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

by Irish Winters

  Kitty and Darrin slept as her story continued. “Ritchie grabbed Mama when she went to unlock her car. He didn’t want money or drugs. He just wanted to kill someone. Said he needed to ‘feel alive.’”

  Roxy stopped then, her stomach churning at the senseless loss and pain that never went away. Like reruns of Leonardo DiCaprio slipping into the frigid Atlantic after the Titanic sank, this story always ended the same. There was no happy ending. No cavalry showed up at the last moment. No rescue boats. No saviors. Mama was still gone. What Roxy wouldn’t give to have just one more day with the woman who’d loved her unconditionally.

  “Ritchie stabbed Mama thirteen times for the ‘fun’ of it,” Roxy said evenly, willing her self-control to get a grip. “My Mama, Maria del Rosa Thurston, bled out on the cold asphalt of Saint Pat’s parking lot before anyone noticed her car was still there. Daddy didn’t know until the emergency room called him, but by then…”

  Isaiah’s fingers gripped tighter.

  Roxy tried again, her control slipping. “By then, she was gone,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “The court could’ve treated Gardner as an adult, but because he was only sixteen and ‘confused’ at the time he committed the murder...” How she hated timid, confused people who justified their cowardice and got away with it. “He got off easy. He’ll spend the rest of his teenage years in a juvenile detention facility. When he turns twenty-one, he’ll face prison as an adult.”

  But none of that mattered. Maria del Rosa Thurston was still gone, and Daddy Thurston and Roxy were left to suffer in silence. Ritchie Gardner could never serve enough time to make up for murdering her mother. Worse, the sniveling bastard would be out on the streets again in three-to-five with good behavior. She truly wished he would clean up his act, get saved by Jesus, and all that liberal bullshit. It’d make her job easier. The minute he hit the streets, she meant to be there, waiting for him. Laying for him.

  Daddy deserved the peace of mind of knowing his wife’s killer could never hurt another person. Yeah. Roxy had a plan, and she knew just how she’d do him. Thirteen times, only he’d never see her coming. She was just that good.

  “Mom died the only time I sneaked out to go talk to a friend,” Isaiah said breaking the silence. “I was twelve. I found her when I climbed back in my bedroom window. There was a lot of blood. I slipped in it, and fell on her and…”

  That brought Roxy around. “No,” hissed out of her. “Tell me her name.”

  He nodded, still staring ahead, his left hand fisted, clutching the wheel. The cords in his neck hardened, when he struggled to say, “Francesca. Frannie. Dad was working in Chechnya when they met. Mom was a foreign aid worker from Austria. They… they fell in love and moved to America before I was born. Both naturalized, but...” He swiped a hand over his face, his eyes on the road. “Anyway, they never found the guy who murdered her, but I know who he was, and who paid him to kill her.”

  “Christ, who?” Roxy wanted to know. She’d add those sons-of-bitches to her list and get peace of mind for Isaiah, too.

  The fingers on her hand tightened, his thumb tapping a gentle beat on the back of her hand. “It doesn’t matter now, Roxy. They’re both dead. My mother’s murderer died in prison, and my buddy Ky Winchester took care of the man who hired him. Remember Senator Douglas Bick?”

  Ah, yes, Bick. “The sleazy dirtbag who married that freakazoid woman from Hollywood?”

  He nodded, and Roxy had to look twice. Something glimmered at the rim of his eyes, but it wasn’t revenge. It was the same sadness that welled up from the bitter hole in her heart.

  Isaiah spared her a quick glance. “My dad got mixed up with Bick and his wife. He needed funding for his project. You knew that, right?”

  She nodded. Everyone knew Abraham Zaroyin, the immigrant from Chechnya, the scientist responsible for the deaths of hundreds of FBI agents, all to prove some harebrained idea that would’ve turned U.S. military members into mindless robots during combat. Some of the Bureau’s finest had volunteered to beta-test Dr. Zaroyin’s Wonder Chip, as the press had tagged it. Drones, he’d called them, once he’d implanted that chip into their brainstems. But the judge who’d sentenced him called the people who’d ultimately died at his hand—husbands and wives. Mothers and fathers. Sons and daughters.

