Page 3 of Ace
In the end, it all came down to the law of the jungle, kill or be killed. There’d been no other choice. Not for Ahmed. Not for Keller. The kid was armed, twitchy, and dangerous. There wasn’t time to talk him out of his death wish. It was either him or Keller’s men. So, Keller granted the wish. Ended the threat. Saved his men. Became a hero. Yeah, right. Killing a kid with a gun was the worst kind of hero to be.
But that was also when Keller discovered just how different he was. That no matter how he tried, he would forever share the last few moments of his target’s terror, especially good kids or men like Ahmed. Which was why Keller had hidden his so-calledtalentfor years. Didn’t want it now. A fat lot of good empathy did in a world gone batshit crazy, when a man had to kill a kid.
Keller shot Isaiah a look from the corner of his eye. “I’m not mad at you.” Which clearly targeted Tucker, but so what? Most of the world couldn’t handle Tucker’s brash, in-your-face, Navy SEAL ego.
“You just don’t want to be here. I get it. You think we’re a bunch of freaks, and you don’t want the stink rubbing off on you,” Tucker stated as undiplomatically as ever. He tipped back in his swivel chair, his elbows on the armrest, his long legs stretched forward for balance, and his fingers steepled beneath his big, squarechin. Always the predator, his dark brown stare beneath intense thick brows seemed to see right through Keller.
He squared his shoulders and anted up. “What the fuck do you want me to do?”
Tucker opened his mouth, but Isaiah interrupted with, “Talk to her, Keller. That’s all. Just go see her and learn what you can from her. If she’s the real deal, you’ll know the moment you shake her hand. If she’ll let you. She may not. Psychics are funny about touch.”
Yeah, whatever. Keller’s need to get away from Tucker was growing stronger. “You got a name and address?”
“I’ll text you what you’ll need, only—” Tucker rolled forward and stuck his elbows on his desk. The vein that ran across his forehead when he lost his temper bulged thick and dark and tense.
“Only what?” Keller asked, impatient to be gone.
“Only I need you gone now. Grab your go-bag. It’s late, but I’ve got a pilot on standby. He’ll get you there by morning. Call when you touch down, the moment you make first contact. She lives east of New Orleans. I want hourly Sit Reps. I need to know what you know, as soon as you talk with her.”
Who’d ever heard of hourly situation reports? “Why the rush?”
“Because I’m dying,” Isaiah murmured from the darkness swelling around him. “And you’re going to save me, Keller.”
Chapter Two
Savannah ran, her heart in her throat, wings on her bare feet, and her red rosary slapping like Mardi Gras beads around her neck. Today was the day. She could sense it. The willows whipping at her bare legs and arms as she ran through them declared it. The wind breathed it. Her beloved Gran Mere was dying. Worse, she’d predicted she’d be leaving today. Savannah just hadn’t wanted to believe that the one-hundred and three-year-old matriarch of her family could actually foresee, much less predict, her own death. She’d predicted dire consequences before, even death, but those had all been more like curses cast upon others. Sure, they were still foretelling, and they came true, but choosing your personal day to die? Who did that?
So Savannah had refused to believe, and because of the pig-headed, stubborn denial she’d been born with, she’d wasted the morning feeding the scruffy cat thathad arrived last night looking for clean water and a dry bed. Sanctuary. The name of Savannah’s unwanted pet rehabilitation center that saved as many unwanted pets as she could manage. Just not her great grandmother.
She rushed up the gangplank to the houseboat Gran Mere called home. Back in 2005, Hurricane Katrina had capriciously grounded the boat three miles inland, far from the backwoods bayou where Gran Mere had lived most of her life. But oh, how she’d loved it here.
The air hung hot, humid, and heavy in these remote parts of Louisiana. Frogs and crickets chirped from the shade all day long. Katydids droned overhead in their relentless, grating way. An alligator rumbled somewhere off in the stands of drowned sycamores and oaks. Down the lane and just past the road, dying trees still stood knee deep in more water than they could handle since Katrina had cast her evil magic. Feathery fingers of silvery-gray Spanish moss dangled in the breeze from gnarled cypress trees. The giants of the bayou, their roots were forever planted in brackish swamp water, their twisted, scratchy branches reaching like arms and fingers to the sky.
Savannah loved this eccentric hideaway with every last bit of her wild and reckless heart. Everything about it was imbued with the life and love of the sassy lady who owned these few parcels. Gran Mere might not look nor act the part, but she was a proud property owner, and here in the South, that meant something.
Calming herself lest she burst into the houseboat like the reckless child she could still be, Savannahknocked quietly at the door that Gran Mere painted a vivid red only months ago.
‘Always choose to be a lady,’Gran Mere would say.‘Even when folks are nasty to you, look them in the eye and don’t stoop to their level. Don’t be anything less than the true woman of worth you are. The world doesn’t need any more crazy.’
Wasn’t that the truth?
“Come in, cher,” came the weak reply from within.
Frightened now, because Gran Mere had never sounded so small nor so frail, Savannah stepped out of the messy world Nature created and into the refined, clean, and orderly world of a generation past. The scent of lavender, along with the lemon cleaner Gran Mere used religiously, suffused the welcome cool air that filled the cramped interior of the houseboat. Central air was what separated civilized folk from the rowdy Cajuns who also lived in the shadows of these same trees. Not that Gran Mere looked down on anyone. She would never. She just liked her comforts, and not sweating all day long was a big one in her book.
From the outside, the home still looked like a houseboat. But inside, it was magic and potions and the witchcraft Savannah had grown up with. Chantilly lace doilies, French antique china, as well as a human skull, raven feathers, and bundles of white sage smudge sticks adorned the two piece, mid-nineteenth century Louis XV china cabinet that dominated the small dining area, what sailors called a galley.
Opposite the cabinet, a triple back settee of the same French era boasted cut velvet, moss-green scroll workand rose-colored flowers on ivory silk filigree. Elegant. Gran Mere might be eccentric, but she was the most elegant woman Savannah had ever known.
Curled up in her red and black brocade bathrobe on the green settee, she was the epitome of elegance. A blood red boa draped her neck like a regal queen. Even in death, Gran Mere strived to be that Southern woman who would never be seen as anything less than proper. But her skin was too white this morning and her eyes too bright. Covering her mouth, she coughed politely into the white handkerchief clutched in her slender but bony fingers, then dabbed her lips and her nose to be sure she wouldn’t offend.
Ever the genteel lady, she’d nonetheless raised two rowdy boys singlehandedly, then lost them both; the oldest, Stanley, to the Army, then to the Vietnam War. The younger, Gene, to the Navy, then to the road after he’d come home from some covert affair in Africa. By then he was older, yet he’d fathered Savannah’s mother. When she succumbed to ovarian cancer when Savannah was a mere babe, Gene’d had enough. He dropped his only grandchild at Gran Mere’s place and never looked back.
Since then Gran Mere had provided sanctuary for her orphaned great granddaughter, instead of letting the state, with its eternal lack of wisdom, take the little girl. It was also when Savannah began to learn the ways of what folks around here called the witch.
“It’s time,” Gran Mere whispered bravely, her voice as dry as an autumn leaf. “Come here, cher. Kneelbeside me one last time. There are things you need to know.”
Promptly, Savannah ran to the settee, dropped her knees to the soft cashmere Turkish carpet and obeyed. She sat back on her heels in case she needed to run if Gran Mere asked her to get something. Maybe one of her homemade potions. One of her scrolls where she’d written recipes of her brews. Or her doctor. Surely Doctor Rudy John would run to Gran Mere as quickly.
