She circled her fingers around the nape of his neck, urging him closer. “What would that be?”
He closed his eyes just as his mouth crushed hers with a whispered, “Winslow.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Risky plan,” Tucker Chase muttered, his big right hand shading his eyes and making it hard for Tate to get a good read on him. Wasn’t that an interesting turnabout, him trying to read Tucker’s mind?
The Deuces Wild Team was holed up in one of the hospital’s consultation rooms. Tate had run home to shower. He’d changed into a fairly new pair of jeans and a gray button-up shirt. Work boots. His usual shoulder holster and a light jacket to hide the loaded pistol.
Isaiah sat at Tucker’s left at the head of the table, Tate and Ky at his right. Eden was home icing her ankle. The breakfast order Isaiah had brought back for Tate cooled at the other end of the table while Tate revealed his plan to bring Joyce Parrish to justice. It came to him over coffee with Shawna Truborn. Now he had to convince his boss.
“Risky, but sound,” Isaiah offered nonchalantly, kicked back in his chair. “What do you need me to do, Tate?”
Exactly. Without Tate’s psychic friends, none of this would work. He took a deep breath. “I’ll need you to influence Joyce Parrish psychically if you can. Get her to need to see Winslow.”
Isaiah rolled one shoulder. “Should be easy enough, provided I can get through to her. How desperate do you want her?”
“Frantic enough to throw caution to the wind?”
“Consider it done.” Isaiah tapped a fingertip to his temple. “I’ll check her out as soon as we’re done here.”
“And you intend to keep Winslow at Bly’s clinic as bait while he’s up at Johns Hopkins in Maryland?” Tucker asked. “You’re really going to use her like that?”
“Not exactly.” Tate rolled his shoulder, not comfortable using Ky’s wife as bait either. “Eden volunteered to pose as Winslow at Bly’s. Winslow stays here in the hospital under police protection.”
The scam was simple. Channel Thirteen was set to hold a press conference with Dr. Bly at their studio in Crystal City, during which he would reveal his cure for cancer to the world. The cure? The cocktail of drugs that Hattie had been poisoning Winslow with. In the course of the press conference, Bly would declare he’d kept his lucky patient secluded at his clinic, pending further testing and research. He would also inform his audience that he was speaking at an actual AMA conference in Baltimore, Maryland, at Johns Hopkins University within days.
Shawna Truborn had promised to play up the millions of dollars Bly had been promised from grants and several well-known pharmaceutical companies. He’d claim he was rich, but that he only cared about helping mankind. In the meantime, Eden would be undercover at his clinic with half of the Bureau waiting on Hattie to fall for the bait. Tate figured she’d either come after Winslow or Bly. He had both options covered. Hattie just needed to show.
“I don’t know...” Tucker stalled. “You’re talking hundreds of man-hours.”
“But it’s doable,” Tate insisted, damn the cost.
“But risky,” Tucker emphasized. “Are you certain Channel Thirteen’s management is on board with you and Truborn?”
“Shawna called her boss before she agreed to it.”
“Between Isaiah, Eden, and you two, we won’t need to involve many other agents, Boss,” Ky offered.
“What’s this we business? You won’t be back from California in time for this interview.” Tucker tapped his bottom lip. The man’s face was an unreadable mask. The single sheet of paper under his hand listed upcoming medical conferences in the area that would add credence to the AMA conference Channel Thirteen was set to announce during the interview with Bly. The only footnote on the schedule that Shawna Truborn needed to emphasize was already highlighted in yellow marker: Local Dr. Bly to speak on miracle cancer break through!
“Are you certain we can we get Bly to roll?” Tucker asked.
Tate’s chin clenched. “He will if he’s guaranteed immunity.”
Tucker hadn’t been concerned with protocol before he became a supervisor, why was he such a stickler now? Tap, tap, tap went that damned finger. “You already talked with him?”
Tate was no dummy. No FBI agent strolled into the county jail to chat up a prisoner without Tucker and the District Attorney’s say so, not with immunity riding on the line. “Not yet, but my gut says he’s no different than any other coward. Guys like Bly would roll on their own mothers if they thought it would save their skins.”
