Trees surrounded the clearing he’d parked the rig in. No city lights were visible. There was no noise other than crickets, the whisper of a breeze through the branches, and Roxy’s heart clamoring up high in her chest.
He slammed the truck door, then disappeared behind the vehicle. That shiny black pickup had to have cost a bundle. She’d never seen a regular truck that sat so high off the ground before. Telescoping side mirrors extended past the passenger windows like arms on steroids. The damned thing needed steps just to get into the cab.
Bob rounded the back of the trailer next, an electrical cord dangling from one hand, a tool box in the other.
Roxy kept her eye on him. Her heart ripped up her throat when it dawned on her that was no toolbox he carried. It was a camera and a tripod. Her gaze shifted to the row of three red plastic containers by the trailer. Oh shit. Gasoline.
Well after midnight, Isaiah left what remained of his home in the secure hands of the local fire department. There wasn’t anything he could do, and nothing mattered but getting to Roxy and the kids.
By then, the Winchesters had joined Tucker and Keller at FBI Headquarters back in downtown D.C. Isaiah could barely hold it together while Tate turned his vehicle west and began what seemed like an impossible task of locating Nugget in the dark. Tate kept telling him to relax, but reading animals wasn’t one of Isaiah’s gifts, and the helplessness of not being in full control of this desperate night, gnawed at him.
Tate left Riverwood behind. He seemed to know where he was going, and that was enough for Isaiah as they headed deeper into rural Virginia.
But a dog, for hell’s sake? Roxy’s, Kitty’s, and Darrin’s lives depended on locating a dog in the middle of no-damned-where? Never had Isaiah, one of only two Level Tens in the entire country, felt more worthless than he did now.
He talked to keep his mind from unraveling. “This is what you meant back there when we were leaving the safe house, when you said mankind needs to stop hurting animals. You talk to, umm, animals. Do they talk back to you?”
Tate let loose a soft grunt, so Isaiah pressed his good buddy for details. “Spill. Do you hear all of them at once, or only when they’re in pain? How’s that work?” And why can’t you drive faster?
“It’s a big world, Isaiah, and just like people, millions of animals suffer every day. They cry out. They scream. It’s not easy, but I’m just one guy. I’ve learned to block most of them.”
True that. Isaiah had only recently learned to block the ever-present human clamor in his head, and Tate was the man who’d taught him. But Isaiah had never dreamed Tate heard animals, too.
The extraordinary gifts Isaiah and Tate had been blessed with were often more like double-edged swords that could bury a psychic if they didn’t learn to manage the twenty-four-seven bombardment. Eden Winchester didn’t have that problem. Her Level Ten gift had always been naturally selective, filtering out all but the most fearful cries sent into the universe.
Take her husband Ky, for instance. He’d been praying to die the night his plea had literally knocked Eden to her knees in the middle of her kitchen floor thousands of miles away. Yet there she’d stayed with her mental gift twined around the fisted fingers of a stranger about to be tortured to death a world away. It was only by the grace of God that another Marine had been in the same prison as Ky that night. He’d physically rescued Ky, but Eden had been the one who’d given Ky the hope he’d needed to hang on in that darkest of dark places.
Now an FBI Special Agent, Eden often used the lingering aura retained in possessions to establish a link with kidnap victims, hostages, and the like, but many times, all she had to do was be still and listen for them. Once she established a link, Eden’s green eyes went completely black like Isaiah’s did during visions, a common physical reaction when the mind opened itself to the great beyond.
Or when the great beyond reached out and tapped into your puny human mind and changed your life forever. Like Special Agent Keller.
But their biggest difference as Level Tens was the volume of voices Isaiah had been forced to manage after his first vision, that when he was a mere nine-year old. If anyone carried the guilt of surviving like a millstone around his neck, that person was Isaiah. Day after day, he still heard the world’s cries for help, but like Tate, Isaiah was just one man.
“Am I losing you?” Tate asked, breaking through Isaiah’s mental rant.
“No, just thinking about us psychics. What we do.” What we go through to do what we do.
