“Stop trying to impress me. The what?” Tucker ran a tight hand over the pain climbing up the back of his neck. The mansion was Nicole all right, and it was more than nice. The lavish home had been set back in a palm grove with a wide expanse of manicured emerald turf at the front. More palms and ferns. A pond the size of a small lake with a waterfall. Peacocks. Swans. Geese. All those pretentious things Nicole needed.
“The vertical columns of the wraparound porch. See? They run from roof to ground. No concrete footings.”
“And I care about this why?”
“I’m just providing detailed intel in case you decide to breach the place.”
Tucker gritted his teeth and peered closer. Flowering shrubs ensconced a wide stone walkway to the two-story home, the face of it bright yellow stucco that stood out against all the green. Wrought-iron balusters lined the wraparound porches on both levels. There were two points of egress from this view, one at the front door, the other on the second level balcony. A brick chimney stood at the right. Eight windows faced the front, the largest to the left and filled with plants and trees, maybe a two-story arboretum. Fancy.
“She’s got staff. Maids. Chauffeurs. A music teacher.”
Tucker grunted. “Of course she does.” Nicole always wanted to be richer than everyone else. Now she was. “What’s the music teacher do, teach violin while Deuce is sewing shirts for Vinnie?”
“I don’t think he’s there for Deuce. That’s what’s interesting. Look at the latest family portrait.” Isaiah scrolled to another page. “Do you see your son?”
Tucker peered closer. Two chubby boys of the same approximate age stood between Nicole and Vinnie, both smiling with violins in their hands. No Deuce. Alarm lifted the hackles up the back of Tucker’s neck. “Where’s my kid? What’s going on?”
Isaiah leveled a piercing eye at Tucker while he brought up a series of photos taken at the home, one of Nicole in an elegant, lace bridal gown. Other family sittings. Still no Deuce.
“Where the hell’s my kid and how long has Deuce been working in that son-of-a-bitchin’ factory?”
Isaiah narrowed his eyes. “There’s a ball at the American Embassy in two days. Your ex will be at Madame Antoinette’s at noon today for her dress fitting. I think it’s time to do a little shopping. Ask me how I know.”
“Where’s the damned factory?” Isaiah didn’t need his psychic ego stroked.
The kid was smart enough to bring up another screen. Bright red lettering on the front of Vinnie’s factory declared Ham Thủ Thiêm Sewing Distributor. Housed in what looked like a refurbished airplane hangar from the Vietnam-war era, an eight-foot-high metal fence surrounded the place. The limousine parked in front might have been intended to make it look classy. It failed.
“Vinnie’s factory’s on the opposite side of the Saigon River from his mansion. See where the river bends west at Ham Thủ Thiêm?” Isaiah tapped his index finger to the screen. “The bridge there links District 2 with downtown District 1. It’s very congested. Very industrial.”
Tucker forgot how bad his body felt as he absorbed every last detail. According to the online photos, the inside of the old hangar had been modernized. Plenty of smiling employees at clean workstations operated gleaming, industrial sewing machines, forklifts, and fabric tables. All of them looked happy, and all were adults or older teenagers. It appeared there were no children Deuce’s age working at the factory. In one group shot, the cheerful liars all waved. Everything looked legal. Like hell. He didn’t buy the propaganda spin. “Gear up.”
Isaiah faced him. “Thought you’d say that. Where first? Nicole’s home or Vinnie’s factory?”
“The factory. You haven’t showed me one thing to convince me he’s at that… home.” Tucker seethed. “Nicole’s nothing but a hard-hearted, greedy bitch who lives for herself. She made her bed. Let her sleep in it.”
“But she does have legal custody. You can’t just barge in and take your son without proof. You will need to speak with her.”
That might be a problem. “Not if I can prove Deuce has been mistreated. You know he’s in a bad way, right?”
“No judge will allow my testimony, Tucker. You know that. I’m an unknown quantity. A psychic. I’m the guy everyone in the judicial system thinks is a scammer, a con artist. We need solid evidence, so...” Isaiah drew several mini-cameras up from that magic shopping bag of his. “Let’s see if we can get the proof you need. Don’t you want to know how I know where your wife will be today? Come on, ask me.”
“Do not tell me she’s psychic,” Tucker warned. That was all he needed.
