One-Eyed Jack (The Deuces Wild Series Book 3)

by Irish Winters

  Table of Contents

  The Dead Man’s Hand

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Excerpt

  Thank you for reading One-Eyed Jack!

  Other Irish Winters’ books

  About the Author

  One-Eyed

  Jack

  The Deuces Wild Series

  Book 3

  IRISH WINTERS

  One-Eyed Jack; The Deuces Wild Series, Book 3

  Copyright ©2018 by Irish Winters

  All rights reserved

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogues, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Cover design: Letitia Hasser, Romantic Book Designs

  Interior book design: Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  Editor: Darcy Fairbanks

  ISBN Paperback: 978-1-942895-55-8

  ISBN eBook: 978-1-942895-56-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018935626

  Irish Winter’s author websites are:

  http://www.irishwinters.com and irishwinters.blogspot.com

  One-Eyed Jack

  Deuces Wild, Book 3

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  For more information about all of Irish Winters’ books, visit:

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  The Dead Man’s Hand

  Old West lawman, gambler, gunslinger and showman, James “Wild Bill” Hickok, was murdered on August 2, 1876, while playing five-card draw at Nuttal & Mann’s Saloon in Deadwood, Dakota Territory. Jack McCall, a disgruntled gambler, approached Hickok from behind and shot him at point-blank range in the back of the head, killing him instantly. McCall was later hanged for the murder, but by then, America had lost one of its premier Wild West heroes.

  Legend tells us “Wild Bill” held two pair at the moment of his death, black aces and eights—the dead man’s hand. The identity of the fifth card has been the subject of conjecture for years. For the purpose of this series, I’ve chosen a deuce of hearts for that card-in-the-hole, in honor of a little boy named Devlin who loved to play the violin. In honor of a father’s undying love for his son.

  Some players think wildcards are amateurish and juvenile. Others believe the more wildcards in the game, the greater their chance of winning. I only know that one Deuce and a pair makes three of a kind, and that sounds a lot like a family to me. You be the judge.

  Deuces Wild.

  Chapter One

  The moment his fingertips skimmed the door handle of First National Bank on Pennsylvania Avenue Southeast, FBI Special Agent Isaiah Zaroyin felt the presence of evil. His mouth went bone-dry as the chill of mind-numbing terror from within the bank skated up his forearm, prickling every psychic nerve in his body. The man he used to be would’ve hesitated charging into danger, but that timid guy was gone, transformed after months of physically brutal, twenty-four-seven tactical FBI training into an officer of the law.

  Shoving the heavy glass door aside, Isaiah let himself quietly into the lobby. An unattended information desk stood to his left, two glass-walled offices at his right. Three civilians, two males, one female, stood stock still in the service queue straight ahead. All four tellers, one male, three females, stood transfixed with their hands up, their wide-open eyes on some unseen person or persons around the corner to Isaiah’s right.

  He slowed his pace, his palm not yet on the pistol grip at his hip. Truth be told, he hated the vile weapon his job required he carry with a passion, not a typical trait for a government sponsored killer. But Isaiah wasn’t that guy, either. More than most people, he understood how violence spawned more violence.

  Staying out of sight, he called forth his true skill, and sent his powerful psychic alter ego ahead. Sure enough. Four tangos, as Tucker Chase, the FBI Director of the Bureau’s only psychic team would say, were in the process of robbing one of the District’s financial landmarks.

  Greed radiated from Garrett H. Randall and his three brothers: Liam, Tank, and Robert. Tank patrolled the main floor with an open-bolt, submachine gun tucked into his chest, but Liam and Robert were already behind the teller windows, also brandishing submachine guns and forcing the employees to the floor. Garrett’s brothers’ minds were sketchy at best, but easy to read. They might as well have been named Curly, Larry, and Moe for the way they blindly followed big brother. Garrett was the one to watch, his mind a jumbled mess of rage, pity, and—

  Isaiah cocked his head, translating the mixed signals pinging from Garrett’s damaged cranium. Street smarts, that was the underlying sensation rolling around inside that hard head, street smarts and enough anger to light a fuse without touching it. If Garrett only knew the psychic power he harbored, he wouldn’t need the submachine gun in his hand. The man was deadly smart in a scary, violent way.

  Isaiah sent a quick status report of all he now knew and suspected on the mental channel he shared with Tucker Chase. The perpetrators. The number of civilians on scene. The danger. Immediately, a torrent of expletives flooded the private path, all unfit for human consumption, some downright anatomically impossible.

  Tucker was like that. Explosive. Passionate. Ready to fly cover for his people and the best boss a man could ask for. But a brash, former Navy SEAL who led with that big square chin of his, was no help in delicate situations that could easily morph into an armed standoff. Not today.

  ‘Keep your ass out of sight until I get there,’ Tucker blasted back at Isaiah. ‘Help’s on its way. Don’t get yourself killed, kid. Understood?’

