King of Hearts (Deuces Wild Book 1)

by Irish Winters

  “I’m not a medic, and I’m not helping him,” Isaiah said weakly. “He would’ve killed us, Tucker.”

  “Now you understand the law of the jungle,” Tucker sent back to his good buddy, but to the dying kid at his feet, he said, “I can help if you tell me who you work for. How many more like you are out there? How many more will I have to kill?”

  The poor kid spat a mouthful of blood, breathing hard and wheezing, not going to last long. “Go to hell.”

  Tucker shifted his gaze over the brush toward the Mekong, his voice deliberate, low, and thoughtful. “If you’ve been following me very long, then you know wild pigs thrive in this undercover. My guys and I passed enough tracks to worry us. I’m sure you saw them, too. You had to. They were everywhere.” He paused to let the terror of his warning sink in. “The thing is, wild pigs are smart. They’ve got a helluva sense of smell, tusks as long as your arm, and ten to one, they’ve already picked up the scent of your blood. They’re hungry and they’re coming. They won’t be choosy about who they chew on first when they get here. They’re carnivores. They won’t care if you’re alive or dead. I hear they go for the belly first. How long do you think you’ll last in a hungry, rutting herd?”

  The boy’s eyes widened, but he must’ve figured he needed to prove his manhood or something. “Eat shit and die,” he muttered thickly, more blood staining his lips. “I no snitch.”

  “No, but you are a dead man if you stay here.” The kid was already dying, and he had to know it, but Tucker hated to leave him behind. Kids were gullible and susceptible. They believed war stories and braggarts. He lifted to his feet and offered the boy one last chance. “Come with me. I might not be able to save you, but I can promise you death without pain.”

  “Go... to... hell...” The kid’s last wheezing answer.

  Tucker nodded once and stopped caring. You can’t fix stupid. Every man was entitled to determine his own death. “Have it your way.”

  He turned his back on the dying boy and walked back to Isaiah, now sitting up, but pale and shaky in the tall grass. Isaiah swiped the back of his fist over his lips. “You’re not going to leave him, are you?”

  Tucker shrugged as he offered Isaiah a hand up. “He made his choice. How much farther?”

  Isaiah gulped, but stood on his own, not wavering as he collected his gear. “Maybe a couple more miles.”

  Tucker glared back at Jackman’s body. Two miles was nothing, and every last one of those guys had a two-way radio pinned to their collars. Nobody was answering the steady, “Jackman, are you there? Come in. Jackman?” Someone was bound to be on scene within minutes.

  A SEAL could turn anything into an advantage, even this bloody battlefield, but Tucker would have to work fast. “You feel like playing with explosives?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Immersion. The act of being completely submerged in liquid, completely being the key word. In one instance, it happened when a person chose to be baptized. They went down under the water of repentance and willingly took on a higher set of values. From that day forth, they believed differently. They acted differently. They surrendered themselves to a higher power.

  Supposedly...

  Melissa rinsed her hair and let the trickle of clean water work its wonder of cleanliness. All of her worries should’ve washed down the drain, but they didn’t.

  Immersion also meant being submerged in another culture. Having to rely on the humanity of others while you caught your balance and learned their language and their ways in order to survive. In the process, you sorted through subtle hints and inflections for what was true and what was not. What you could trust. What you couldn’t. You adapted because you had no choice. You relinquished your old world and you accepted the new one in order to survive.

  Supposedly...

  She stepped out of the shower and dried herself. Big surprise—Aaron hadn’t exactly told the truth. None of the items he’d declared he’d gotten from his mother were new. Not even the towel. Not that it mattered, but everywhere Melisa looked she saw herself now immersed in Simon’s world. Military-style vehicles. Military-style men. Military-style leadership. He barked orders. Everyone else obeyed. Even the children. Even her. He was the higher power in this ragtag outfit, and he cut an impressive figure as he made rounds with each of his wounded warriors. He cared.

  Supposedly...