Isaiah winked. “She’s not, but your son is.”
Tucker about dropped his teeth. “Deuce? He’s... like me?” He hadn’t meant for that to sound like a good thing. “Can I reach out to him? How’s that work anyway?”
“With a little bit of effort, yes, you can do it.” Isaiah grinned. “Guess who’s taking him out for lunch right after her dress fitting today?”
“Nicole?” Son-of-a-bitch.
Isaiah had all the makings of a good covert operator. His eyes glittered. “What say we get into Ham Thủ Thiêm Sewing Distributor and steal Deuce out from under her nose?”
“You’re all right, kid,” Tucker admitted. “So show me. How do I call Deuce? I want to talk to him. Do I just, I don’t know— ring him up or something?”
Morning stretched across the Mekong, waking the world with golden light from the east. The sight couldn’t have been lovelier.
Melissa stayed with the girls at the back of the boat, getting to know them better while the hovercraft floated its way up the delta. Instead of meeting David at the border of the Svay Reing province, he’d suggested they rendezvous farther south to bring the medical care to Pich and Dang instead of the other way around. It was still risky with the Vietnamese Army on the hunt for the Cambodian rebels, but doable.
Zack had been in Vietnam and Cambodia before, quite a few times by the sounds of it. He stayed close to wait on Melissa and the girls, entertaining her with trivia and stories, one about an odd fellow called the Coconut Monk, so named because he only ate coconuts for several years. Zack knew plenty of other Vietnamese trivia, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Melissa hadn’t married a spec ops guy without some of his training rubbing off on her. Zack was armed. He was keeping her distracted.
“Tucker ought to bring you back to Vietnam someday. It really is a beautiful country. You could visit the Thien Mu Pagoda in Hue. The Citadel there, too.”
The melodic Vietnamese words seemed to roll of Zack’s tongue. “You’ve been here before.” She made it a statement.
“Once or twice,” he hedged.
She didn’t press the issue, her mind and heart on the man she had yet to hear from. Mark had talked briefly with Alex and Tucker. He and Isaiah had reached Hồ Chí Minh City, but something was wrong. She could feel it in her bones.
“We’re coming up on our stop,” Mark came by to report, “but we’ve got Vietnamese Army patrols watching the shoreline. We’ll need to do this transfer quick. Stay sharp. How is she?”
Melissa glanced at Pich, sound asleep in her arms. “She’s feverish, Mark. I’m worried.”
He nodded, the light in his eyes grim. “I am, too. Have you given her any antibiotics?”
“Just a child’s dose,” Zack answered, “and something for pain.”
“That’s probably for the best, but darn...” The tenderness in Mark’s tone caught at Melissa’s heart. All of these men had hovered over the girls, waiting on them the few times the girls had ventured forth from their rooms. For the most part, they preferred to cling to Melissa, and she didn’t mind. This was her calling in life, to do for others, and she truly loved it.
“Did David bring a doctor?” she asked.
Mark nodded. “Nancy’s with him. Don’t worry. These girls will be in good hands. This is the best solution.”
Melissa had expected David’s wife would be there, but Pich needed a doctor.
She ran her fingertips over the girl’s brow, smoothing a strand of hair out of her open mouth. The poor thing had fallen asleep after a light breakfast of rice porridge that Zack had made especially for her.
“When we’re done here,” Mark said quietly, “you’ll fly out of Tân Sơn Nhất International Airport with the rest of us.”
“We’re not going back for Tucker?” she asked, surprised. “But I thought—I hoped—”
“Sorry, but plans changed. There’s a battle between the rebels and the army in Tien Giang province right now—”
“That’s smack dab between us and Tucker,” Zack interpreted.
“Right,” Mark agreed. “He won’t be able to get to us like we’d originally planned, but don’t worry. I talked with Alex. He gave Tucker a solid contact in case things didn’t work out. He’ll be okay.”
“But Mark...” Melissa paused, her worst fears tapping at her shoulder. “You guys are supposed to work miracles.”
He winked at her. “So can Tucker. Just wait. You’ll see.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Reaching out psychically to Deuce ended up a big fat zero. Isaiah explained over and over how to project an image or thought, but Tucker couldn’t make the mental connection. With every attempt his head pounded a little more. The night turned to morning. His swollen eye oozed tears. He’d focused until his back teeth hurt from concentrating, but not once did he get a hint of his son’s voice in his head. Not a whisper.
