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

by Irish Winters

  “Shit. It’s you again,” she hissed, her weapon still trained on him and her eyes bright with recognition. “What are you doing here, Special Agent Zaroyin?” Officer Thurston didn’t tremble or hesitate, but man, what a sight. Her chin stuck out like she already owned the place. Glossy long black hair had been pulled tight in a long ponytail at the nape of her neck. Not perky. Not cute. But all business.

  A few tendrils had dared escape her control, softening the masculine set to her jaw. Laser brown eyes scoped the entire situation, flickering from Liam’s prone body to Robert, still hunched over the fallen cash drawer on the floor and scrabbling for coins, then onto Tank laying in the lobby where no civilian still dared move.

  “As you know, I’m FBI, ma’am,” Isaiah offered, matching her calm as he lowered his hands. “You’ll find my badge on my belt where it was the last time we met. There’s another armed robber in the bank, Garrett Randall. He’s got a female hostage. She’s armed, too, but don’t hurt her. She’s not with them, but she’s also wired with explosives. C-4, I believe.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Thurston jerked her head toward Liam, still out cold behind the counter. “Did you kill him?”

  “I might have. You’re welcome to take a look. I’ll wait here.” At least until you turn your back. Then I’m off to save Doll Face.

  Pressing her chin to the two-way clipped to her shoulder, Officer Thurston sent a call for immediate MPD backup. “How many did you say?” Authoritative, she demanded obedience, so Isaiah gave her that, too.

  “Just the four Randall brothers, but Garrett’s the only one left to worry about. He’s armed with a submachine gun, and he’s got inside help, the bank manager. I’m sure of it. He’s taken a hostage. Long red hair. Red leather trench coat. You can’t miss her.”

  “So you said.” Tossing her cuffs, Thurston stuck her chin at Robert, still thinking she was in charge. “Secure him before he gets away, too. Do it fast.” Her nose flared even as her deep brown eyes scanned Isaiah up and down in one lightning quick assessment. Did she just lick her bottom lip?

  He did as he was told instead of watching her saucy mouth. The bumbling brother wasn’t a threat, not the way he kept palming the floor for every last dollar and dime, but Isaiah gave Robert no choice but to comply. Kneeing the guy between his shoulder blades, he secured the weak-minded brother. Even cuffed with his hands behind his back, Robert lay sideways and craned his neck to grab any stray bills with his teeth.

  Isaiah did borrow Thurston’s cuffs to secure Liam where he’d fallen, though. He hadn’t come around yet, but Isaiah didn’t take chances. Tank, on the other hand, could be trouble if that injury in his chest wasn’t fatal. The second eldest Randall was an ox on steroids. All brawn. No brains. Maybe dying, but… maybe not.

  Officer Thurston’s head canted as her dark brown eyes raked over Isaiah yet again. Her nose wrinkled, and that made her just plain—adorable—in a purely professional way. “You’re really him, that mind reader dude the FBI’s so proud of.”

  Mind reader dude? Isaiah didn’t care what the FBI was proud of, but this female officer calling him a dude, like he was some freak show hiding behind a badge, bugged him. A distinct click drew his focus to the hall.

  Pivoting, Thurston turned her revolver on the eldest Randall who’d just stepped into the open with his human shield, his fist knotted in Doll Face’s hair, her head forced back on her shoulder. With a growl, he shoved her forward.

  The poor thing’s face was ruddy and sweaty, her arms still extended and her weapon angled upward. That alone made up Isaiah’s mind for him. Doll Face wasn’t part of this gang. She was a pawn, a woman in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Officer Krupkey,” Garrett gloated. “We meet again.”

  Isaiah’s eyes narrowed at that off-the-wall reference to the bully cop in the musical, West Side Story. Those five years in the pen must have been pure enlightenment for this particular dirtbag.

  “Officer Thurston to you, scumbag,” Thurston shot back at him. “When’d you get out?”

  His upper lip lifted in a sneer. “None of your business, pig. Now move your fat ass and no one’ll get hurt.” He seemed unconcerned that none of his brothers were in sight. He didn’t so much as look sideways to the counter for Liam or Robert, but Tank lay there in the open. Garrett had to know he was dead. Tank’s arms sprawled at his side, his fingers still on the submachine gun, but a widening pool of blood puddled beneath him, and—what the hell was wrong with Garrett Randall?