  Isaiah did understand, but he couldn’t promise that on
e, so he blocked all further incoming. Tucker would’ve done the same. He’d follow his gut, and while he might not appreciate the blocked signal, he’d expect Isaiah to do the same.

  With said gut churning, Isaiah ventured a full step into view. His heart leapt up his throat. He hadn’t foreseen the fifth member of Randall’s gang, the one in the too-big-for-her-petite-frame, red leather trench coat. The one hiding behind over-sized dark glasses that covered most of her face. The one with the riot of burgundy-red tangles splashing out from beneath a shabby Red Sox ball cap and tumbling down her back. The one with her arms outstretched, a snub-nosed revolver in her hands, now pointed shakily at him. How could he have missed reading her?

  “D-d-don’t come any closer. S-stay back,” she warned, her voice tight and trembling, on the verge of hysteria. “I’ll sh-sh-shoot. I m-m-mean it.”

  No, you don’t mean it, and she certainly didn’t belong on that side of the bank, but Isaiah couldn’t get a solid read on her. He couldn’t get past the mental wall inside her mind. That was his first clue that something was amiss with this unstable situation. Other than the obvious physical tells from the redhead. The clear signs of hyperventilation. The sweat running into her eyes. The red blotches on the slender column of her creamy neck, and the fact that she was shaking hard enough to drop the revolver—or accidentally fire it.

  Despite popular misinformation floating on the web, and—let’s not forget what the know-it-all film makers in Hollywood spewed as gospel truths—psychics were not mind readers. Impression readers made for a better descriptor, but aura decoders was more accurate. Psychics simply translated the mental energy produced by every living human being.

  But from this woman? Nothing. So why the leather coat on a warm spring day? Did she mean to stand out in this crowd? Was this robbery about fame and glory? Notoriety? Banks had been robbed for less, but this made no sense. The gun in her hand had already achieved those things for her. Her sleeves were too long, the padded shoulders on that leather trench coat, too wide. He saw it then, the tiniest glint of silver duct tape at her wrists, forcing her hands and the revolver together. Something bulky was hidden beneath the leather. She was no robber. This was a hostage situation.

  “Do what the lady says! Get your ass on the floor!” Garrett bellowed, waving his machine gun in an arc overhead. “Hand over the money or I’ll shoot!” He sent Isaiah a lethal glare. “You’ll die first!”

  Isaiah dropped belly to the floor to appease the maniac, but kept his chin lifted, still making eye contact with the woman in the trench coat. ‘Who are you?’ he asked mentally, needing her to know he was on her side and that he could help.

  She never indicated she might’ve picked up on his covert message. Instead, her frightened gaze slid back to the teller windows where Liam and Robert now rummaged through cash drawers, where one of the female teller’s mental anguish came through loud and clear. Sandra. Today was her last day at work before two months of maternity leave. She loved her husband, and she was scared to death for her unborn child. A little boy. An Invitro baby. Her last hope.

  Isaiah sent Sandra a psychic wave of confidence that all would end well, then he let his unique mental powers loose to assess the real situation. Both security guards had been disabled in the lobby, one shot in the leg and bleeding, the other unconscious. The downstairs restrooms were vacant. There was no one in the safety deposit vault. The silent alarm hadn’t gone off, which meant it had been disabled. No other staff was in the building. Wasn’t that interesting?

  Isaiah sent another heads-up to Tucker, ‘Garrett has someone inside.’

  ‘Goddamn it, don’t you dare cut me…!’

  Click. Isaiah silenced what would’ve been another epic rant filled with testosterone. You’ve got to love having a tried and proven American hero on your side in a dogfight, but you don’t necessarily have to like it. Or him. With Tucker for a boss, Isaiah didn’t often need enemies. The guy was that good—and that abrasive.

  “Make it quick, boys,” Garrett ordered his brothers behind the counters. “Tank, shoot the first person who moves. Liam and Robert, load up. Take everything. Doll Face, you’re with me.” He clamped onto the woman’s right arm, his fingers digging deep, creaking into the leather.

  With no choice, Doll Face sidestepped to Garrett’s side, her arms still extended and shaky, her weapon aimed too high to hit anything but the windows above and behind the teller counter. Wait. That bulk under her coat… Damn. She’s a bomb, too.

  ‘I can help you,’ Isaiah projected forcibly into her mind. ‘Look at me. See me. Know that I can save you.’

  Nothing. Either she was too traumatized to let him in, or she had the psychic ability to block him. It happened. That was the ultimate problem in Isaiah’s very limited career field. Being psychic wasn’t an omniscient, god-like trait that allowed access to everyone’s thoughts. It wasn’t Superman’s all-knowing, all-seeing x-ray vision, either. This psychic ability worked on science. It required a sensible, semi-psychic receptor as well as a psychic transmitter, and right now, Doll Face was neither.

