in. She didn’t belong there. What have I done?
Suddenly the magnanimous gesture of a fancy outhouse in the jungle seemed—contrived. Diversionary.
She felt used and very stupid.
Simon, Oreo, Aaron—all of these guys acted as if they were trying to accommodate her, but they weren’t, not really. They’d simply honed in on her genuine empathy for the injured people and the children, and they’d capitalized on what they saw as weakness. Like a simpering idiot on a noble mission to save the world, she’d let them. She’d believed and trusted them—like she had with Lucien Kane in that twisted Palma Christi cult in Northern California.
Oh God. A shiver roared up her spine. She’d done it again. She’d missed the forest for the trees. Melissa rubbed her palms over her biceps, embarrassed at her naïveté. At her pride. This camp was a sham, the shower, the clinic, Simon’s insistence that he needed her. Everything.
He didn’t intend to let her leave.
That come-on from Oreo still made her skin crawl. Tucker never would’ve just stood there like Simon had without stepping in to Melissa’s defense and doing it loudly. He might have made a spectacle of himself while he did it, but he would’ve knocked Oreo on his ass for the disgusting innuendo that she’d stoop so low as to warm his bed.
Never say never, my ass. These guys didn’t respect her. Tucker did. He might not agree with her, but not once had he failed to defend her virtue and her right to be treated like a lady. Yet Simon hadn’t said one word to set Oreo straight. He’d just stood there and watched.
Like a spider with a fly…
She swallowed hard at the very real sensation of being caught in a web. Melissa scanned the shower through different eyes. This gift was just another lure to keep her there, like Simon’s insisting that he needed her when he knew she wasn’t a trained nurse, not even close. Like that cozy drink last night after a surgery she had no business assisting with. Like this—gift.
These guys were—liars. All of them. The wounded men. Maybe the women.
Simon glanced sideways at her, then did a double take, honing in on her again. Studying her.
Melissa lowered her lashes, not wanting to look into his lying eyes. Not wanting him to see that she knew the truth.
Chapter Twelve
Isaiah liked to hum. All the time. It was really annoying.
“Are we there yet?” Tucker whined just to piss him off.
“I’m not sure if it’s the same for all psychics, but humming helps me keep my link with Melissa,” Isaiah said instead of answering what they both knew was a childish question.
Tucker lifted his brows, wishing he’d known that earlier. “Oh yeah? What’s she doing?”
“She’s worried about some guy’s leg, only he doesn’t have a leg. Confusing. She seems—conflicted. I can’t get a good read on her.”
Conflicted? That wasn’t like Melissa.
The jungle had given way to some kind of an animal trail, so for the time being, they zigzagged under the cover of tall brush and low trees with sparse branches. Birds fluttered overhe
ad and in the greenery at their sides, but Tucker kept his one good eye on the alert for snakes, spiders, tigers, and other things that could hurt a guy. He’d heard some sort of high-pitched feline yowl a few miles back, but never saw the thing, probably because the rats in this country were bigger than the cats. One had probably chased it off.
“Seriously, are we getting close to her?”
“Yes. The river’s up ahead. We’ll turn north by northwest there. It’ll be swampy in some spots, but it shouldn’t take much longer.”
“Stay undercover to this side of the river,” Tucker warned. “We don’t want anyone spotting us. Two Americans will stick out this deep in country.” The closer they drew to Melissa’s location, the more his hackles lifted. His SEAL instincts flashed into hypervigilance.
“Will do,” Isaiah agreed, seemingly oblivious to the unseen threats around them.
Tucker took small comfort in Isaiah’s lack of an internal alarm system. Most guys didn’t come with one until they’d been in a firefight.
“Watch out for saltwater crocs,” Tucker cautioned, stepping to Isaiah’s right. “If you step on one, you might as well kiss your ass goodbye.”
An obedient murmur drifted to Tucker, a good sign. The kid might consider himself trained, but Tucker was the one who’d actually served. He knew how fast things could go bad. Like now.