Silence reigned again as the SUV ate up the miles. Tate was like that. Quiet. Thoughtful. Probably listening to Nugget right now.
“Where are we going? Do you know?” Isaiah asked after a few minutes.
Tate jerked his chin straight ahead. “There he is.”
That brought Isaiah straight up in his seat. The fluffy, gold dog they’d been searching for trotted at the right side of the road in front of the SUV. Nugget glanced over his shoulder and dropped to his butt as if he’d expected them, his tongue hanging.
“He’s bleeding,” Tate murmured as he shifted into park. Both men climbed out, but Tate was the wiser one. He’d brought not only his jacket, but a bottle of water and a collapsible dog dish. All Isaiah’d brought was anxiety. Yet he dropped to his knee to hug Darrin’s very best friend and tell him, “Good, good boy.”
“Shit, his pads are worn through.” Tate lifted one hefty bloody paw after another for inspection. While Nugget slurped the water Tate had splashed into the bowl, Tate tied leather booties on each of the dog’s paws. All four of them. “Sorry, big guy, but this’ll have to do for now. How you doing?”
Trailing long strings of drool, Nugget lifted his muzzle to look at Tate, and Isaiah suspected Tate and Nugget were talking behind his back. That suspicion proved true with Tate’s next words. “Darrin’s close, but he’s off the road. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”
Isaiah didn’t argue, but Nugget was winded and obviously lagging. He’d walked or run a good twenty miles from Isaiah’s place in Riverwood. “Shouldn’t we carry him?” Isaiah worried.
To which Nugget let out a mighty bark and Tate grunted, “Of course not. He’s a dog.”
Isaiah got it then, the uncanny connection Tate shared with all things wild. “You told him to stay to the roads so we could find him, didn’t you? He knew we were coming.” That’s why he’s here. You’ve been talking with him this whole time.
Tate never answered, just crushed the empty bottle in one fist, flicked the bowl, collapsing it as he stuffed both inside his jacket, and started walking. With Nugget. Without Isaiah.
Isaiah beat feet back to the SUV, grabbed his leather jacket from the rear seat, locked the vehicle, and called out, “Wait up!”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Isaiah’s decision became clearer with every step. The shock had worn off and his rage had kicked in, but this rage was a different kind than the one he’d battled after his mother’s murder and his father’s betrayal. This was that same sleek beast he’d seen in Roxy’s mind, the one she’d groomed and fed and tamed after her mother’s murder. Only now, Isaiah understood her need to avenge her mother’s murder. He had become that beast. That man-killer.
Until the night he’d lost his mom, Isaiah had been the proverbial good boy. He’d followed the rules, colored inside the lines, and never disappointed his parents or his teachers. But because of his gift, he’d also been the reclusive kid at school. He’d never had many friends, but now? Now he called one of America’s most alpha predators friend and boss, and because of that boss, because of Tucker Chase, Isaiah possessed the lethal skills of the highest order. And tonight, he would kill Bob Bratton with extreme prejudice.
Tate stopped dead in his tracks at Isaiah’s side. His head pivoted as he turned and stared Isaiah down. “It’d be wise to take Bob Bratton in for questioning. Alive,” Tate said clearly.
Shit. He’s been listening. Isaiah snorted. “Alive’s the
only way you can question a guy.” But it’s not going to happen.
“We’re federal officers of the law, Isaiah. Not vigilantes. American’s hold us to a higher ideal.”
Says you. Isaiah marched past his buddy, his eyes on Nugget’s fluffy tail, but his heart a few miles ahead where Bratton held Roxy, Kitty and Darrin captive. The ass! “That’s where you’re wrong, Tate. Bob Bratton’s mine. Stay out of my way.” And now I sound just like Tucker Chase. Well, hell, I feel like him, too!
Tate’s hand landed on Isaiah’s shoulder. “At least have the balls to face me when you go off the reservation.”
With both fists clenched, Isaiah did as requested, meeting his buddy’s dark scowl. He had no beef with Tate and he didn’t want one now. “Let me be clear. You’re my friend, Tate, but I’m here for Roxy and the kids, not Bob Bratton. He’s just in my way.”