  At the end of the day, he said they’d died in the line of duty to their country. They were the heroes. Dr. Abraham Zaroyin was just another mad scientist out to rule the world. The press called him Dr. Abraham Frankenstein. They said a lot of other ugly things, too.

  Endless talk show hosts compared his work to the medical experiments performed at the Dachau, Natzweiler, Buchenwald, and Ravensbrueck concentration camps during World War II. They went after the CIA and the Bureau for their lack of oversight. Then they went after Isaiah just because he was the madman’s son. They said ‘like father, like son’. They said other horribly sensational crap, too.

  Roxy remembered the front-page pictures of a younger Isaiah dodging reporters and cameramen, his hands up to ward them off and his head down. How hard that had to have been for a young man alone in the world. She knew firsthand how cruel people could be. How quickly friends turned on you.

  Flipping her palm face up, Roxy clenched Isaiah’s hand and held on tight. There it was again, the same buzz she always felt when they were skin to skin. This time, it ran deeper than lust, vibrating from his skin to hers and up her arm like the spark from defibrillator paddles, trailing unidentifiable emotions with it. Her heart swelled with compassion for the gentle warrior at her side. He’d already hit every last high mark in her book as far as looks and sincerity went. Now they had something else in common. They’d survived monsters.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him, more aware of his true charms than ever before.

  Like the class act that he was, Isaiah merely shrugged, as if what he’d been through was no big deal. But it was.

  “At the time, we didn’t know Bick had also ordered the hit on Mom. He did it to keep Dad in line, but by then…”

  Roxy slid out of her seatbelt and knelt on her seat, needing to touch more than just his hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  “This,” she told him as she pressed a kiss to his cheek, which of course he dodged, so it ended on his lips. The SUV slowed to a crawl as the kiss deepened. Tears breached Roxy’s eyes for all Isaiah had suffered. He should be the bitter one, mad at the world, and kicking against the pricks. Out for revenge. But he wasn’t, was he? Somehow, he’d risen above the legacy he’d inherited. He’d proven he wasn’t anything like his father, and that all by itself was an unbearably sad accomplishment. What son didn’t want to be like his dad? Roxy’d give anything to be as kind and loving as Daddy Thurston. Abraham Zaroyin was a fool.

  The teardrops on her lashes framed Isaiah’s face in sparkles when she opened her eyes.

  “What was that about?” he breathed.

  She could barely speak, so she merely said, “Nothing. I just wanted to.”

  His gaze narrowed, and yeah, he probably saw right through that lie, but she couldn’t tell him how much he meant to her, not yet. He’d think she pitied him, and she didn’t. Not for a second. There was nothing to pity about overcoming adversity the way he had.

  “It has been a tough day. Are you going to be okay?” That was Isaiah, through and through. Always thinking of others. Always looking out for the weary and the weak. Like her.

  She nodded, slid back to her seat and buckled up. The SUV rolled on.

  Isaiah took a slow right and turned onto a cul-de-sac with a single home at the center of the turnaround. “What’s he do?”

  “Who?” she asked, her mind on the gorgeous house he’d just parked at. Entirely in red brick, the quaint colonial presented two striking columns to the street, a pair of hunter green doors between them. It looked too big for one guy, and it irritated her that she didn’t know if this was his parents’ home or if he owned it, free and cle
ar. How rich was he? Or was he? Those were important details to most women. Why hadn’t that been important to her until now?

  “Your dad. You said he helps Father Diego at Saint Pat’s. I was just wondering what he does there. Is he a deacon? A janitor?”

  She understood then. Isaiah needed to distract her from his loss. Survivors were like that, either they wallowed in their grief and never moved on, or they focused on others, and grew stronger. Oddly, she had to admit that she hadn’t moved on as well as Isaiah. She still planned on offing Ritchie Gardener, and some days, she obsessed how she’d do it.

  “Nah, nothing like that,” she told Isaiah, playing along. “Mostly he keeps the place clean. Does small maintenance jobs. Repairs things that get broke. Windows. Kitchen and bathroom faucets and toilets. Stuff like that. You live here alone?” she asked to get the spotlight off her.

  “Not anymore,” he replied with a sly grin as one of two garage doors slid upward to let him pass. “Don’t get out until I’m sure we’re secure. Then we’ll wake the kids and go inside.”

