“Being psychic does not make me God,” he told his boss patiently.
“You were right about the insider though. The TSA folks at Dulles intercepted First National Bank’s manager, one Clint Janeway. Guess he thought he could live happily ever after in Samoa with his share of the robbery.”
Isaiah shrugged. Janeway should’ve made it his business to understand the difference between diplomatic relations and extradition treaties. Some countries were only too happy to work with US law enforcement. All they asked for was an offer of reciprocity should they need a similar favor of extradition in the future. Proof, yet again, that most criminals, bankers included, were not the smartest people. “I checked his work history. Janeway’s worked for First National over eleven years. Want to bet he was involved in the original heist?”
“Already working that angle, but he’s lawyered up. It’ll take time to prove.”
“Garrett planned to betray his brothers,” Isaiah informed his boss. “It didn’t bother him when Tank went down. He barely noticed.” How does a man do that?
Tucker leaned into the conversation, his brow furrowed and eyes gone darker than usual. “No shit?”
Isaiah nodded, perpetually tired of the world of deceitful, conniving men.
“You want to know why I named this team like I did?”
That question came out of nowhere, but Isaiah already knew the answer. Tucker’s love for his son ran deep, and the thirteen year old’s name was Deuce. There was a heart-stopping time when Tucker had thought he’d lost this boy, back when Tucker’s ex-wife had fled the country and ended up in Vietnam. He’d gone into Hell to get Deuce back on United States soil. But that was another story.
Suffice it to say that with Tucker Chase at the helm, the Deuces Wild Team lived up to its name. They had a reputation for getting the hard jobs done while stretching the limits of the law, much like the Texas Rangers of Old West notoriety. Only there were no laws on the books that governed psychic energy—yet. That didn’t mean Tucker didn’t see himself as Wyatt Earp. Yeah. He thought he was a legend, too.
When Tucker didn’t proceed to dazzle Isaiah with his customary bullshit, Isaiah asked, “I give. Why?”
Eying Isaiah with something akin to tenderness, Tucker produced a set of playing cards, shuffled them like a dealer in Vegas, then turned five cards over, revealing a royal flush, all hearts, as well as one Joker.
Isaiah straightened, wondering how Tucker drew those specific cards from a shuffled deck. Was this a trick?
Tucker set the ace aside and tapped one finger to the king of hearts. “That’s me. I run this show. I’m king over my team. No one else has a say. Not even Director Strong.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. King, Ace, what was the difference? They both spelled ego, which Tucker had just demonstrated in—aces. Isaiah stifled a smirk.
Tucker tapped the queen next. Has to be Eden. She’s the heart of this—
“Not Eden. Melissa,” Tucker corrected.
Whoa. That was new. Tucker had just read him as well as those cards. Isaiah sat up a little straighter.
“She might not work for me, but she’s part of this team. So yeah, she’s my queen. Always has been, always will be.” Tucker fingered the jack next. “And this guy…”
The jack of hearts showed his profile instead of his entire face. One-half hidden, one-half visible. Had to be Tucker’s son.
“Not Deuce.” Tucker stared at Isaiah through lowered brows, his eyes more black than brown, and Isaiah was sure. His boss’s psychic skills were growing stronger.
“Me?”
Tucker’s gaze lowered to the card almost as if he were looking beyond it. “To be called a one-eyed jack’s usually a slur. It means you’re a liar and a charlatan, a guy who presents himself as a gentleman while he knifes you in the gut. But you…”
“Wait. You think I’m a liar?” That hurt. Of all Tucker’s team members, Isaiah preferred to stay in the background. He was support staff, nothing more, but he was no liar.
“No. Never. Hear me out. I had a spotter when I was in Pakistan a few years back. Played a game on our downtime called One-Eyed Jack. In the rules, all jacks were wild, so if you were dealt one, you protected it. Jacks were a bonus card that no one else knew you had. They entitled the holder to one free mark on the game board, but the one-eyed jack of hearts, well, he was different. With that card in your hand” —Tucker tapped the card again— “you couldn’t lose. The one-eyed jack of hearts was the only card in the game that could kill your opponent, and if you played it right, win the game.”
