Sweating up a storm, Tucker rolled to his feet and commenced a hundred-mile run in place, lifting his thighs and knees high to feel the burn. To suffer. To quell the ache in his gut while physical torment inflicted upon every last strand of burning muscle in his body. Let that bully come with his baton. Tucker meant to shove it where the sun didn’t shine.
By the time he’d worked up a horrendous sweat, he’d run out of steam, and he knew damned well Stewart had planned it this way. That Stewart saved his own man, but left Tucker to rot in jail until Stewart was good and ready to negotiate a release. Tucker dropped out of high gear to a walk, then dropped to the bench, his body sheathed in one slick layer of aggravation.
I should’ve called Strong.
Tucker dropped his chin to his chest, worn out with jet lag and disgust. Stewart had connections the world over—maybe not as many as Strong, but he could’ve gotten Tucker out along with Isaiah—if he’d wanted to. Which meant? He didn’t want to. Prison for a damned long time. Damn.
Tucker was his own worst enemy. If there ever was a dumber man, he didn’t know the guy. Melissa had once called him arrogant. Said he always had to know everything. He always had to be right. What man didn’t? And yet, his ego hadn’t done him much good today.
He stared at the grimy floor between his feet, droplets of sweat dripping off his chin and nose to splatter below. Life shouldn’t be this hard. The sun was supposed to shine on a yellow dog’s butt once in a while, so why not his? How much could a guy take? He honestly didn’t know. He’d been a world-class whipping boy for months now. Make that years.
He wiped the stinging sweat out of his eyes and brushed his palms to his pants. His head hurt and his stomach growled, but he kept staring at the floor. Thinking. Deuce. Melissa. Stewart. Nicole. They were all part of the same puzzle. Tucker just couldn’t get them to line up and make sense the way they should. He couldn’t make them fit. Now Isaiah was gone, not even sending him one of his spiffy mind messages. What was the kid doing, looking out for himself? On his way to the airport and headed home?
Tucker still had an ornery woman to meet up with in less than twenty-four hours. What would Nicole do when she saw him? Run the other way? Call the police? Or listen to him, for once in her life? Tucker bet Deuce would be glad to see his old man, but Nicole was the key to him and his kid having a semi-normal father/son relationship. He needed to win her over so they could at least talk civilly about their son’s welfare. So he could be part of Deuce’s life.
And somehow, he needed to rescue Melissa before the personal drama began. He needed her to be safe before he could do what he’d come to Vietnam for. But how?
He closed his eyes, disgusted with his arrogance. Melissa might’ve been right. Everything that had gone wrong was his fault. He shouldn’t have stolen the Buick, and he shouldn’t have taken off like a mad man through the city, either. Instead, he should’ve alerted the proper authorities and waited until they’d shown and told them all he’d seen. He should’ve let them do their job and...
Bullshit. No real man sat on his thumbs when his woman was abducted.
Tucker lifted his head and faced the cell opposite him where three scrawny young men were jailed, all asleep at the moment, one sitting in the corner of the bench, one sprawled on the bench, the other on the floor. All Vietnamese. He studied the cells. Ceiling-to-floor thick, mesh wire. Bars for doors. No give. No way out. Dirty floors. One stainless-steel sink attached to the floor beside one stainless-steel toilet.
He dug deep into his reserves of positivity and willed himself to sleep while he could. He was on his own. Whatever happened next, he needed to rest and reserve his strength. Vietnamese prisons were notorious for human rights violations. Amnesty International had them on their top five as the world’s worst. They used persecution and humiliation as a means to an end. Torture, too. It wouldn’t matter that he was an American citizen, especially once they found out he worked for the FBI.
He dozed, dreaming of Melissa and Deuce, that they were safe at home waiting for him. Smiling. Happy. His head dropped, when—
Bam! Bam! Bam! Tucker looked up into the sneering face of his worst nightmare, the guard with the baton. Mr. Big Stuff. He wrinkled his nose and hit the cell bars again. “You American.”
No shit. Tucker met his sneering gaze, but kept his mouth shut. A good bar fight was one thing. Being beat to death in a jail cell, something else. The guy kept slapping that shiny black baton of his into his open palm, waiting.