“But you don’t know that for certain, and the lab didn’t find anything illegal in the IV bag at Bly’s, or the line we found in Winslow’s room. What if he was helping her? What leverage do we have then?”
“Bly’s still up for complicity in an attempted murder and practicing without a license.” Isaiah tossed a covert wink in Tate’s direction.
Meanwhile, that magic finger of Tucker’s migrated to his right temple, still tapping out Morse code by the tempo of it. “Tell me again,” he ordered on a drawn-out sigh. “I’ve got to get the director’s stamp on this to go forward, so don’t leave anything out.”
Tate blew out an equally deep breath—of aggravation. This wasn’t rocket science. “Joyce needs to believe Bly is capitalizing on her prescription drug cocktail, that he’s getting rich on her idea. He’ll claim that he and he alone found the cure to cancer just to egg her on. Channel Thirteen’s going out on a limb with this false story. They’re willing to do all they can.” Why aren’t you?
“Joyce, sorry—Hattie will already be antsy,” Isaiah added. “She’ll want to get to Bly before he turns on her or gets away.”
“Dr. Keegan offered to speak along with Bly at the real conference if Joyce doesn’t break cover before then,” Tate said. “He said he could add credence to Bly’s story, make it sound more plausible.”
“No,” Tucker said. “No civilians. Only FBI and Channel Thirteen. There’ll be no collateral damage. None. Do you hear me?”
“The hook will be Bly telling the world that he’s getting rich,” Ky repeated.
“Once Hattie hears he stands to make millions” —Isaiah snapped his fingers— “We’ve got her.”
Tate nodded his appreciation for Ky and Isaiah’s tag-teaming Tucker.
“And the news conference is set for tomorrow night? Monday?” Tucker let that question hang.
Tate hissed. How many times did he have to say this? “The sooner the better.” The only one guarding Winslow at that moment was another FBI agent. Why didn’t that make Tate feel good?
“But you can keep an eye, so to speak, on Hattie during this entire op?” Tucker’s brow spiked at Isaiah. “I don’t want Eden or Bly getting hurt either.”
Isaiah tipped back in his chair. “If she’s anything like most criminals, no problem.”
Ky hissed. “You guys better take care of my wife.”
Tate glared at his boots, his left foot suddenly tapping along with Tucker’s finger. It didn’t get any weirder—or more annoying—than being in sync with his boss.
Isaiah leaned forward, his elbows to the table and his eyes on Tate. “The human brain is fairly generic. I can read most people. Their needs are basic, their minds wide-open. But everyone once in a while, someone like you comes along.”
Instantly, Tate shoved back at the psychic probe Isaiah had just launched. He might not understand how his mental muscle worked, it just did. Slam. Bam. Isaiah was out of there.
Isaiah’s eyes lit up as if he recognized the shove.
Tate stuck his chin at the guy. Yeah. Stop messing with me, Zaroyin. I’m onto you.
He’d sensed his fellow agents psychic probing more than once in the past. Eden’s touch was gentle, more like the brush of a butterfly wing. Tucker’s mental forays felt clumsy and heavy handed, like he was guessing his way into territory he wasn’t sure of. His were the easiest to block. But Isaiah’s? His probes were more like the kiss of a honeybee in spring,
a sweet, soft whisper that almost left a guy craving another touch. Yet Isaiah could still back that subtle contact up with the promise of a sting when push came to shove.
Tucker slapped both hands to the table, startling everyone. “Stop sandbagging me, guys. What’s the catch?”
Tate dropped his gaze to the table, not sure if Tucker was communicating with Isaiah at that precise moment. The catch was that Tate now knew for certain he was psychic. He just hadn’t disclosed how psychic he was to his boss. Affinity with animals, check. Psychic blocking, check. And just possibly the ability to read certain minds.
Once before, he’d felt Isaiah in his head prior to the op that saved Eden’s life. Alex Stewart might’ve sent him to Sierra Leone ahead of Ky, but Alex had only done it because Tate pressed him into it, and all because of a vision Isaiah sent him.
