King of Hearts (Deuces Wild Book 1) Page 11

  “Can’t you go any faster?” Tucker asked, his impatience rankling in his gut.

  “Why? Wasn’t one day in jail enough for you?” Isaiah wouldn’t let Tucker drive. Made him ride shotgun. Not a good combination. “The last thing we need is a speeding ticket.”

  “My grandmother drives faster than you.”

  Isaiah paused for the space of a heartbeat. “Not true. Your grandmothers are both dead. You never even met them.”

  There went that mind-reading thing again. This kid was annoying.

  “Annoying, yes, but you can’t see out of both eyes right now, and I don’t need to be in a traffic accident or back in jail. We do things my way or not at all.”

  Tucker chewed his lower lip to keep from telling his smart-assed sidekick to go to hell. He needed Isaiah more than the kid knew, but honestly, it seemed as if he were caught in a time warp with a brat who repeated everything just to irritate the hell out of him. And it was working.

  Isaiah chuckled, but said, “I’m picking up Melissa again.”

  Why did Tucker have the feeling that his partner really meant to say he wasn’t a brat? “Where?” he snapped, tired of the mind games. He was suffering from lack of sleep and a bruised ego. That tender spot under his left arm felt like a cracked or broken rib, neither scenario good, but he wasn’t about to tell his partner he wasn’t a hundred percent. Isaiah probably already knew.

  “She’s dizzy this morning. I’m not sure why. She’s still with those men—at least one of them.”

  That didn’t sound good. “I thought you level tens could get people to make different choices. Can’t you influence her to get away from him, or whatever it is you do?”

  “Sometimes...” Isaiah drew the word out while he steered around a team of oxen pulling a narrow wooden cart heaped high with green stalks of bamboo. “It all depends on the person. Melissa’s thought patterns are quite... complicated.”

  “What’s going on? Is she...?” Dare he say it? Happy? That was the last thing Tucker wanted Melissa to be, happy with another man. The notion boiled his blood.

  Isaiah shook his head. “I wouldn’t say happy, but she’s... relaxed.”

  That didn’t help either. “So you can’t read Eden’s mind, and now you can’t get into Melissa’s head, either?”

  “Right. Eden’s a level ten, same as me, but she’s different. We can actually converse psychically, but only when she lets me in. Either Melissa is choosing not to let me in or she’s not psychic at all.”

  “She’s not psychic,” Tucker growled. “She’s normal. Like me.”

  “Ah, but you can pick up mental messages I push to you.”

  Tucker clenched his fist and looked out the side window. Why me?

  “Because you’re psychic, Tucker.” Isaiah was smart enough to change the subject. “How’s your eye? Feeling any better?”

  Tucker nodded. He’d been worried whether that punch he’d taken had torn the lens loose, or worse, if it had permanently damaged his eye, if he’d be blind when the swelling went down.

  “That’s why I wanted you to see a doctor, Tucker. Eyesight’s not negotiable. I’m not worried about the cochlear implant. Is it working?”

  “No. It works off cell phone towers,” he admitted begrudgingly. “It’s useless right now. I’d have to request authorization for it to work over here.”

  “And I work off mind power. Do me a favor. See if you can pick up what I’m sending you.”

  Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras showed up loud and clear with all it’s delightful aromas and sounds. The spicy drift of jambalaya piled high with crayfish, chunks of andouille sausage, and peeled shrimp. Sweat and swamp. The rowdy tones of sax and the plinkety-plink of honky-tonk piano mingled with trumpet, blues, and soul. “New Orleans,” Tucker muttered. “Drive faster.” And stop playing games.

  Isaiah stepped on the gas. “I’m not playing games. I’m evaluating our ability to communicate with each other if we get separated. Your turn.”

  Tucker projected an image all right.

  “Very funny, Tucker. The finger. Message received loud and clear. You’re an ass. Got it.” There it was again, a controlled sigh of annoyed disgust, exactly what Tucker had been going for.

  They drove in silence while the pavement gave way to dirt and the dirt gave way to ruts and mud holes. The overnight drizzle stopped. Monsoon season would soon bring torrential rainfall, and Tucker wanted to be gone by then.

  Suddenly, Isaiah steered off the road and into the nearby trees. “Hang on. We’ve got trouble.”