  She ran the comb through her hair and wove a simple braid. But Stockholm Syndrome, where a person held against her will was gradually drawn into the culture and belief system of her abductors, also fell under the gentle guise of immersion, only it was done through force. Through the very ones who’d slapped her down and taken her choice. Who’d twisted her love of humanity to serve their own needs. Who’d forcibly changed her life and her future while they’d made themselves look like something they weren’t.

  She’d nearly succumbed to the desperate charm of this wretched place, the very real need of the women and children. And Simon? He’d read her like a book, like the simpering female she’d very nearly become. He’d banked on her sympathy for others to draw her in, and she’d stepped right up to his web and threw herself in with a snappy, ‘May I please have another serving of bullshit, sir?’

  Like a fool, she’d let her empathy rule her common sense. She’d taken everything at face value. Not anymore.

  She dressed in her old clothes, as disgusting as they were, slid into her shoes, and ventured back to her hut. Shielding her eyes from the sun rising through the trees in the east, she watched Simon do what he did best—make rounds through the camp and chat with his men and their families. Schmooze like a politician.

  His affection for them seemed authentic, but so did the quick glances she merited from the women and men he visited. One by one, they’d all looked her way and nodded, then jerked their attention back on him and whatever lie he was telling them. He never failed to shoot one of his charming smiles in her direction, but that was all it really was, wasn’t it? Charm covering up the real reason he was there. Why she was there.

  He’d been kind, yes. His men, too. But what was he really telling these people? She had no way to know, her immersion not complete.

  Melissa waved, testing her theory and smiling like the proverbial queen of the welcome wagon. Tam dropped her gaze, not a hint of friendliness in sight. Melissa lowered her hand, not certain of the emotion shifting over Tam’s pretty features.

  As usual, Oreo stood too close by. “Hey, Miss Melissa. What’s up? You need something?”

  “What’s Simon telling everyone?” she asked outright.

  Her shadow grunted. “Ah, you know how he is. He likes people. He’s probably telling them to stay out of your fancy shower.” His tone carried a hint of teasing sarcasm.

  And I’m done playing your games. “Have you seen Tristan?” Melissa smoothed the damp tendrils of her long hair off her face. Braid or not, for the first time in her life, she considered cutting her hair.

  Oreo’s brow spiked. “I haven’t seen him today. What do you need him for?”

  “I don’t. Not really. I was just wondering. I haven’t seen him since I got here. Is he out on patrol or something?” There was that immersion thing. It was happening. Since I got here? Really? She’d made her arrival sound as if she’d planned to be kidnapped and taken against her will. As if she was perfectly okay with being held prisoner and doing the work she’d foolishly volunteered for. It was no wonder Simon had manipulated her. She’d made it easy.

  Her bodyguard went back to polishing his rifle, something he was never without. “Doubt it. His mother...” Oreo let his words trail off as he suddenly scrubbed at his weapon.

  That was another thing. “Where is Tristan’s mother? Why haven’t I seen her yet?”

  He shrugged, not making eye contact and still scrubbing that gun as if it wasn’t already polished and gleaming.

  The one thing a good Marine’s wife learned from her husband was the embodiment and the spirit of the Corps. Brady might not have
told her everything, but top-secret intel aside, she lived with him, and she’d absorbed some of the essence of the warrior he’d become. In one sense, she’d become that warrior with him, a part of his soul. Like his sixth sense. His gut feeling. His hypervigilance. It was immersion at its finest, and whether he knew it or not, Tucker had only enhanced her second skillset with his very rigid warrior ways. Melissa might not be able to shoot people, but she was decent at reading between the lines. At seeing the nuances and little details. The lies and deceit.

  When she wasn’t distracted by the misery of others.

  “Let’s visit Tristan. I’d like to meet his mother.” She beamed innocently at Oreo.

  He would’ve caught her act if he’d looked up. “She ain’t here.”

  “How do you know? Come on. At least we can chat with everyone like Simon’s doing. We’ll start at the other end of the village and meet him in the middle. Maybe we’ll run into Tristan.”

  Oreo refused, a first. “No, ma’am. Your job is to treat the sick and wounded. My job is to make sure nothing happens to you. You ain’t here to chat. That’s Simon’s job.”