Sooooooooo not what Isaiah expected. “I don’t kill people, Boss. Please get that straight once and for all. I hate that side of my job, and if there’s another way, I’ll always find it.”
Tucker nodded. “I know that about you and I respect it. But besides Melissa, you’re the one I trust the most, Isaiah. You taught me all I know, and you’re honest and straight with me, and…” Tucker lifted the jack of hearts, flipping it between his fingers like a dealer would. “To be honest, you’re the real power behind this crazy team. Don’t take this wrong, but you’re… you’re...”
I’m what? Isaiah held his breath. He’d never seen this side of his boss before.
“You’re like a little brother to me,” Tucker breathed. “And yeah, I know who you are. I see the intellectual who thinks he can save the world without resorting to warfare, but know this, Isaiah. The day will come that you have to become that liar and charlatan to save lives. You’ll have to be deceitful and double-dealing. You may have to kill.”
Isaiah shook his head even as he recognized the truth. He just couldn’t imagine a scenario he couldn’t control, either mentally or psychically. It just wasn’t in the—cards.
Tucker finally looked Isaiah in the eye, and the tender moment—or whatever it was—vanished. Masterfully, he returned the cards to his drawer, tipped back in his chair, and thumped one monster-sized boot onto his desk. “But this is the way this thing’s got to go down, kid.”
Caught off-balance by Tucker’s revelation, Isaiah found himself staring at the waffle tread of his boss’s boots, waiting for Tucker to vocalize what Isaiah now knew was coming. Wait for it…
“Office Thurston’s on her way over. Meet her at ground level once she clears security, then the two of you…”
“No, Boss. I’m not working with Officer Thurston to guard and protect anyone.”
“…will escort Mrs. Bratton and her kids to the…”
“You’re not listening, Tuck.”
“…FBI safe house on Embassy Row and you’ll stay there with her until this thing blows over.”
Isaiah stood, the vertebrae in his spine cracking as he did. A man and a woman, especially this particular woman, shouldn’t work together, not if they’d be alone for any extended time. He’d never admit it to his boss, and he’d kept a psychic lid on it, so Tucker wouldn’t pick up on any stray vibes, but Isaiah had definite feelings for the sassy MPD officer. He’d had them since the first time they’d met. Too bad none of them were professional. “Trust me on this. You don’t want me and Thurston working this case or any other case together.”
“Why not?” Tucker lounged, his hands behind his head, and his big hard head totally missing the point.
Isaiah paused. This Tucker he understood. The man was a brash, bare knuckles kind of guy, one you definitely wanted on your side in a brawl. But when it came to sensitive topics like romance and relationships, hell, the entire feminine gender for that matter, Tucker usually hit a solid three on the sensitivity scale of zero to ten. How his new wife, the very independent Melissa McCormack of McCormack Industries fame, had ever fallen for a man of his obnoxious, take-charge caliber baffled Isaiah. But now he wondered. Tucker’s psychic abilities were definitely growing stronger. It was a reach, but might he also be growing more—sensitive?
As if he’d never strayed from his take-all-comers Navy SEAL persona, Tucker added insult to injury.
“Look at it as the Bureau doing a favor for the local yocals. Besides, Thurston asked for you specifically.”
Great. She’d gone over Isaiah’s head and straight to his boss for this cozy assignment. What was that about? “I’ll take care of it,” Isaiah said, resigned. There was no sense arguing.
“And kid...” Tucker tossed a set of keys over his desk at Isaiah. “Lock up the safe house when you’re done. It’s a beaut.”
Isaiah snagged the keys hurtling at his head. “Does Miss Bratton know we’re relocating her family today?”
“Not until you tell her, she doesn’t. Let me know when you’re in for the night, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” That ought to be a treat, informing an already distraught woman that the FBI planned to uproot and transplant her family into the very busy Northwestern portion of the District. Isaiah stuck the keys in his pocket and left his boss behind.
He hadn’t had time to run home and change clothes yet, and he needed a shower. Hell, he hadn’t planned on entering the bank, either. It was merely on the route he took every day, and the sensation that something was terribly wrong inside was the only reason he’d stopped. There were times he truly hated his psychic gift, but the relief he’d sensed from those poor tellers once he took Liam and Robert down, made the day worthwhile.