Isaiah’s laughing at him didn’t help. “Enough already. Stop with the faces.”
Tucker scrubbed a palm up over his forehead and through his hair, frustrated he couldn’t do what Isaiah could. “Then how?”
“Keep it simple. Picture him. Talk to him just like you would if he was sitting here with us. It’s easy. Block the world and focus on—”
“That’s what’s wrong. I can’t stop thinking about everything else.”
“Deep breath...” Isaiah inhaled, his demeanor calm and steady, his chest barely lifting.
Tucker’d had enough. He stopped trying to be something he wasn’t. “I can’t do this bullshit. I’m not psychic anyway. Give me a truck to fix. A sink or a toilet.” Something that makes sense.
Isaiah shot him a raised brow. “Then what are you doing right now? Are we not communicating psychically?”
Tucker’s fists clenched. “I’m better with my hands.” “You smart-ass.”
“You’re new at this. Trust me. It will come.”
Tucker rolled one shoulder, his dander up, tired of looking like a one-eyed fool. “Let’s roll.”
Isaiah had the good sense not to argue. Once on the street outside their hotel, he hailed a cab, and phase two of this operation began in earnest. He carried the padded canvas guitar case he’d bought to conceal the bulk of their M4 assault rifles. The kid must’ve watched too many gangster movies.
The early morning traffic was lighter, but it still took forty minutes to get across town. Tucker kept his mouth shut and let Isaiah do the talking. His sore eye throbbed with an increasing drumbeat that matched his pulse. It didn’t matter. He’d soldiered through worse injuries, but God. He needed one day of downtime. Just one.
After a slow crawl through the densely populated industrial neighborhood, the cabbie deposited them at the Ham Thủ Thiêm Sewing Distributor. Vinnie’s factory looked the same up-close as it had on Isaiah’s laptop, only dingier. Grimier. Locked up tighter than a Nevada brothel, the building hummed with a peculiar electrical vibration. Cast off plastic bottles, papers, and other debris tumbled on the breeze down the alley alongside the factory.
“Look there,” Tucker cautioned his sidekick, pointing at the roofline. Security cameras adorned each corner, but they hadn’t been properly synced. The timing of their rotation was off. When one camera panned to the left, the other hadn’t yet completed a full rotation. There was no overlap. No continuous coverage. Tucker meant to capitalize on Vinnie’s poor excuse of a security system. “Stick close. Keep your head down. We’re going in.”
Isaiah sucked in a deep breath. “Don’t we need a plan first?”
“I do. You do your mind thing while I grab Deuce. Once I’ve got him, we’ll split.”
Again with the eye roll.
“Listen, smart guy. Do you have a better idea?” Tucker hissed.
“I just thought we’d have a definite strategy with a foolproof fallback plan before we risked our lives.”
“Is that what Stewart taught you? Sit around and waste time planning? Strategizing? Talking?”
Now it was Isaiah’s turn to growl. “You know things could go wrong if we’re not on the same page once we’re inside.”
“There’s only two of us. How many pages could we be on?” Tucker rolled his shoulder to suppress the growing pain in his neck. Isaiah did look worried. This was probably the kid’s first time breaking and entering. He really wasn’t a covert operator. Time out.
“Okay, how about this?” Tucker drew in a steadying breath for his sake as much as his junior agent’s. He’d almost forgotten Isaiah was the FNG. He needed everything explained in triplicate. “We’ll enter through the rear exit. That’s most likely their staging area. There ought to be storage there, a loading dock, maybe deliveries incoming or outgoing, hopefully some place to hide while you do your mental stuff. Once we’re inside, we’ll lose that clever guitar case of yours and get real. We’ll split up. You’ll plant those bugs you brought with you, while I find Deuce. How’s that for strategy?”
“Do you intend to grab Deuce if you see him?”
All the leadership courses ever written tell you there are no dumb questions, but that one took the cake. “Of course I’m grabbing my son. Why the hell do you think I’m here?”
Isaiah chin-nodded him forward, gritting his teeth and clearly frustrated. “Never mind. Let’s just go. I’ll follow your lead and do my—” He rolled his eyes. “—mind thing.”