  Tucker stretched his neck to see, but nothing revealed itself. “What are you talking about?”

  Isaiah kept going until he had enough room to turn the truck around to face the road. The man and boy with the oxen ambled by. “I hope they don’t see us,” Isaiah murmured.

  “Who?” Tucker leaned forward, squinting and growing more impatient by the minute. “What am I looking for?’

  “Wait for it...”

  He waited. And waited. More cars. More bicycles. A few mopeds and scooters. The minutes ticked by, but at last, the ground vibrated. The air filled with the steady rumble of heavy equipment. Three camouflaged five-tons led the way. Truck after truck of soldiers in olive drab uniforms. Maybe a battalion. The Vietnamese Army was on the move.

  Isaiah provided the news update. “One battalion, to be exact. They’re going west like us. There’s been a border skirmish with the Cambodian rebels.”

  Tucker craned his neck to see eastward past Isaiah. The line of troops and military equipment stretched as far as he could see, pushing civilian vehicles to the side of the road. There was no choice. “We need to get out of here. Leave the truck. Take what you can carry. Make most of it lethal. How far before we get to her?”

  “We’ve got miles of jungle between us and Mrs. McCormack,” Isaiah whispered, his eyes glued to the impressive display of military power, “but these guys will stick to the road, won’t they?”

  “Only until they reach their destination.” Tucker rolled out of the truck, keeping low to avoid notice. “Scan one of the officers. See if you can get a reading on their bivouac through those brain buckets. Damn, that’s got to be hot.”

  Isaiah scowled. “Brain buckets?”

  Tucker tapped his head. “Helmets, genius. See if you can read one of those guys’ minds through his helmet.”

  “Of course I can,” Isaiah murmured. “This isn’t X-Men. You ever heard of a city called Hà Tiên?”

  “Yeah, it’s on the south end of the Mekong Delta. Melissa’s not being held there, is she?”

  “No, but that’s where these guys are headed.” Isaiah slung his backpack over one shoulder while he carefully stripped the tarp from the pickup bed. “She’s directly west of our location. We’ll cross the river at Tân Châu and swing north a couple miles to catch up with her.”

  Tucker armed himself with two M4s and as much ammo as he could pack. “You wouldn’t happen to have a—”

  Isaiah tossed one holstered SIG P226 Tacops, then another. “Sure thing. Extra magazines are to your right in the corner.”

  “How about a—”

  “The knives are in that canvas bag by the ammo boxes. Gosh, how many weapons do you need?”

  Tucker strapped one knife sheath to his thigh and another to his lower leg. One SIG went to his hip, the other under his arm. Carefully, he stacked all ten IED kits into a loose gear bag and rested it to the ground at his foot. He wanted more weapons. Tactical vests would’ve been nice. Bluetooth earpieces, too.

  “No, I didn’t think of tactical vests,” Isaiah grumbled, “so don’t go getting your ass shot. I’ve got water purification tabs, a couple lighters, plastic rain ponchos, and a few MREs.”

  “Tactical vests don’t cover your ass, genius.” This mind-reading stuff was starting to feel natural. Tucker only had to think of what he needed, and Isaiah made it come true.

  “You wish,” the kid huffed, a pistol on his hip and an M4 hanging off his s
houlder, barrel down. “I’m not your damned fairy godmother.”

  And he’s starting to swear like a man, too.

  “You want to hear cursing?” Isaiah asked, a no-kidding edge in his voice. “Just keep it up.”

  Tucker put his index finger to his lips, a smirk tugging at the corner of his smart mouth. “Shhh. Don’t ask, don’t tell, remember?”

  He got a stern eye roll for that. Isaiah jerked his head toward the jungle. “Lead on, funny guy.”

  Tucker grabbed a few more supplies until his pack was full and heavy. Clean socks would’ve been nice, but he intended this foray into west Vietnam to be quick, like any other SEAL infil/exfil. All he wanted was Melissa. He stashed as many MREs as he could in the small recesses of his IED pack until it could safely hold no more. Then a couple of aerosol cans of Deet. A smaller pistol fit in his belt. A bottle of water. The pack was filled to bursting.

  “How long do you plan on staying in Vietnam, Tucker? Forever? Sheesh, let’s move before we get caught.”