  Isaiah’s blood chilled. He never had a brother, but to lose three at one time… A mighty wave of empathy washed over him for all the brothers in the world. All but Garrett Randall. Why was he in this bank? What was going on?

  Thurston pressed one step toward Garrett, her focus not wavering, her demeanor incredibly cool and collected considering she was the only law enforcement officer on site, and that she was in the middle of a highly explosive confrontation. “Let her go before I put a round through your left eyeball, Randall. You won’t look so pretty with half your ugly head missing.”

  “I ain’t worried ‘bout no beauty contest. Hold still Doll Face.” With one hand on the poor woman’s neck, Garrett leveled the muzzle of his weapon over her shoulder, closed one eye and took aim at Thurston. Whimpering, Doll Face turned her cheek from the gun barrel, her arms still rigidly poised to shoot, though both of her eyes were closed and she’d aimed at the ceiling.

  Good girl, Isaiah thought, certain once again that he’d tagged her motives correctly. Doll Face was the pawn. Randall was the ass. Check and double check.

  “You always were an eager beaver, Thurston,” Garrett snickered, “least that’s what I heard in the pen. I hear you can take it in the ass better than most pretty boys.”

  Thurston didn’t so much as blink at the ugly taunt. “You’d better believe they talk about me in the pen. Who do you think put them there?” she replied, her tone over-the-top cocky, vaguely reminding Isaiah of his boss, Tucker Chase.

  But Doll Face didn’t have the nerve for this situation. Her cheeks flushed even as the rest of her complexion turned a pasty shade of gray. Isaiah had to get her away from Garrett before she did something stupid, like kill someone.

  Chapter Two

  “Let’s make this simple, Randall. Your brothers are all down. I’m pretty sure Tank’s dying. You don’t look like you care, but that still makes you the last asshole standing. How about you step away from the woman, and I let you live?” Roxy didn’t back off for anyone. It wasn’t in her training or her nature.

  An ugly smile slithered over his whiskered face like a pet rattlesnake come out to play. Prison food must’ve agreed with him. He’d put on fifty pounds since Roxy had seen him last. The guy was butt ugly.

  Garrett had just done a nickel upstate for an armed home invasion where he’d nearly bludgeoned the elderly homeowner to death. He should’ve gone down for assault with a deadly weapon, but the jerk had a semi-decent lawyer in the Randall family, an aunt who’d married well, and gone to college long enough to join the greedy throng of public defenders. Sylvia Delgado got him off easy. Five years was nothing.

  The poor woman caught in his snare now was the problem. The redhead should faint like the damsel in distress she obviously was, but she kept waving that damned revolver like a marching baton. If she was smart, she’d drop it, but even smart people did crazy things under duress. Roxy didn’t want to kill her. Didn’t want to have to, but she would.

  “Guess again, bitch,” Randall hissed as he shoved Doll Face forward and into Roxy’s line of sight.

  Doll Face’s arms lifted, and… Blam! Blam! Blam! The dumb chick fired!

  All shots went high—thank God!—but between the sirens screaming outside the bank and Psychic Dude’s hand on Roxy’s forearm like a vise, she couldn’t think clearly enough to get a shot off before the eldest Randall turned and ran back down the hall.

  “Back
off,” she spat at Mr. FBI, ready to knock him out if he tried that stunt again. The warmth from his grip still tingled, but there wasn’t time for that. “I’m working here!”

  “You can’t get him now. He’s gone.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” She elbowed the guy a sharp one in the ribs, pissed as hell at his steady composure as much as the fact that he was still touching her, and that—crap—she liked it. “I’m going after him. Stay here.”