The ground turned to marsh and bog near the river. They had to backtrack to keep from sinking. It was then they came across cloven-toed tracks in the soft soil, possibly pig or deer. Lots of them. Nothing human, though. Those animals might just explain the heightened sense of unease and the twist in Tucker’s gut. Maybe not...
“Ever hunt wild pig?” he asked quietly, his body on high alert for anything to indicate they had company. The snap of a twig. A rush of frightened birds thrown skyward. The sudden silence to the steady hum of insect life. Anything out of the ordinary in a habitat as teeming with life as the Mekong Delta.
“I’ve never shot a gun except for target practice,” Isaiah admitted quietly, “and before you go all Rambo on me, no, I’m not a bleeding heart liberal. I believe in the right to bear arms, and I support the Second Amendment. I just don’t think everyone needs to carry a concealed weapon. I believe in law and order. That’s what makes our country work as well as it does.”
Tucker grunted. Folks dumb enough to rely on all that law and order sometimes found it showed up too late to the party.
The jungle stilled. His heart rate kicked up a notch. He stepped closer to Isaiah, brushing the younger man’s right elbow, hell-bent on keeping him safe. Something—or someone—was hunting them.
“You’re right,” Isaiah’s voice hissed inside his mind. “We are being followed. One man in close proximity, maybe fifty yards to your right. Heavily armed like you, and capable of killing. He’s not alone. Maybe a dozen more with him. See anyone?”
“Not yet. Take a sharp left, but keep your head down,” Tucker ordered, his voice low and muted. “Let’s circle back behind these jokers.”
“Copy that.” Crouched low, the two men moved stealthily through the tall grass until they came back to the mud, their bags, too. Only wild pig tracks showed, and Tucker didn’t want to leave more. He offloaded his extra gear and hand-signaled Isaiah to sit, keep still, and stay. Making a circle with his index finger, he indicated his intention to get in behind their adversaries before he moved out and left his good buddy behind.
“I wish you would communicate with your mind,” Isaiah whispered mentally. “I know you can do it. It’d be a whole lot easier than sign language. Quieter, too.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Tucker shot back at him, his M4 in his right grip. “How’s that for communicating?”
“See? I knew you could do it.”
Tucker dropped the psychobabble nonsense. Stealthy footsteps from up ahead took him to his belly, his rifle in his strong hand, his right hand. The predator within him sprang to life and flexed its sixth sense, energized despite the brutal shakedown of the day before and the long hours without sleep. He transformed into that big cat in the jungle, laying low and stalking the hunters stalking him, without making a sound while he did it. He let the beast within take over and take charge. Tucker became shadow and death, lurking, waiting for the right moment to kill his prey.
Adrenaline flooded his systems, his five senses hyper-tuned, transforming him into a human radar dish. This was who he was—a man who didn’t take life if he could help it, but one who wouldn’t back down from the dirty job, either. This was what he was created for—standing up for what mattered in a world gone bat-shit crazy. He’d fought and killed for his brothers- and sisters-at-arms in the service. Today he’d fight for his fellow agent, and, if God was willing, Melissa.
His sense of smell filtered the sweaty scent of man from the rich layers of the natural environment around him. His brain sorted the sweet stench of decay from human body odor. Cigarette smoke wafted on the air. One of these guys was an idiot to be smoking while hunting.
“He just put his cigarette out,” Isaiah reported, “but you’re right. He is an idiot. Cigarettes can kill.”
“And I’m out here to stop guys like him from getting lung cancer, you moron.”
“Stop name-calling, Agent Chase, and listen up. They haven’t found our tracks yet. If you circle back to my position, we can get away without being seen or caught.”
Isaiah had it wrong. Tucker wasn’t there to get away. Only to clear the way.
Elbowing forward on his belly with his M4 clear of the dirt, his hearing sharpened, straining for words among the quiet grunts and indiscriminate male grumbles coming to him through the brush and grass. Clothing brushed against leaves and branches. Voices. Some short and sharp in Cambodian. One whispered command with a southern drawl to, “Stop.”