  “I’m awake,” Darrin said sleepily.

  Isaiah shot Roxy a look. “How long have you been listening?” he asked, his eyes on the boy in the rearview.

  “A few minutes,” Darrin admitted. “Sounds like me and Kitty aren’t the only ones.”

  Roxy flung an arm over the seat back to face him. “The only ones who what?”

  Darrin turned his face to the view inside Isaiah’s immaculate garage. The poor kid’s expression was desolate in the fluorescent lighting. “The only ones nobody wants,” he said softly. “I don’t even have a dad, and my mom… my mom…”

  A sob hiccupped out of him, and Roxy couldn’t take it any longer. She snagged his wrist, then his hand, holding tight to a little boy who believed he was nothing. “Don’t even think that, not for one minute, Darrin,” she told him in no uncertain terms. “You’re a good boy, and you’ll grow up to be a great man. Trust me. I know from experience. Bad things happen to good people all the time, but that doesn’t make you anything like Ritchie Gardner, does it? You heard me telling Isaiah about that Bozo, didn’t you?”

  His eyes shimmered when he met her gaze. “Even if I’m not that guy, it still don’t make me nobody.”

  This kid was breaking her heart. Roxy clung to him until the garage door came down and Isaiah gave her the go ahead. Intent on proving Darrin wrong, she flew out of the SUV, then dropped to one knee as he slid out of the vehicle. “Now you listen here, Mister Darrin Bratton,” she said as she took hold of his bony shoulders. “Don’t you dare believe what other people say about you, not ever. You’re a great kid, and you’ve got a big heart. You love dogs and your sister. You love your mom too, and maybe she isn’t smart enough to see it, but it’s clear as a bell to me. I see it, don’t you, Isaiah?”

  Isaiah’s palms clamped onto her shoulders as he leaned over her back. “Listen to Officer Thurston, Darrin,” he said, his voice warm and gentle. “She teaches kids your age self-defense. Want to learn a few survival techniques while you’re stuck here with us? I’m sure she’d be glad to show you.”

  That broke the dam Darrin seemed to be holding back. His eyes brimmed, and before she knew it, he threw himself into Roxy’s arms, his little boy body shuddering with sobs as he ground his face into the crook of her neck. Damn, this poor kid was one big heartbreak. She closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and vowed she’d find a way to make him smile again.

  “Mom tried to kill Kitty,” he sobbed, “and now, she ran away, and she left me and Kitty, and what’s gonna happen to us? I want Nugget!”

  “I want Nugget too, baby,” Roxy soothed, her eyes plenty misty. She had no experience with kids, but this little guy and his sister had gotten under her skin from the get-go. She peered up at Isaiah, but the sappy smile on his elegant face was no help.

  The handsome guy winked and cupped her elbow, tugging her to her feet with Darrin still in her arms. “Come on, Darrin,” he said in a gruff man-to-man voice that made her look twice. Were those tears glimmering in the corners of his eyes, too? “How about if you take care of Officer Thurston while I carry Kitty inside. Let’s find the best place for Nugget’s bed. I’m thinking he should stay with you in your room. Sound good?”

  Darrin’s head bobbed. “Yes, Agent Zaroyin,” he said as he grabbed Roxy’s hand extra tight. “And Kitty can sleep in my room, too, cuz she might need someone to watch over her and keep her from almost dying in the middle of the night again.”

  Isaiah scooped Kitty easily into his arms. Still asleep, she snuggled into his chest. “I’ve got a better idea. How about you, me, and Nugget bunk together so Officer Thurston and Kitty can have their own room and some privacy? You know how girls are.” He said that with a mischievous roll of his eyes. “That way us guys can snore if we want to.”

  Darrin shot Isaiah a look of pure adoration. “’Kay,” he replied, swiping the last of his tears away. “And maybe we can tell jokes and scary stories and stay up late?”

  “Now you’re talking,” Isaiah said as he marched his new little family into a very clean mudroom, then to the kitchen of every woman’s dreams. Marble countertops. Travertine floor tiles. A fancy chef’s island complete with a gleaming array of copper pots and pans suspended on a massive rack over it. Muted lighting that sprang to life beneath the cupboards as they approached. A side-by-side refrigerator/freezer combo in black, not that annoying stainless aluminum that showed every last fingerprint.