  “And you’re here to make sure I don’t escape.” She leveled the accusation bluntly, without any feminine charm to make it an easier pill to swallow. “I’m your prisoner and that’s all I am, isn’t it? You’re my guard, and you’ll stuff me back in that box the minute I’m no longer useful. Right?”

  “Why you got to make this so hard? You’re the nurse. That’s all. Got it?” Oreo’s façade crumbled.

  “Take me to Tristan,” Melissa demanded. “Right now.”

  His lip twitched. “Simon ain’t gonna like it, but fine. Follow me.” He pivoted on the ball of his foot and ducked around her hut to the backside of the village.

  Melissa ran to keep up. For a bodyguard, he had no problem leaving her in the dust, probably because he could kill her without batting an eye.

  She saw it then, a hut hidden in the shadow of the trees. Then another. Four of them nearly concealed from view. When Oreo pulled to a stop, a slender woman peered out from the nearest doorway, a pipe dangling off her lip. Oreo called out to her in her language. She pointed to her left.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said, his tone flat and devoid of his previous charm.

  Melissa followed, curious. She’d caught a glimpse of young girls staring back at her. Was this maybe where the single women stayed? “Why are you keeping these women and girls separate from everyone else?”

  “We ain’t. They’re free to come and go as they please. You’ve seen most of them, you just don’t remember.”

  But she hadn’t. The deeper they went, the more the puzzle grew until Oreo climbed the three steps and rapped at the door to another hut.

  Melissa couldn’t have been more surprised when the woman answered the door.

  “Kimmie?” Tristan’s mother was—Kimmie? Her friend from Doctors for Charity? “You’re here? But why?”

  Kimmie glared over crossed arms at Oreo while he shrugged and explained, “What was I gonna do? Argue with the lady? Ain’t no sense in it. She was gonna find out anyway. Might as well be today.”

  Melissa squashed the urge to hug the woman she thought was her friend, another automatic and really stupid female response. “What are you doing here?” It took a second before it sank in. The truth. The lies. The automatic rifle hanging off Kimmie’s shoulder. Wasn’t this an awkward, horrible surprise? “You never planned to come back, did you? You’re part of this.”

  “Stop the dumb blonde routine,” Kimmie snapped. “You know why I’m here.”

  It hit Melissa like a pit viper on steroids. “You set me up.”

  Kimmie rolled her dark eyes, no hint of the friendly Vietnamese woman in sight. “I didn’t set you up. We needed the doctor, not you. Hanks was supposed to come after me, not some bleeding heart American woman with no brain.”

  Gunfire sounded to the east, and Melissa ducked out of sheer instinct. Surprisingly, Oreo grabbed her wrist and dragged her away from the door. “We gotta go.”

  Melissa pulled out of his grip and demanded, “Where’s Tristan?”

  A sneer lifted over Kimmie’s face. She chin-nodded toward the east. “By the sounds of it, he’s hunting pigs. American pigs.”

  “He’s what?” Melissa didn’t understand.

  Suddenly, Simon was there, breathing hard, his eyes fierce. “Jackman’s in trouble.” To Melissa he stated without one iota of emotion in his voice, “Good. You met Tristan’s mother. Deal with it.”

  “Deal with it?” she shot at him. “That’s all you’ve got to say, deal with it?”

  There wasn’t time to get more out of him, not with the tight clench to his jaw and the quick pace he set back into the village, the pace Oreo seemed determined to match. Another shock. Armed men were everywhere. Armed women, too.

  “You’re drug runners,” Melissa accused. “You needed a doctor to treat your men, but they’re not Cambodian soldiers afraid to go home, are they? They’re nothing more than drug runners, and you’re their leader.”

  He never argued, just kept marching, snapping out orders as he strode through camp.

  “Simon,” she called to him. “Stop it. Turn around and tell me what’s really going on.”

  He turned on her, his face a deadly study in suppressed rage, his fingers spread wide. “We had a sweet thing going until those Cambodian rebels screwed everything up. And you! None of this would’ve happened if you’d stayed home in America where you belonged. I needed Hanks, at least one of his physician assistants, not some addle-brained woman who faints at the sight of blood.”