Interesting. “What’s an American doing here?”
“His name’s Ralph Jackman. Ex-SEAL. Not like you, though. This guy’s a straight-up killer. I can read him loud and clear. He’s full of ugly sludge, Tucker. He means to torture us when he finds us. He wants to hear us scream. He’s not thinking if—only when. Come on, let’s get out of here while we can.”
The kid just didn’t get it. Tucker blocked Isaiah’s nervous energy. With him at his back and Jackman and his team ahead, the mission was clear. Tucker meant to end Jackman and his buddies. He lifted cautiously to his knees, his scope sweeping the enemy’s flank. They’d fanned out, their backs to him, three to four feet apart. All were hunting.
Jackman wasn’t hard to spot. He had to be the bearded guy walking point, the one in the center with the short-stock AR snugged under his chin and the foot-long knife on his hip. The one cammied-up with face paint and a dark green boonie hat low on his shaved head. The guy still wearing his trident. Damn him to hell for that.
Tucker despised traitors, but especially SEALs who turned on their country after swearing fealty to her and her alone. SEALs were supposed to stand tall and proud for all that was good in the world. They swore loyalty to country, team and teammate. They served with honor and integrity no matter where they were sent, and they earned their trident every son-of-a-bitchin’ day. Not this guy.
“You’re right. Jackman’s a traitor, but so are the three men to his right. They’re Americans who served with him and they’re nearly as bad as he is.”
Good to know. “They’re all SEALs?” Tucker shot back at Isaiah, his inner sniper ready to take on his first targets, but damned disgusted. SEALs were the fighting elite. America’s bravest and best. What happened to these guys?
“One’s Army.”
Small difference. Same brand of bastard.
Tucker brought his knee forward to balance his weight for maximum stability before he took a calming breath, and let loose a rapid-fire barrage. Jackman fell first, his arms spread wide, and his three buddies with him. When the remaining men returned fire through the long grass, Tucker dropped to his elbows for cover and swept the field to Jackman’s left.
“How many?” he barked mentally at Isaiah since he no longer had a visual.
“Eight dead, one mortally injured, four on the run headed west.”
Shit. Tucker lifted out of the grass and took careful aim at the guys on the run who’d thought they could hunt him and get away with it. He dropped two, but couldn’t nail the last two cowards. Turned out he didn’t have to. A weapon sounded to his right, startling him. He swung his rifle on—Isaiah?
Damned if the kid wasn’t standing tall, an AR tight to his shoulder and his eye to his scope. Tucker watched the last two men drop just as they would’ve made it into the trees. He ambled back to his junior partner and gave his shoulder a solid knuckle bump. “You’ll make a decent soldier yet.”
“No, I won’t,” Isaiah said quietly. “I had to do that, but...” He swallowed hard, gulped, then dropped to his hands and knees and threw up.
Tucker let him have his moment of weakness. He’d tossed his cookies after his first kill, too, but right was right. Isaiah would figure it out. “Stay here. I’m going to chat with our survivor.”
Isaiah didn’t answer. He was busy... adapting.
Tucker kept his rifle ready as he advanced through the battlefield to the wounded man. Tucker kicked the guy’s rifle out of his hands. He wouldn’t last long, shot up like he was. “Who do you work for?”
The guy’s face was a study in pain, pale and sweat dripping. Damn, he was just a kid. He had thin, stringy black hair in his face and a sad excuse of a beard sprouting up on his jaw, but damned if he didn’t sneer. “Why would I tell you? Look at you. You beat to shit. I not tellin’ you nothin’.”
Tucker crouched beside the kid’s twitching legs. “You should see the other guy,” he murmured confidentially. “Listen kid, I’ve got a medic with me. I can help. Maybe get you something for that pain. Maybe get you back to your mother.”
King of Hearts (Deuces Wild Book 1) Page 12