Tate cocked his head. “Christ, you sound like your father. Am I in your way, too? Do you even hear yourself?”
That pissed Isaiah off, and suddenly, he was fighting mad and ready to brawl. He’d never believed in revenge or violence, but with Roxy’s life on the line, everything had changed. Didn’t Tate get it? Everything was upside down and inside out. Backwards. Isaiah was not only glad for the pistol on his hip, but he’d already loosened the buckle for easier access to it—just like he’d been taught at the FBI range. Why waste taxpayer money. He was ready to protect and serve—to do his job—at all cost. His blood flowed hot and thick with the need to end Bratton. Tate needed to back off.
“I’m not my father,” Isaiah bit out, cocking his head as the noisy clamor in his brain reached an epic din. He knew precisely how many shots to knock the bastard down. Tate needed to shut up and march. The man was a veritable bear. Thick necked. Thick chested. Taller and wider in every physical aspect, but it wasn’t his woman’s life on the line, was it?
So why the fuck—?
Bile swept up Isaiah’s throat. The bitter sweet scent of pine and burning human flesh inundated his senses. What the f-f-f…?
He fell to his knees, sickened at the vision taking him by storm. “Tate,” Isaiah rasped, all the bravado of a foolish man gone with the onset of the vision. “Run. We have to run. He means to... to burn them alive.”
Tate was out there somewhere, but Isaiah could no longer sense him. Only the vision. Kitty and Darrin were unconscious and strapped back to back on wooden chairs. Trees swelled around them. Pine trees. Kitty’s head rested on her shoulder, her long hair draped over her face. Ropes wrapped her chest and arms. Darrin, bound in the same fashion, sat behind her with his head back and his mouth open. They’d been drugged. A dark shadow prowled in ever tightening circles at their peripheral. Had to be Bratton, but there was no sign of Roxy.
Unless…
“Tate,” Isaiah breathed even as his FBI brother linked one hefty arm under Isaiah’s armpit and pulled him to his feet. “Roxy’s projecting what’ll happen at daylight if we don’t get to them in time. She doesn’t know she’s doing it, but I can see. Through her eyes, I can see everything.”
He swiped at his mouth, surprised when his fingers came away with no blood on them. His lips certainly hurt. They felt swollen and mashed. They should’ve been bleeding. His throat was suddenly raw and dry and… Holy shit. He’s hurt Roxy. That’s what I’m feeling. Her pain. I’m in her mind.
Both men glanced at the purpling eastern sky as the first rays of the new day stretched westward. There wasn’t much time left, and Tate was right. This wasn’t about revenge. It couldn’t be. These next few moments had to be spent saving lives. All of them. Maybe even Bob’s if the bastard was amenable to not being shot on sight.
“You okay?” Tate asked, his massive hand centered on Isaiah’s chest and the only thing keeping him on his feet.
“Yeah. Sorry. I was wrong. Don’t know what happened to me.”
“A woman happened to you. Forget it.”
“Thanks,” Isaiah offered, his heart back in the right place. Tucker might’ve taught him how to kill, but the big guy had also taught Isaiah honorable traits like loyalty to country and brother. Like pride in work well done. Like honesty. Even humility. They welled up inside Isaiah, blocking the darkness that had nearly bested him.
Resolved to not let his brothers down, Isaiah tugged his pistol up off his hip, racked the slide to put one in the chamber and said, “You’re right, Tate. No one needs to die today. Let’s do this right.”
As they marched on Nugget’s six, Isaiah reached out for the angry aura of the man he’d seen that night at the safe house after Nugget’s wounded body had been ditched over the front gate. Tucker Chase was wrong. Violence wasn’t a foregone conclusion. There were options, even now. This rescue required the finesse of a Level Ten who was finally on his game.
‘Bob Bratton,’ Isaiah projected into the night. ‘You’re getting sleepy. Very, very sleepy…’
Bob Bratton had worked up a good head of steam since he’d exited the trailer, which couldn’t have been more than ten minutes ago. For nearly an hour before that, he’d made one trip after another into the trees, retrieving armfuls of chopped firewood, which he’d stacked in an organized wall several yards or so in front of Roxy. After that, he’d gone inside the trailer. The kids had yet to make a peep—if they were in there. If they’d only groan or cry or something, she’d know for sure. Anything! Just give me a sign!