Unexpectedly, he struck the horizontal bar in the door, no doubt thinking that would intimidate his prey. Guess again, jerk-off. Tucker Chase didn’t so much as flinch. He was no pansy. Bring it on.
The guard cocked his head. “You tough guy,” he taunted. “You want trouble.” He tapped the baton to his chest with a toothy grin. “You found it. My name Trouble. You want some?”
Interesting. An English-speaking guard. Tucker had nothing to say that wouldn’t get him hit, but he would let this idiot make the mistake of opening that cell door, and—we’ll see who’s trouble.
Damned if the guy didn’t unsnap a set of keys from his belt and do just that. Tucker shifted his feet, his muscles flexed and coiled for battle. This POS might get a few good licks in with that baton, but Tucker meant to wipe the floor with him.
The bully swung the door wide and stopped, still slapping that billy club to his palm. He yelled something over his shoulder. By now, all the other prisoners were on their feet. It sounded like they were laying bets, calling to each other, jeering and laughing.
Tucker lifted slowly. He towered over most of these guys, outweighed them, too. And he’d been trained to fight against all odds.
Two more guards shoved through that metal door, batons in hand, and the same sneers on their faces. Mr. Big Stuff cocked his head and offered another jack-o-lantern grin. “I got friends, but you got nobody. You scared? You wanna cry now or later?”
Tucker rolled his neck to the left, then to the right. Scared was not in his vocabulary. Neither was later. He sucked in a deep breath of whoop-ass and clenched his fists into hammers. Their jail. Their rules. But they were going to know who they’d messed with at the end of the day.
He launched himself into the gang of three, swinging with a hard right that garnered a blow to his forearm with Mr. Big Stuff’s baton, but still knocked the guy off his feet and broke his jaw. It cracked loud enough. Tucker got a few more good licks in before he went down to his knees, and they tag-teamed him, kicking, screaming, and beating the shit out of him.
More guards blew in as the beating blew up. The prisoners went wild. A screaming siren sounded overhead. In the end, all Tucker could do was duck and cover his face while all those batons pummeled him into submission.
The guards ceased the attack as quickly as they’d begun. Two dragged him into his cell, but Mr. Big Stuff was noticeably absent. Tucker crawled to the bench, spitting blood and wiping his nose. Everything hurt. Every muscle. Every joint. He hadn’t been able to protect his skull as much as he’d tried. Blood trickled down his jaw from his ear. He clawed his way onto the bench and leaned against the wall. God, that hurt.
And there he was again, Mr. Big Stuff with his baton. Frowning. A large, bloody bandage wrapped around his head, holding his left jaw in place. “You out. Now. Move!”
That hadn’t taken long. Tucker waved him off. “No more. You made your point. Let me be.”
The guard unlocked the door, jerking his head for Tucker to get out of the cell and do it fast. God, the balls this bastard thought he had just because of that baton. Hadn’t he already learned his lesson? Tucker certainly had.
Placing both palms to his throbbing kneecaps, Tucker pushed up from the bench. The cell walls tilted to the left. The grimy floor shifted like waves in the sea. He lurched forward, he grabbed the doorframe and startled the guard enough that he jumped back a step, his baton raised and panic shining in his black eyes. “I kill you next time,” he hissed, threateningly.
&nb
sp; Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tucker nodded. He got the point. “What now?” he asked, subdued for the moment, his hand braced to the cell bars to keep his balance.
One guard was nothing. Tucker knew he could take Mr. Big Stuff and shove that baton up his ass, but all those other guards... they were the problem. Sometimes discretion really was the better part of valor.
The guard pointed at the phone down the narrow aisle by the exit door. “You have phone call,” he mumbled while Tucker took satisfaction in knowing he’d gotten a few good licks in. “Five minutes only. Go. Talk.”
Tucker shuffled to the phone, wondering who the hell would be calling him in this hellhole now that Isaiah was gone. He lifted the receiver to his tender ear and answered with a croak, his lips split and bleeding, his tongue dry. “Chase”
“Chase?” Oh. Stewart. A shiver of hope rattled up Tucker’s sore back. “Are you okay?”