“You roll those eyes one more time, and I swear I’ll slap the crap out of you,” Tucker warned, his angst climbing up his spine. “Let’s do this quick and clean. In and out. Once we’re inside, keep your rifle tucked in tight to your chest and out of sight.”
“Copy that,” Isaiah replied.
Tucker led the way, sticking close to the building and out of sight of the security cameras. Getting inside was easier than he’d expected. The rear of the factory was precisely what he’d said—shipping and receiving. Poorly lighted. Dirty. Plenty of twelve-foot-high shelves stacked with bolts and bundles of cloth. All colors. A train of rolling bins full of scraps and remnants lined the narrow way forward.
“Stick to the shadows,” Tucker whispered over the din of what sounded like hundreds of sewing machines. It was no wonder the place hummed.
“Now would be a good time to use your covert operator voice, Agent Chase.”
Tucker hated when Isaiah was right. “Copy that. Lose that guitar case. I want my rifle.”
Isaiah complied quickly. Dropping to one knee, he looked nervously over his shoulder before he unzipped the case and revealed the weaponry. With hands shaking, he lifted the first rifle for Tucker.
“Take it easy, kid,” Tucker said. “I haven’t lost a junior agent yet.”
Their eyes locked. “I haven’t lost a senior agent either. I’d like to keep it that way, but if—”
Tucker put a palm in Isaiah’s face to stop the ‘but if’. “Stow it, Zaroyin. We’ve got work to do, now get off your knees and plant those cameras in plain sight. Get it done.”
Isaiah nodded, chastised and obedient. “Copy that, Boss.”
At last. What sounded like submission. There’d be time for chitchat later. Tucker waved Isaiah forward, wishing he’d taught the kid spec-op hand signals. A firm palm at his shoulder and a quick, “Stop worrying, I’ve got this,” eased his mind.
Tucker scanned the enemy camp with a meticulous eye. Vinnie didn’t believe in modern conveniences or employee safety. The factory was not only stuffy, but rank with t
he combined odors of unwashed bodies, mildew, and the smell of leftover oil, no doubt absorbed into the concrete floor from aircraft of a long ago era. There was no air-conditioning. No fire extinguishers and no marked exits.
The long rows of low hanging fluorescent shop-lights that didn’t come near to providing the bright light needed for close, tedious work, comprised the overhead lighting. Glass walls divided the second level, itself a good twenty feet above the working level. Tucker guessed Vinnie’s office was up there, where he could survey his kingdom and his slaves.
Stern men and women with long bamboo rods in their hands patrolled. Guards or enforcers, Tucker counted ten on the catwalk directly over the work area, others on the floor.
A latticework of wooden framework supported electrical lines to each workstation. To the far rear of the building, young men manned long tables, feeding fabric into machines to cut pieces of patterns, Tucker guessed.
Row after row, child after child, all had their heads bent over their work. The front doors were for show, judging by the heavy equipment stacked against them.
Tucker wiped the sweat running down the back of his neck. He had yet to spot Deuce. This place was stifling and a father’s worst nightmare. All it needed was a match and everyone would be trapped. They’d die or be trampled to death during the stampede to safety. Glancing sideways, he kept track of his partner crouched behind one of those rolling remnant bins.
Isaiah nodded toward the work area. “Grab a bin, Boss. It’s a good place to stash your rifle. Hurry. I need to do more of my mind thing.”
“Smart-ass.”
“Just watch out for the rats.”
Tucker raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?” He’d almost forgotten the vermin of the underbelly of Vietnam.
Isaiah nodded. “They’re everywhere. And they’re big.”
Tucker saw them then. Terrier-sized rodents slinking in the shadows beneath the tables and chairs. Cockroaches the size of dollar bills skittered away from the rats.
He latched onto the nearest cart and kept his head low, his ball cap pulled down, his eyes wide open, scanning for that sweet boy of his in the multitude of unclean bodies. Machines hummed. Pieces of fabric flew through the assembly lines while older kids made the rounds and collected the piles of sewed pieces. Surely Henry Ford didn’t have this nightmare in mind when he’d invented the assembly line, not slave labor for little kids who should’ve been in school learning how to be good citizens and future leaders. Or playing baseball.
King of Hearts (Deuces Wild Book 1) Page 21