  “No, you’re not,” Mr. Know-It-All barked back at her, his gaze directing her to the woman, and those damned slender fingers of his still holding her fast. Had to be the adrenaline that made her stop and listen, but the electric buzz radiating up her arm from his touch was annoying. She shrugged him off again, but didn’t dare lower her piece. Not until…

  The front flaps of the woman’s red leather trench coat parted, revealing a much more serious problem than a bank robber on the loose. Shit. Psychic Dude was right. A flimsy metal harness had been fitted over her shoulders and around her chest. It held her arms rigid and raised, but worse than that revolver in her hands, Doll Face was wired with enough plastic explosives to blow Washington D.C. clear off Google maps.

  “Jesus Christ,” Roxy muttered. “Stand down,” she sent to her fellow MPD officers lined up outside and ready to charge into the bank the first chance they could. “Don’t come in, guys. I need EOD on the double. Get ready to receive all hostages but one.” The one who just might blow us all to hell.

  “Thurston,” Captain Quinlan barked. “What’s going on?”

  She explained quickly, told him the eldest Randall had escaped through the rear exit, and the others were incapacitated. She had three bank customers, four employees coming out as soon as she could, faster if he’d get off the line. She needed EMTs to transport the two wounded security guards and the downed Randall brothers, pronto. One woman remained, still armed, and oh, by the way, wired to blow.

  “For God’s sake, get those civilians out of there!” he ordered, finally comprehending the scope of the problem.

  No shit, Sherlock. “They’re coming out now, Cap. Where’s O’Donnell?” That would be Suzanne O’Donnell, a damned fine, ex-military explosive ordnance gal, new to D.C. Metro, but a terrific addition to the all-male MPD bomb squad.

  “Suzy’s suiting up now. Give her ten. What are we looking at? How much? What kind?”

  “Four bricks of C-4, det cord, and a wrist watch timer,” Psychic Dude replied, his voice oddly soothing. He hadn’t bullied Roxy into relinquishing the scene, an unlikely cooperative change for a Bureau narc.

  “You’re sure of that?” Roxy couldn’t get a clear look at the explosives to verify, not from this distance. How could he be certain?

  “Positive.” He had the temerity to walk over to the nearest teller on the floor. “Excuse me, ma’am, but all of you should leave now. Go quickly to the front entrance. The police are waiting there for you. Take it easy. Keep calm. Help each other. Officer Thurston and I have everything under control.”

  Quietly, Roxy relayed what Psychic Dude said about the explosives to her captain while the frightened civilians wasted no time running for their lives. “What about the three Randall brothers?” she asked Quinlan.

  “They’re no trouble for now,” Psychic Dude answered, and Quinlan’s grumpy baritone voice faded to white noise. “My name’s Isaiah Zaroyin by the way, Officer Thurston, not Psychic Dude. It’s good to meet you again. You can call me Isaiah. Roxy is it?”

  “To my friends,” she spelled that boundary out nice and clear, trying to focus on whatever Captain Quinlan was saying over her radio instead of what was coming out of the mouth of the incredibly handsome man smiling down at her. Damn, Agent Zaroyin—she refused to be on a first name basis with anyone FBI related—had sexy, dark blue eyes. This could’ve been one of those movie scenes that ended with the hero kissing the heroine at the end of a bank heist—enough of them had been filmed in the District—but Roxy didn’t take second billing, and—newsflash! She didn’t need a hero. But if she did...

  “Thurston! Are you listening to me?” her boss’s snarky question finally registered in the flustered female portion of her beat cop head.

  She shook her distraction off. Zaroyin was trouble and the last thing she needed. “Umm, yes sir. It’s noisy in here. Sorry. Say again.”

  Okay, so it wasn’t noisy. It had gotten deathly still now that Randall and the civilians were gone. The EMTs were quietly busy with the wounded security guards, but she’d never admit that a man—this man—had distracted her. Not in a million years. Agent Zaroyin was a Fed and she was a cop. Neither the twain shall meet and greet.

  As if he’d read her mind, Agent Zaroyin shot her a secretive smile, one brow lifted, the other eyelid lowered into a devilish wink, damn him!

  “I said I’m sending three officers in to take the Randalls into custody, so don’t shoot them,” Captain Quinlan all but shouted. “Can you hear me now?”

  She caught the sarcasm. Yes, I hear you now, you big blowhard. “Understood. Over and out,” she sent back meekly.