“I’m good,” Tucker answered, tasting blood and leaning heavily against the wall. He turned his back on the guard.
“You don’t sound good.”
Now you care? Tucker kept his voice low. “I’m fine. You heard from Isaiah yet? They took him out of here a couple hours ago.”
Stewart hissed. “Son-of-a-bitch, if they’ve hurt you—”
“I said I’m good,” Tucker growled back, not as threatening as he’d meant to sound. “Tell me you’ve got Isaiah. Tell me the kid’s safe.”
“Yes. He’s in a hotel nearby waiting for you. You’re next. I had trouble getting them to agree to let you go. You had to steal the mayor’s car, didn’t you?”
Tucker groaned remembering that noisy welcoming committee at the airport. It could’ve been for the mayor. No wonder he was still stuck in Hanoi Hilton. “I didn’t ask whose car it was. You know how it is when you’re trying to save someone. You take chances. You improvise.”
“Two minute!” Mr. Big Stuff screeched over what sounded like a mouth full of marbles, cracking that baton of his against the wall, just missing Tucker’s forearm.
“You’ll be released on one condition, Agent Chase,” Stewart said hurriedly. “The Vietnamese government wants you out of their country in twenty-four hours. No excuses. This is not negotiable. You may have enough time to locate your ex before you have to leave, but if not, you will be on that jet and on your way home.”
“You already made the reservation?” Tucker prickled at Stewart’s insistence, but stifled his natural tendency to argue if he had.
“One minute!” The guard just kept badgering.
“I expect you on that plane, Chase. Isaiah has orders to make sure you comply. Don’t screw up this one-time good deal.”
“What about Melissa?” Tucker ground out. “You expect me to leave her here? What kind of a man do you think I am?”
“One who follows orders! Let me worry about her. I have a team already in transit. They’ll track her down. They’ll save her. Just get out of Vietnam before you make a bigger mess.”
Tucker sucked down his rage at the non-negotiable, asinine plan Stewart was selling him. But what could he do?
“Tucker?” Stewart snapped. “I can’t help you if you don’t help me.”
“Fine,” Tucker breathed, his lungs on fire and his legs about to give out. “When?”
An audible sigh of relief filtered through the line—just before Mr. Big Stuff bashed the phone with his baton and cut Stewart off. “Call done. You over. In cell. Now!”
Shit. It would’ve helped to know how many days of hell he had to endure before that twenty-four hours kicked in. Tucker hung up the phone and shuffled back to his cell, enduring a few rude comments and jeers from his fellow prisoners along the way. Like he cared. He was on his way out of there. Soon, he hoped.
Once he was locked up tight again, he slumped to his side and tucked his legs onto the short bench. Stewart hadn’t had the chance to spell out the particulars, but he’d sounded genuinely concerned. He might just care.
Tucker lifted his hands to his head, one for a pillow, the other to block the noise from the losers around him. He’d been a SEAL, for God’s sake, and now he was one of the Bureau’s finest. They did the impossible every damned day. He wouldn’t leave Vietnam without finding Melissa and without at least seeing Deuce.
Alex Stewart could take his one-time good deal and shove it up his ass.
Chapter Seven
“Quick! Come quick!”
Mmm. It’s too early to have to go back to work...
Melissa sighed, but rolled her bone-tired body off her mat on the floor of what had become clinic central. She now shared a hut with three families that consisted of eight adult males, four of whom were seriously injured, several women, and a dozen or so children.
“What now?” she asked patiently as she climbed to her feet and slid into her shoes.
The longhaired little girl at the doorway waved for her to hurry with an anxious, “My mama! My mama!”
“Okay, okay. I’m coming.” The work never slowed in this out-of-the-way refugee camp. During the twenty-four hours since she’d arrived, Melissa had delivered two babies, cleaned, disinfected, and bandaged as many injuries as she could.
Simon was brusque in his dealings with her, but good for his word. The footings for the new clinic were already dug and the vertical posts planted. Where the lumber and concrete had come from, she had no idea and didn’t ask. It was probably stolen, too.