  Isaiah’s gut churned when Garrett Randall dragged Doll Face farther down the hall to the corridor branching to the right. Out of sight meant trouble for a woman. Possibly rape. But Isaiah suspected they were more likely headed for the secret basement exit only Garrett and the bank manager knew existed. Interesting. Garrett not only had another partner in crime, but he intended to run out on his brothers. Were he and Doll Face in on this together? Was she a decoy or a bona-fide innocent in the wrong place at the wrong time? And why leave without the bank’s money?

  ‘The bank manager’s the inside man,’ Isaiah relayed to Tucker, then shut the link down before Tucker could get off a list of imperatives Isaiah didn’t want to hear.

  “You’re hurting me,” came a timid whimper from behind the counter. Harriet. The forty-seven-year old teller with bad knees, the one kneeling bedside Sandra. Her husband had cancer.

  “Then git your scrawny legs outta my way, you wrinkled old bitch,” he spat, “or I’ll move ’em for you.”

  She cried out again as the steel tip of Liam’s boot made contact, and Isaiah flattened both palms to the floor, appalled and angry. Liam was a known sadist and more lethal than Garrett. He’d no doubt shoot Harriett to prove he meant business.

  Fighting an overwhelming need to strike back, Isaiah first probed Liam’s brain, version 1.0 on the evolutionary scale, needing to see what the Neanderthal thought he knew. Not much. The big guy wanted cash, and was greedily stuffing all he could into a canvas bank bag he’d set on the chair by one of the teller drawers. Rapid heartbeat. Dry lips. Yet joyful. Nearly rabid with glee at what he was doing. With what he was getting away with. The only thing he’d like better would be killing every last person in the bank.

  Not happening.

  Isaiah shook the gruesome vision off. Being filthy rich wasn’t good enough for Liam. All women in the bank were in mortal danger. Robert’s greed was in lockstep with Liam’s, but he lacked this brother’s killer instinct. The robbery was just a game to the youngest Randall, a way to prove he was as tough as his brothers. He was here to learn.

  Isaiah sent a silent push to Liam and Robert, compelling them with unimaginable need to possess every last dollar, nickel, and dime in the bank. They had to have it. Every. Last. Cent.

  Once they were sufficiently enthralled, Isaiah turned his attention on Tank. The brute strolled the lobby, nudging the prostrate woman’s hip with the toe of his boot as he went, sticking the muzzle of his weapon in the two men’s faces, keeping them edgy. Toying with them like a cat with a mouse. He enjoyed terrorizing people. The customers were in damned dire straits.

  A scuffle at the far end of the hall caught Isaiah’s attention. What sounded like a slap. Garrett and Doll Face hadn’t gone far. “B-b-but I, I can’t do that,” she cried, her voice verging on hysterical. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about th
e money!” Garrett’s angry voice boomed. “The real money! You know where it is, I know you do!”

  After another resounding slap, she crumpled to the floor, her arms still extended like sticks. Not able to catch herself, her cheek hit the polished marble floor with a crack. Isaiah winced. Blood gushed down her neck even as Garrett latched onto her coat collar and dragged her backward, the revolver trapped in her hands waving like a red flag.

  The time had come. The second Garrett rounded the corner and was out of sight, Isaiah made his move. Pushing up from the floor, he took off running. Rounding the narrow service desk where customers filled out deposit slips on good days, he jumped sideways, and with one well-placed kick to Liam’s throat, the sadist was down and out for the count.

  But Liam got off a wild spray of gunfire before he hit the floor, raining down sheetrock and dust. The hostages cried or screamed, but by then, Isaiah had vaulted the teller counter. His boot made contact with Robert’s surprised face before the guy could get to the submachine gun he had thoughtlessly dropped on the floor. Down he went, but—damn! Just as Isaiah jumped to his feet ready to take on Tank, another body hurtled the counter, this one clad in the crisp black uniform of D.C.’s finest.

  A female police officer landed on her feet and—Boom! Tank dropped in the lobby where he stood, a bright red blossom gurgling out of the gaping hole in the center of his chest, and a shocked WTF in his eyes. Robert had come to, but hadn’t seemed to notice the noise or the officer. He was still on his knees, chasing after every last bill and coin even though his brothers might be breathing their last.

  Focused on rescuing Doll Face, Isaiah grasped the edge of the counter to be on his way when—

  “Don’t move,” a razor sharp feminine voice ordered. “Hands up where I can see them, smart ass. Now!” Amazing. This female Metro police officer thought she was in control. What’d she think he’d been doing?

  Isaiah did as he was told and lifted both palms, breathing hard. Talk about Wonder Woman. He knew this particular officer. Roxy Thurston, totally believed in herself and her shooting prowess, and she meant to put one in Isaiah’s head if he so much as looked sideways. They’d run into each other before, and it always ended the same. The ballsy cop took over jurisdiction, and unless the FBI had reason to protest, Isaiah always let her.