  Ah, the naïveté of the FNG. Any spec ops guy in his right mind knew the power behind packing the right supplies for a remote op. A guy could only rely on what he’d brought with him, and Tucker meant to be prepared. He tossed one bag to his shoulders and hefted the other. “Move out, Grandma.”

  He stayed close to Isaiah, trusting the guy’s sense of direction as they honed in on Melissa. Tân Châu had to be close to two hundred kilometers southwest from Hồ Chí Minh City, around one hundred and twenty miles. He and Isaiah had already been traveling for hours. Highways were different in Vietnam, but they’d made good time until the army took over the road. Moving forward would prove more difficult now, but so what? Tucker had humped plenty before, and he’d done it better and faster and over steeper terrain. Ever heard of the Hindu Kush? Now those were mountains. He figured a good stiff pace would get them past Tân Châu by dark. Maybe farther. If all went well, Melissa might very well be back in his arms tonight. No later than morning.

  “The Hindu Kush range is between Pakistan and Afghanistan, and you’re limping,” Isaiah murmured.

  “No, I’m not,” Tucker replied evenly as he picked up the pace and passed Isaiah, ignoring the burn under his ribs. “I’m marching, so get your ass in gear. Double-time it, soldier. Now!”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Tucker,” Melissa murmured sleepily, her back stiff and sore, her mind sluggish and dull. Stretching from side to side, her palm landed in the middle of a bare chest. Her nose twitched. She must have fallen to sleep on the couch, his body for a pillow. His chest hair tickled her nose, but he smelled different this morning. Less of mandarin and amber. More of sweat. But always gunpowder. But that strong heartbeat under her ear? That heavily muscled chest of her pillow? So familiar. His big hand on her—butt?

  Not so familiar and not good. Not good at all.

  Here we go again. He knew better than to take liberties with her while she slept. Touching her backside was off limits. Blinking awake, she shoved off—

  Simon? Her heart stuttered up her throat. Oh my. What have I done?

  Every muscle in her body cringed. She eased upright to find herself in his arms and on top of his bed. With him. She was still dressed, but a thin sheet draped them both—like something might have happened. The door was shut. They were alone. How had she gotten from the front porch to—here? They’d had one drink together. That was all. Just one.

  Make that two...

  Stealthily, she lifted to her feet, thankful she was still completely dressed. Well, except for her shoes. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? It had to mean they hadn’t done anything too crazy last night, didn’t it? Her head buzzed—not a good sign. She couldn’t remember what she’d done or what she’d said. Oh my, indeed.

  “Don’t leave yet,” Simon muttered, his morning voice exceptionally deep and husky. He still had his eyes closed. “I’ll fix coffee. ’Sides, I’ve got something I wanted you to see.”

  I’ll just bet you do. “N-n-no, I... I have to go. Now.”

  “Melissa...” he taunted. “Come back to bed. We worked all night. We deserve to sleep in. Besides, it’s too early.”

  Or too late. “No, no, no,” she whispered, still not believing she’d sunk so low as to sleep with a man she didn’t know. Oh, my God, who does that? Hollywood divas and ladies of the night, maybe. Not me.

  “You dozed off. My bed’s more comfortable than yours. I couldn’t just leave you on the porch for the mosquitoes, could I? Hell, the rats around here would’ve carried you off.”

  “Did we...? Umm, did I...?” Drat and double drat. Did I? Did you?

  Simon blew out a deep sigh before he opened both eyes and rolled to his side. “No, ma’am. You got a little silly before you dozed off, that’s all. At least let me get dressed before you take off, will you?”

  “Take what off?” She cringed, her foot in her mouth. I didn’t really just say that, did I? But if he needs to get dressed... She spread one hand over her eyes.

  “Will you relax?” he drawled mischievously.

  She spared him a quick look through her fingers. Simon had one of those lazy, good-old-boy smiles, the heart-melting, panty-dropping kind. Darn, he looked like Tucker when he smiled like that. She could get herself into a world of trouble if she hung around this guy very long.

  He flipped the sheet back to reveal two tanned, hairy legs and—thank God—camouflaged shorts. She had noticed he’d slept with the sheet tucked between them as well, not skin to skin. Well, not much skin to skin. His chest was bare, and it was a handsome, manly thing. Well-muscled. Athletic. Just the right smattering of dark hair over a deep tan, nicked by a few scars. Dusky man-sized nipples she shouldn’t have noticed. Swoon-worthy, actually.