  The woman inside Roxy nearly drooled. Tomatillo enchiladas anyone? Fresh off the griddle tortillas? Homemade salsa with just enough zing to water your eyes and make you beg for more? Her all time favorite, the hominy filled and very spicy posole, just the way Mama used to make it.

  That there were no frilly feminine touches, no magnets on the fridge, no cutesy salt and pepper shakers, and no sign that any woman had prepared breakfast for Isaiah in this very masculine kitchen, helped. But damn. Roxy stopped crushing on the culinary treats she could whip up for a midnight snack. How could she and Isaiah ever get together again with two kids in the house?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They didn’t tell a single joke or scary story. Instead, Darrin fell asleep on his back with one arm thrown over his forehead and his mouth wide open. Snoring. For a little guy, he made a lot of noise.

  Since he couldn’t sleep, Isaiah lay listening to Tucker’s latest rant in his head. He’d posted extra agents and pulled video surveillance footage from every metro stop in DC trying to track Bratton, but without success. Isaiah was tired of the gratuitous F-bombs with every failed lead.

  Tate on the other hand was in transit to Isaiah’s house with Nugget, as well as with Isaiah’s and Roxy’s duffels from the safe house. Isaiah didn’t need his as much as Roxy needed hers. It was early morning, and Isaiah could’ve engaged his co-worker in psychic conversation, but didn’t. The quiet man would be here soon enough.

  After he grabbed a quick shower, Isaiah opted for a light gray polo over jeans instead of anything remotely related to FBI standard issue. This job had become an undercover mission of the highest priority. No one needed to know he was working from home.

  On his way to the kitchen, Isaiah backtracked down the hall to peek into his spare guest room. Letting just the barest sliver from hallway light breach the darkness, he checked on Roxy and Kitty. The sight that met his eyes was worth the risk of Roxy catching him and telling him to shut the damn door.

  Dressed in one of his old white T-shirts from the closet, she lay with her back to him facing Kitty. Her knees were bent, and sometime during the night, she’d interlocked fingers with Kitty. For now, they both slept soundly. Roxy’s glossy hair had pooled in an ebony cascade on her pillow. Even in sleep, her chin tilted with attitude, but for once, her brows weren’t furrowed and her lips weren’t pressed tight and thin. She looked more like a loving mother who couldn’t bear to be separated from her daughter. Isaiah eased the door shut without a sound. He’d ju
st seen heaven in his fortress of isolation, and it was glorious.

  Padding back into his kitchen in his stocking feet, he started breakfast for his friend. One three-egg omelet, heavy on the sausage, bacon, ham and cheddar cheese later, Tate arrived. Isaiah had been watching for him and opened the secure garage when he’d pulled into the cul-de-sac, then closed it just as quickly once Tate was inside.

  After surviving brutal torture at the hands of Senator and Mrs. Bick, Isaiah took no chances. He’d been abducted out of his parent’s home in Bethesda, right off their front step when he’d answered the bell. Hence, he’d added additional security to his place to ensure he’d never be kidnapped again. Call him anal, paranoid, or obsessive compulsive, he didn’t care, but his own top-of-the-line security cameras now recorded every square inch of his five-acre lot of land.

  For now, there were only two ways into his home: the main garage door Tate had just driven through and another door at the rear of the garage that opened to his backyard. At one time Isaiah entertained the notion of adding another exit off his kitchen. It’d make access to his patio easier, but then he’d recall how Bick’s thugs had gotten to him. So yeah. No. More. Doors.

  A trusted security company monitored the place. Any breach would trigger an alarm and the local authorities would be here in seconds. Motion-activated lasers that could blind a man at one hundred yards when engaged, lay low along the foundation where most intruders wouldn’t think to look for them. Hidden cameras watched the only two exits to his home. And just because accidents still happened, he maintained an ironclad panic room in the hall off his living room. As many as four adults could live comfortably in there for a week should intruders ever gain the upper hand.

  To top it off, he’d established a personal psychic link with the FBI, via Tucker Chase’s hard, but honorable head. Isaiah hadn’t intended that extreme security measure when he’d accepted his first job with Tucker a couple years back, but he was glad every day since, for the way it had worked out.