She’d become quite familiar with patient care during her short years with Brady, but she’d had nurses and doctors to rely on then. They were the experts, not her. There in the camp, there was no one but her and the few American soldiers in league with Simon Siegel. She’d met Ralph Jackman, an ex-SEAL. Aaron Neumann, ex-Army. Orlando Schwartz, also ex-Army, nicknamed Oreo because of the blond dye job over his black roots. He’d been the guy in the passenger seat when she’d been kidnapped. These guys had done a decent job taking this impossible challenge on, but some of these wounds were devastating. One poor fellow had been shot and needed his leg amputated. She didn’t want to have to learn how to do that.
The girl took off running, and so did Melissa. In her wildest dreams, she’d never imagined herself in such a heartrending predicament. She’d wanted to serve others, but wow. The universe had certainly provided this time.
When the girl dropped to her knees alongside a man in obvious distress, Melissa’s heart pitched up her throat. God, not him. Not the poor man with gangrene in his leg.
“No, no, no,” the girl sang out. “My mama.”
Melissa recognized the mother of that darling boy who’d wanted to play tag amidst all this suffering. “How can I help?”
The mama in question ducked her head into her shoulders, shy and embarrassed, but in obvious pain, her face drawn and her hand tucked inside her shirt. The cute little guy sat on her lap, his head on her chest. It was the little girl who tugged her mother’s hand free where Melissa could see it. Oh my. She leaned forward and gently took that swollen, red hand into her palm, searching for the reason for this raging infection. Angry red streaks lined the wrist, all five fingers distended and looking more like sausages. The hand was on fire, but there was no laceration that Melissa could see, and she didn’t want to cause this poor woman any more pain by unnecessary handling. “How did you do this?”
The woman shook her head and tried to pull her hand back, but Melissa didn’t release it. Not yet. “This is serious. You need an antibiotic,” she explained, wishing she could breach the language barrier. She lifted the hand to examine the underside of it. “I’ll need to open this up and flush the infection once I know where it’s coming from. Can you come with me?”
“What’s going on?” Simon dropped to one knee at Melissa’s side. “Damn. Snake bite.” He rattled off a few curt words to the woman. She pointed over her shoulder into the jungle. Simon never gave her a chance to argue. He had his knife out, the blade ready, and in a blink, he’d sliced the heel of her palm just above her wrist. She whimpered, but he only dropped to bot
h knees, lifted her hand to his mouth and sucked the knife wound. He spat a mouthful of blood and saliva into the dirt. “Antidote,” he muttered at Melissa as he leaned into the woman’s hand again. “Snake bite. Get Oreo. Step on it. He’s unloading the supplies. He’ll know what you need.”
Melissa scrambled to the parking lot, not sure which supply truck. “Oreo,” she called out, needing him to be where Simon said.
“Yeah. Over here.” Oreo peered around the open back door of one of the supply trucks. His spiked hair actually looked more like feathers than a cookie. “You need me?”
“Snake bite,” she gasped, out of breath. “I need the antidote.”
He jumped off the ramp where boxes were stacked and ran to a pickup across the way. Ducking his upper body inside the back seat of the king cab, he retrieved a medical kit. “Where?”
“Simon. He’s with the man who needs his leg amputated. I don’t know his name,” Melissa gasped out. “His wife. Hurry.”
“That ain’t no good,” Oreo muttered as he marched between the huts. “What kind of snake? Did Simon say?”
“No. He just said to get you and the antidote.”
“Hope I’ve got the right one,” Oreo said, swinging the kit as he hurried. “There’s a hundred different kind of snakes in this country and most of ’em are poisonous. Not all antidotes work on all snakes.”
Melissa gulped, glancing sideways in case any of those hundred kinds of snakes might be slithering nearby at that moment. Her heart pounded at the thought of that sweet little girl and boy losing their mother.
“What are we looking at?” Oreo called to Simon as he approached.
“Sounds like she got bit by a Malayan pit viper,” Simon replied curtly, his hand shackled at the woman’s wrist. “We’ll know for sure in a minute. I sent some guys into the trees where she said she got bit. If it’s a pit, it may still be there.”
The woman sat sedately at Simon’s knee, her gaze to the ground and her children clinging to her side. “My mama,” her daughter cried softly. “You save my mama.”
King of Hearts (Deuces Wild Book 1) Page 7