  Disconnecting, she lifted her chin at Zaroyin to prove she was in charge of this crime scene. “You’re the FBI’s psychic.” She made that a clear statement, not a question.

  “I’m one of several,” he replied easily. “Could you give me a hand?”

  “No need. EOD’s on the way. Hang tight and stand clear.” She used her commanding voice that time.

  But Zaroyin was already kneeling at the woman’s side, one palm on her leather-covered shoulder. Her arms were still raised and trembling, the sleeves quivering. “I’m afraid that isn’t an option. I need you over here.”

  “And I told you to back off.” Didn’t he realize how dangerous this situation was?

  For a moment there, she thought he whispered, ‘Roxy. Please This woman’s scared to death. She’s a victim here, and she needs a woman’s touch to calm her while I defuse the bomb.’ But that would be beyond weird, right?

  A shiver raced up her arms and over both shoulders, lighting the defensive side to her rough and tumble nature. Was he really a mind reader like everyone said? Could he see through her clothes? Worse, had Zaroyin just spoken to her in her mind? In her head? Damn him! Did he know she was wearing a hot pink, see-through lace bra? A black leather thong? That no answer came back to her for those questions was no help!

  “What? Are you an EOD expert, too?” Roxy gulped, her Spanish/Irish up and her hackles along with it. FBI or not, this guy had his nerve to question her authority, psychically or… or whatever! And he’d better not try that mind reading thing again.

  “No, but we’re the only two in here at the moment. Please help me help her?”

  That did it. No one said please anymore, not while looking as adorable as he did. She’d imagined that psychic—thing. Stuff like that only happened in the movies.

  With one last look around, she holstered her service revolver as three officers cleared the front entrance, their weapons drawn. “You won’t need those, guys. Two Randalls are down behind the teller windows, another’s on the floor, there. All subdued.” She walked to where Tank lay, bleeding and still unconscious, then secured his weapon and set it aside to be bagged and tagged as evidence. “Who went after Garrett?”

  “Danson, Shank, and one of the rookies, I forget his name. Don’t worry. We always get our man,” Detective Harmon replied with a cheesy smirk and his usual swagger. “You oughta know that by now, young lady.”

  “Can the macho shit,” she shot back at the only man on the premises in a three-piece suit, instantly riled. Young lady, nothing, you old fart. I can kick your ass any day. And I should.

  Gray-haired and older by at least ten years, Harmon was a prick of a male chauvinist. A good cop, he always arrived with an older generation twist on what he called just being funny humor. He and his little posse of detectives were always making cracks about how women belonged in the kitchen like in the old days, t
he old cliché barefoot and pregnant, not doing man’s work down at the precinct. How they looked better in short skirts than men’s pants.

  Get over it already. If the old days had been that good for women, there wouldn’t have been a feminist movement, would there? Women weren’t any different than men as far as skills, knowledge, and abilities went. They could do anything men could do, and for some duties, they were hands down better than guys. She’d certainly proved it, and she was tired of having to prove it to every asshole on the force every time she turned around.

  “Officer Harmon,” Zaroyin spoke up. “Please evacuate the prisoners. This bomb will detonate in less than five minutes. We don’t want to take any more chances, do we?”

  Roxy’s heart lurched. Five minutes? She forgot her women’s right issues and scrambled to Zaroyin’s side, while Harmon and his two buddies snapped to and evacuated the prisoners. Even the EMTs dealing with Tank’s lumbering body hurried.

  “What do you need me to do?” she asked, her mouth dry. “Tell me. I can do anything.”

  “I believe you, Roxy.”

  Oh, so now, we’re on a first name basis? Fine.

  “For now, hold onto Candace’s right hand and shift the weight of that weapon from her to you,” Zaroyin replied calmly, his eyes locked on the woman’s. “She’s been holding it for more than an hour, and she’s very tired. Her arms are numb. I’m afraid her trigger finger is, too.”

  “Candace?” He knows this woman’s name already? Here Roxy had been bantering with Quinlan and Harmon, while Zaroyin had effectively dealt with the traumatized female hostage, learned all about her, and discovered intimate details Roxy needed for her report.