Isaiah still had an unpleasant task ahead, but telling Candace about this drastic change in her current life didn’t compare to rubbing elbows with Officer Thurston on a day-to-day basis. Not by a long shot. Candace, as far as Isaiah could tell, was manageable, but Roxy? Working with her would be akin to playing with unexploded ordnance for the fun of it.
It wasn’t that Isaiah didn’t like Roxy. He did. Too much. The passion for her job that the saucy Hispanic radiated, astounded Isaiah. But for the life of him, he couldn’t explain why the image of her in leather pants and a tight, wet, tiny T-shirt that amplified her already lush assets, blasted his psychic nerves every time he’d dared tiptoe through her colorfully explicit aura. Roxy held nothing back, and oh yes, she slept in the nude.
Isaiah scrubbed a hand over his face, annoyed he’d lost control over his psychic gift where she was concerned. But honestly, every memory in her head declared Roxy held nothing back. Her after-hours were just as energy charged. She dominated the neighborhood where she lived with her father, where she also taught self-defense classes at the local community center. On her time off, she delivered meals for senior citizens in the same neighborhood. They loved her. Heck, everyone loved her.
Single and a practicing Catholic, she still lived in her father’s home. Despite her multiple responsibilities, Roxy seemed on top of the world and able to kick ass any day of the week. Energetic and over-confident, she resembled Tucker Chase with her rock ’em sock ’em, ask forgiveness later style. Talk about a live wire. And trouble.
Isaiah had first met her on another joint Metro/FBI task, this one involving a porn shop with known connections to the sex trade. That was when those first erotic images of her showed up in his head. Working with her had done things to him. The sight of her, the way her hips swung from side to side, and the pleasantly overwhelming scent of coconut in her wake, had aroused a side Isaiah hadn’t realized he’d possessed until then.
Working so closely with her had made him want to do things to her, and with her, that until then he’d never dreamed of doing, much less looked forward to. Like night after night of steamy, sweaty sex. Like marathon days of taking her every which way he could. Like Total. Complete. Abandonment.
Yeah. Not happening, and precisely why this joint op was a bad idea. Isaiah rolled his neck from the stress that came simply by thinking of Roxy’s silky olive-toned skin. At least it looked silky to him. He had yet to lay a finger on her, but the swish of all that jet-black hair and the way it hung down her back when she walked… The way that ponytail flipped side-to-side off her shoulders when she ran... The way the tips of it slapped the taut cheeks of her sexy ass...
His tongue ran a single lap over his bottom lip, wondering what she’d taste like. Sweet? Salty? The woman was enticing as all get out. And so not happening.
Isaiah had built his life on the bedrock principal of utter control. At the beginning of every day, he knew precisely what the next twenty-four hours held. From sun-up to sundown, and from his morning shower until the second his head hit his pillow at night, he planned, executed, and adhered to well thought out, meticulously planned daily schedules. Impulsive decisions weren’t solid, nor could proper conclusions be drawn in the thick of battle.
Tucker and Roxy might shoot from the hip. Not Isaiah. He preferred thinking his way out of difficult situations. Like today. He’d had everything in control until Roxy showed up. From that second on, his blood had fled south and it seemed his mental talents went with it. It couldn’t—shouldn’t—positively wouldn’t—happen again.
Since the spectacular debacle of his father, Abraham Zaroyin’s fall from grace and this subsequent, and very much publicized twenty-years-to-life sentence for treason, Isaiah prided himself on his iron self-control. The lack of it was what had driven the once highly esteemed Dr. Zaroyin to the poor judgment that had ultimately cost dozens of FBI agents’ lives.
Isaiah refused to be the son who followed in his father’s footsteps. His mother had trusted his dad. Look how that turned out.
Only now... Isaiah stiffened his chin. He had two women to deal with, Officer Thurston and Candace Bratton, neither of which he wanted to rely on. Hoping to intercept Officer Thurston before she barged in on Bratton’s polygraph like the rowdy maverick she was, Isaiah turned sharp at the next corner, and…Oomph!