  She rolled her eyes at her utterly foolish feminine responses to him and grabbed the wooden door latch for support. Sliding her toes into her canvas sneakers, she fingered the heels up nice and tight, and offered a quick, “I have to go. Really. Bye.”

  Simon grumbled, but she left him standing there.

  “Morning,” Oreo commented from his seated position at the end of the porch, his eyes bright and extra cheery. “Nice day for a walk, isn’t it?” he asked as he wiped a rag over the long barrel of his rifle.

  “Umm, yes,” she said, brushing her tousled hair out of her eyes. “It is... early.”

  “Sleep well?”

  She couldn’t even begin to answer that leading question, her throat tight and dry. What did he mean by that? Sleep or—oh, my gosh! Sleep with him?

  Melissa couldn’t remember enough of last evening after the surgery to know anything for certain. She pivoted and nearly fell off the porch. Righting herself, she dusted her hands to her thighs and offered a quick, embarrassed, “I’ve got to run. Bye.”

  And off she went, straight to her mat in her hut before Oreo could ask anything else.

  Wouldn’t you know, sweet little Mimi was already snuggled there with her mama, Tam, both sound asleep? Well, alrighty then. Melissa tiptoed into the hut and leaned against the inside wall, her arms over her chest and her mind in disarray. How could she have done something like that? To Tucker? This was so out of character for her. Until this thing between her and Tucker was resolved, she meant to stay loyal and true to him. Faithful. If they broke up, he’d have to do the breaking up. Not her. He might have to get his priorities right, and she’d have to face her demons, but he was her man, and she was his woman and...

  What have I done?

  Another shiver skated up her spine. Darned if Oreo hadn’t followed her. He peeked into the hut, cocked his head to the left and caught her hiding in the shadows. “Boss wants to see you.”

  She shook her head, her disheveled hair the perfect curtain to hide behind. “I need to use the bathroom first. I need a shower. I’ll talk to Simon later.” A lot later.

  “I think that’s why he wants to talk to you. He had us guys rig a special, umm, accommodation just for you. Come see. It’s kind of cool. You’ll like it
.”

  She rolled her eyes to the thatched ceiling overhead where a glimmer of sunlight had broken through, not sure she could face Simon, not after last night when they didn’t do anything. Oh, drat. She hoped not, but she didn’t know for sure, and that not knowing made her nervous. Alcohol and her didn’t mix well. After one drink of wine, she tended to think she was the sexiest woman on the planet, and there was a slim possibility that she’d said the most outrageous things. Until now, either Brady or Tucker had been there to keep her safe from her silly antics. Had she bragged how sexy she was with Simon? Had she made a fool of herself? Worse, had he taken her at her word?

  She’d gotten a little carried away with Tucker more than once after a glass of champagne, but he’d never crossed that line. He might’ve stayed the night, but not in her bed. He might not have liked it, but he respected her. He loved her. It would sure be nice to hear it from his lips once in a while, but she knew he did. It showed, especially after that second glass of—

  “You coming?” Oreo whispered.

  Ergh. Why’d he have to phrase it that way? “I might as well. I can’t very well use my mat. I’m on my way.”

  Oreo held out his hand to her at the doorway. She accepted his fingers and his gallantry and climbed down the three steps. “It’s over here,” he said, nodding back toward Simon’s hut. Why not? If Simon meant the location of this special accommodation to keep her safe, why wouldn’t it be near his hut? But if he intended something else...

  A breathless shiver raced up her spine. She’d gotten too close too fast with a man she barely knew. No. More. Drinking.

  “Ah, there you are.” Simon’s face lit up when he saw her from his open door. He nodded to the rear of his hut where another smaller hut had been constructed, a black-and-gray-striped curtain draped over the open wooden door. “Check this out.”

  She couldn’t have been more surprised. Filtered sunlight from the thatched roof brightened the place up quite nicely. An actual porcelain toilet stood there on a framed-in bed of gravel, and next to it, a stack of white toilet paper rolls. A small table rested beneath an oval mirror nailed into the wall at her immediate right, with an assortment of combs, brushes, and toiletries tastefully arranged. Straight ahead stood an improvised shower with a shower curtain and towels, bottled bath gel and all.