Bright and early one morning. Tate was at his bathroom mirror shaving, about to wash the last of the lather off his face, when an image of Eden on a balcony overlooking the stormy Atlantic came to him—the Joker—the least likely savior of anyone, and yeah. That’s how bizarre this whole psychic thing was, and how gentle the prompting from Isaiah had been. How he’d known where Eden was, Tate never asked, but not once had he doubted that the vision came straight from Isaiah.
There was plenty more to the story, but it all zeroed down to Isaiah—through Tate—giving Eden what she’d needed to hang on for one more day. It was a funny, intangible, lighter-than-air thing, but it was every bit as powerful as love. Coincidentally, it was the same thing she’d given Ky years earlier when he was at death’s door, trapped in a torture cell in Afghanistan.
Hope.
Because of Tate’s already established alliances in Sierra Leone, Mama Chappy’s son was on that beach the day Eden would’ve been murdered. All he did was wave at her. All she did was wave back. But by sunset, the kidnapper and his soldiers were dead, and Eden was safe in the arms of the man she loved. Tate wiped a quick hand over his face, perplexed at how his mind kept circling around to love. Had to be because of Winslow.
There seemed a margin of privacy and freedom without Tucker knowing this information, but once he did…
Tucker cleared his throat, that damned finger tapping. Waiting.
This was where everything could hit the fan. Tate had to say something, so he opted for misdirection. “The catch is—”
“That there is no catch,” Isaiah interrupted smoothly. “Why would you think otherwise, Boss?”
Tucker’s gaze narrowed to the evil glint of an ex-Navy SEAL who knew damned well he was being played. “Cut the bullshit, Zaroyin. I’ve worked with both of you long enough to know something else is going on here. Now spill.”
Yeah, he deserved to know, but wasn’t it interesting. Isaiah was outright taunting the guy. He wasn’t the suck up Tate thought he was. Not by a long shot.
“You’re suspicious of everyone. That’s all.” Isaiah leaned his elbows on the table, his fingers interlocked. “This sort of operation is precisely what Tate does best, Boss. He goes with his gut, and he hunts. You wanted him on this team for the very reason you doubt him now. He’s a tracker like none of the rest of us, and if we’re smart, we’ll give him his head and follow where he leads. Think of that moose carcass.”
Tucker’s lips bunched. His brows collided as his fingers flattened to the table. “What moose carcass?”
“The one you guys snacked on in Canada. Whose idea was that? Yours? Who shot it? You? Not hardly. I can’t see you dragging a yearling moose into camp in the middle of a blizzard, but Tate did and he did it alone.”
All ten of Tucker’s fingers drummed the table now. “I’d ask how you knew about that moose if I didn’t already know.”
Tate had forgotten that part of the Canada op. Even for him, that yearling moose was a lucky find. It kept him, Ky, Tucker, and Sam Becker, another hotshot SEAL, alive, but damn. Isaiah had some balls to take Tucker on like he did.
Isaiah winked, his gaze shifting from Tucker to Tate as he mimicked the big guy, tapping an index finger to his temple. “I also know about the four Omni-9000s you lifted out of the FBI evidence locker. You lied to Director Strong when you took them to Sierra Leone to go get Eden back. You told him you needed practice time on the range with the new high-tech gear in the inventory.”
Damned if Tucker’s face didn’t split wide with a grin. That was one thing he did easily, forgive and forget. “You’re okay, Zaroyin, you know that?”
Isaiah rapped one knuckle to the tabletop. “I’d say the same about you, but the jury’s still out.”
Tucker kicked back in his chair. “Let’s do this.”
It’s about damned time. Tate kept the smile off his face. He needed to explore this link with Isaiah before he admitted it to anyone else.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Finally back in her room, Winslow fell into a deep sleep that took her through the night and into the following morning. She lay there in the silence of her private room staring at the ceiling and wondering if this was how other people felt when they first woke. Warm. Tired, yet rested at the same time. At peace with themselves and the world. Dare she think it? I’m normal.