He ran face first into said Metro PD officer.
Chapter Four
“You jerk! You spilled my coffee!” Tugging what was once a crisply ironed shirt away from her now dripping wet chest, Roxy bit back what she would’ve said if one of the guys in her office had done what Special Agent Zaroyin just did. The idiot! The cups of her hot-pink bra were now hot-damned-ruined by black coffee that—Shit!—oozed southward, trickling past her belly and into her pants. A shiver coursed up her spine, making her wiggle.
“Man, I didn’t see you. Sorry.” Dumbfounded was a good look on Zaroyin. He seemed torn between eyeballing her soaking wet pockets and looking her in the eye. But that blush creeping up his scruffy cheeks like a fever? The flustered glint in his eyes? Simply adorable.
“Jesus,” she hissed, maintaining her bitchy-chick persona just to torment the smart assed federal agent who everyone said could see through walls, but apparently wasn’t good with corners.
Sure enough, the coward ducked into the nearest office and returned posthaste, sputtering and waving a handful of oversized paper towels. Everything got more interesting then. At the precise point of contact, where most guys would’ve dabbed at her shirt ‘pockets’ or outright copped a feel, Agent Zaroyin’s big, manly hand froze in midair. His fingers crunched those paper towels. His mouth opened and closed like he’d turned into a fish out of water. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and the big guy seemed to have trouble swallowing—or breathing. But did he touch her? Uh-uh.
“You’re... you’re wet,” he murmured, his eyes gone black and hazy, and the blue nearly gone. “D-did the coffee b-burn you? Are you hurt? Was it very hot?”
I’m wet all right. The urge to be daring—make that naughty—to arch her breasts into those capable hands tripped into her mind and quirked the corners of her lips like the trollop she normally wasn’t. It’d be worth it just to watch him unravel, though. It’d make this boring day in FBI Land more interesting.
Roxy opted for snark instead. “It was coffee! What do you think?” You moron. “You know anyone who likes hot beverages dumped down their shirt?” Stand there and suffer, Mr. Psychic Dude.
Uptight and tense, that was Zaroyin. A pompous ass and a big time jerk if she’d ever seen one. After the incident at the bank, he’d asked her out for a Long Island Iced Tea, but did he deliver on that alleged
date? Did she get an apologetic phone call or an, ‘I’m sorry, but something came up,’ lame excuse during this long, damned day?
Hell no, and there’d been plenty of time to make a call. Federal agents took breaks, lots of them. She knew they did. But, no. What she’d gotten was stood up, which she was stupid not to have seen coming. After all, guys from the high and mighty Bureau thought they were better than the local police. They were ‘the Feds’, and because they were, everyone else was a lesser life form.
For a moment there in First National, she’d truly thought he was different than other guys. She’d thought he had honor. Kick that stupid notion to the curb. Honor was as rare a commodity these days as chivalry and honesty. It wasn’t often she was wrong about a guy, but hey. It happened.
Agent Zaroyin’s lips twitched. How interesting. His brow pinched over dark blues that had grown bigger. And blacker. He didn’t seem to know what to do next. He cleared his throat and—
BAM! Roxy found her butt pushed backward until she was up against the wall of what she now knew was a janitor’s utility closet, complete with shelves full of cleaning supplies, a utility sink, an opened box of those over-sized paper towels, and one hot as hell Alpha male.
At least that was what Roxy thought she saw right before Zaroyin’s mouth landed on hers in a warm, wet ‘hello there!’ Her eyes slammed shut at that point. The lights went out, and she lost her ever-loving mind. Everything faded to black as the slick, frantic tangle of their tongues dancing together lit her up like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Clutching her biceps, he plundered her mouth in greedy sweeps she didn’t think twice about returning. This man tasted like—starlight. A heady mix of wind and night. Of something she couldn’t make sense of, not here. Not now.
She’d never known intangible things like midnight came with flavoring, but—oh, my hell—they did. This man was the epitome of a beautiful aching song rising up from her soul, and damn, Roxy craved another taste of the heaven that came with his kiss.
One-Eyed Jack (The Deuces Wild Series Book 3) Page 4