The trailer light was off now and Bob was back. Prowling. Antsy. Muttering under his breath. Cursing. Talking to himself. “Shoulda known, damn it. Shoulda fuckin’ known.”
He dodged behind the truck, opening and closing one door after another until he’d circled the vehicle, and, apparently, hadn’t found whatever he was looking for. “Have you seen—?” He started to ask Roxy, then waved his hand at her and growled, “Never mind,” before he took another lap around the trailer and truck.
Roxy sat still as a frozen stone. Her muscles ached from shivering. The rag in her mouth had dried at the edges, and the corners of her mouth were raw and bleeding.
At last Bob came to a stop at her feet, his hands at his sides and his shoulders slumped. He stifled a yawn and he looked dejected. Roxy couldn’t have cared less. Pissed at being helpless when there was so much she wanted to do to him, she glared up at the bastard.
He stared down at her, and yawned again, the ass. Interestingly, not once this entire night had his gaze strayed to her breasts. That in itself was a relief, but it wasn’t the norm, was it? She would know. Men were salacious pigs. They always—ALWAYS—scoped out a chick’s tits and ass, then blamed their aberrant behaviors on their Mommies. Especially crazy guys like Bob. That had to mean something, but for the life of her, Roxy didn’t care what at the moment. Something was about to change.
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he reached behind her head and untied the rag. Thank God! Roxy gulped in one long gulp of fresh air, then licked her poor, chapped lips. A bottle of water’d be nice, but she took what relief she could, while she could. She rolled the strain out of her neck. Roxy was no fool. This night wasn’t about mercy, not from Bob Bratton.
Crouching to her level, he looked her in the eye. “You women all think you’re so smart.”
Well, duh, but Roxy chose discretion instead of the snark dripping off the tip of her tongue. She forced a desperate swallow, her saliva glands still playing catch up. “Wh-what do you mean?” If he wanted to talk, she was willing, anything to keep his attention off the kids.
He slapped a hand to his thigh, startling her. “You all lie! That’s what I mean.”
He’d made her jump, damn him, but he seemed intent on talking, so she swallowed her panic and put on her calmest, you-can-tell-me-anything face.
“You tell us guys what you think we want to hear, then you talk about us behind our backs with your girlfriends, that’s what you do. You plot and you scheme, and—shit!—when we think you’re being straight up with us, you’re not. You never are, are you? All
of you are bitches!”
Roxy diverted that personal challenge. Bob seemed to swing between organized thinking to hysteria. She couldn’t let his rant be about her, so she focused on leading him to where she wanted the conversation to go. Away from the kids. If she could only stop shivering. “Candace lied to you, t-t-too?”
“That’s what she’s best at, isn’t it? Every time I turned around, all I got was another story from the bitch, but you already know how she works, don’t you?”
Not answering that one, either. “How’d you find out?”
His eyes narrowed to slits then, and she knew she’d hit her target. Bob knew Darrin wasn’t his kid. That had to be what triggered this weird trip down memory lane.
He settled his butt to the ground and folded his knees to sit cross-legged at her feet. Without a jacket, he had to be as chilled as she was, but he wanted to chat. How bizarre was that?
Roxy willed her chilled muscles to stop twitching. She wasn’t scared, not really, and certainly not for herself, but it was c-c-cold out here and she was pretty sure her arm was bleeding, maybe her cheek and forehead, too.
“Found out when I went in for a check-up,” he murmured, his gaze cast over her shoulder and into the trees behind her, like he was looking into his past. “I was tired. Didn’t want to do... anything. Thought I had cancer, but Doc said my T levels were low. Really low. He ran some tests. Come to find out, I had no swimmers. I was shooting blanks. It’s no wonder I was depressed and tired all the time. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
One-Eyed Jack (The Deuces Wild Series Book 3) Page 29