  “I do no such thing!” She could’ve slapped herself for letting that putdown get to her instead of everything else he’d said. Ah, pride. But he’d pissed her off. “So you and your little band of merry men run drugs through Vietnam, but the real refugees and the real war made it inconvenient for your business, is that it?”

  She never saw it coming. One minute she was enflamed with self-righteous rage, the next she was on her knees, shaking the stars out of her head and blood in her mouth. He’d punched her. Hard. With his fist.

  “Put her back in the box,” he ordered. “The Vietnamese are sweeping north, and that bastard she’s in love with is coming at us from the east. Let’s give him a warm welcome.”

  Oreo half-dragged her to her knees. She could barely think straight. “Tucker? He’s coming? Here?” It seemed unreal. “Oh, my God. Is that who Tristan’s hunting?”

  Oreo didn’t speak. The way he twisted her arm behind her back was enough of an answer. Another burst of gunfire to the east sent Simon and the rest of the men scrambling to their trucks and cars.

  Not the box. Melissa couldn’t fight Oreo and win, so she feigned a silly female faint. She rolled her neck and bowed her head with a moan mixed in for good measure. Oreo’s grip tightened on her bicep, but he’d drawn too close. Just close enough. She stiffened abruptly and rammed his nose with her head.

  “Damn you!” he ground out as he lurched back a step, both hands clutching his bleeding nose.

  She didn’t wait to see if she’d broken it for him. Melissa ran into the jungle. There were worse things out there than snakes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “She’s scared, and she’s running,” Isaiah offered out loud this time, a kick in the gut Tucker didn’t need. He meant to be deliberate and methodical when he set these IEDs, not emotional. A warrior was always prepared. Always steady. They struck back and they struck hard, lightning fast before the enemy had a chance to regroup, but any mention of Melissa could turn him inside-out in a heartbeat.

  “Where?” He slowed his breathing and dragged his mind off what might be happening to her and back to the task at hand. Isaiah couldn’t do this job. He wasn’t cut out for a warrior’s life, not after he’d tossed his cookies a second time when that stubborn kid coughed and finally died. The poor guy had cried out for his mama just before he gave up the ghost. It got to Tucker, wh
ich was why he didn’t want Isaiah near the mangled bodies where the ambush would occur.

  It was sensitive work. The IEDs didn’t need to be buried deep, just deep enough, but they were tricky. He’d wired three to one detonator, but spread the three at even intervals to get more bang for their buck. A claymore would’ve been better, but Tucker didn’t have the time or raw materials to construct one. Sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes.

  “West. She’s on the other side of their camp. They’re headed this way. She’s going the opposite direction.”

  “Is she alone?” Tucker circled back around to Jackman. He buried a single IED a foot from the end of Jackman’s pointed index finger beneath two inches of silt. Then he baited the trap with a single 5.56x45 NATO round, the round used in most M4s. Whoever came close enough to look at what Jackman was pointing at would end up in pieces.

  But Tucker liked to underline his work with meaning that only another military guy would get. He made this booby-trap personal. With one punching blow of the side of his fist, he hammered Jackman’s trident into his forehead. Jackman’s buddies might as well know a SEAL was in the jungle and gunning for them

  “So far she’s safe, but I’m connecting her fear with a lot of anger. She’s not sure where she’s going. She’s running scared. Men and women are chasing her. They’re the angry ones, not her.”

  “Is she ahead of them?” Tucker kept his rage that Melissa needed, in even the slightest way, to be afraid of anything suppressed. He’d need every last flame of his darkest emotion and every spark for the battle ahead.

  “She is.” Isaiah sounded impressed. “Did your girl ever run track?”

  “Only for UCLA.” A big point of pride for Tucker. His girl was a California girl, born and raised near Pendleton. She’d moved east after she’d met Brady, and her parents had followed her when Melissa and Brady married.

  Tucker finished his gruesome work but kept two IED kits back, knowing that whoever was running this slipshod army would be there soon. Wouldn’t he be in for a surprise—if he survived? That was why the two leftover kits. Tucker never put all his bombs in one basket.