All she’d missed in her life waited outside her door, but for now, she was content to just lie there and breathe. One of life’s smallest pleasures, but one that few appreciated unless they’d been to the other side of Hell. Stretching, she let a quiet yawn ease out of her. Then another. A person could stay in bed all day if she wasn’t careful. Not me.
Tugging her trusty beanie down to keep her ears covered, she lifted to her butt, swung her bare feet over the edge of her bed, and rang for the nurse. This was a day for living, not sleeping.
She looked down at her wiggling toes just to be sure they were hers. Of course they were, but they didn’t ache. Or tingle. Even the catch in her left shoulder blade didn’t protest. Neither did her spine, which usually ached twenty-four-seven.
Wasn’t that interesting? Just for the fun of it, she stretched both hands high over her head and let every last vertebra know she was alive. Wow. So this was what waking up should feel like.
Her knees started jumping just thinking of all she could do with a body that didn’t hurt. Run. Dance. Tate had said something about proving how smart she was. That meant school, and that meant talking to that Client Advisor person Dr. Keegan had mentioned, and that meant…
She burst out singing, “I’m alive, and I’m happy to be alive, and I’m—”
“Miss Parrish!”
Winslow ducked her head into her shoulders, caught by the nurse. “Umm, hi. I’m up.”
Pretty and blonde, her hair carved in a sassy tapered cut that barely covered her earlobes, the young woman came to Winslow’s bedside. “I see that. I’ll bet you’re hungry too.”
Winslow’s fingers fluttered over her stomach. “You know what? I am.”
How extraordinary—not to be the least bit nauseous. Sweet!
The nurse laughed, one of those lovely, bells-chiming sounds you want to hear again. “Then let’s get you ready to rock and roll, shall we? I’m Breeze, by the way. It looks like that one round of dialysis did wonders for you. Most patients are drained the day after they go through it, but look at you. All smiles. And singing too.”
Warmth buzzed up Winslow’s cheeks, probably over her entire head, she’d blushed so hard. “I sing best in my shower, speaking of which, I could use one,” she said, but added, “Is that okay?” Just in case, you know, there were hospital rules or something.
Breeze’s forehead wrinkled when she smiled. “You betcha. Right now, you’re our star patient, so whatever you want, short of leaving the hospital, you get, girlfriend. I think Dr. Keegan wants to talk to you before you start wandering the halls though.”
Girlfriend? Best day ever!
Stifling her enthusiasm so she didn’t make too big of a fool of herself, she asked, “But I could if I wanted to?” Winslow had to know she was in control. “Walk the halls, I mean.”
“I’d rather shower alone, but I need clothes. Real clothes.”
“What you need is to open the gift bag behind you, young lady. Go on. I guess someone couldn’t wait for you to wake up, so they left a present for you. Doesn’t look like flowers to me.”
Winslow twisted around to the counter by the door. A brown paper grocery bag rested there. No flowers. No ribbons. Who would’ve left her a present? Tate? A shiver of excitement wiggled up her spine when she planted both feet to the cool linoleum floor and shuffled over to the bag. “Is this from you?”
Breeze shook her head. “No, but I’m dying to know what’s in it.”
“Oh, look.” A pair of dark gray sweat pants that were just her size, and a white T-shirt, extra small. It had to be from Tate. Aw, how thoughtful? She held them up for her nurse to admire.
“Looks like someone’s got a secret admirer,” Breeze said, winking.
Winslow ducked her head into her shoulders, feeling like a kid at Christmas. Only this time, she’d gotten real presents. That were new.
Digging deeper into the bag, she fingered the cotton bra and package of three, white cotton underwear beneath those surprises. She cringed at the thought of him selecting intimates for her. How embarrassing! Breeze didn’t need to see them. Simple black tennis shoes and red crew socks completed the surprise. No card. No note. Oh, that man.
Breeze was on the phone ordering breakfast, so Winslow shuffled into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She set her new clothes beside the sink. Shifting out of her gown, she hung it on the hook beside the shower before she turned the faucet to warm and the shower spray to gentle.
Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2) Page 23