Surrender A Section 8 Novel

Chapter Nine





Dare wanted to see if she could fight. He wanted to see her fight. But instead Grace fisted her hand against her thigh and stared up at him with those dark eyes that saw right through him. His groin stirred. Again.

Her dress had dried, but it still molded to her figure well. He wanted to stare even though he shouldn’t, and despite all the rules of civility, he did.

Because he’d never learned to be civilized. Didn’t see a reason to start now.

She blinked, and then she proceeded to look him up and down in the same manner he’d done to her.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or strip or both. He stuck his hand out and waited. Finally her cool palm slid against his warm one, and the electric jolt seemed to hit both of them at once like a lightning strike—and it threatened to do far more damage than what Mother Nature promised.

At least she felt it too. He wondered if she’d deny it. “I’m Dare.”

“Grace,” she said, and with a great effort he took his hand from hers, but not before her fingertips brushed the scars. “But you already knew that.”

“Yes.” He turned from her to pull himself together, wished Adele hadn’t visited him, wished he was still alone in the woods.

You and your nightmares. You and your ghosts.

Hell, they were loyal. They’d follow him anywhere.

She was willing to die before she’d go back. He’d known that from the second he took her, but he had to push her to confirm it.

He had to prove it to himself to decide how far he would go. That was one reason he didn’t want Avery close by. She didn’t deserve to see this shit. But she also didn’t need to be kept in the dark. Couldn’t be.

He handed Grace a bottle of water from the nearby counter, pressed it into her hand after he’d taken the top off. She moved her arms gingerly—he knew they’d ache.

Dare had been trained to notice even the smallest details, nuances. It made him a good lover and a better SEAL. It would serve him well as a merc.

He hadn’t thought of himself as a merc until Grace had called him one, but he couldn’t deny it. Instead, he catalogued what he saw.

She had a small, crescent-shaped scar on her inner wrist, as if she’d been cut. Glass or metal, and he’d bet it wasn’t self-inflicted.

Her fingernails weren’t long, but they were rounded at the tips, obviously well tended and strong. Her hands looked like an artist’s hands—capable, used to work.

The garden at her house would’ve taken quite a lot of upkeep, and it was obviously well loved.

What would it be like to love something so much, to put that much work into it daily, only to know it would die slowly, to watch it wither, all the while understanding it might not come back. And even if it did, it might never be the same—strong, healthy, vibrant—instead, a shadow of its former self.

But there was always the promise that it would.

She was as lush as the garden. She radiated light and hope. She was the total opposite of him, and she’d never forgive him for what he was about to do to her.

Or maybe she would and he shouldn’t care either way, but damn it all to hell, he did.

She watched him the entire time she drank, even as he avoided her gaze, hating the way her wrists showed the marks of his bindings.

He was tired of the guilt. One job, one final job, and then he was really and truly burying Section 8 forever. “Do you know names of people Powell killed?”

She blinked, played with the half-empty bottle for a moment before telling him, “My mother, for one. And you’ve already told me he killed your father.”

“Do you know who my father was?”

“Darius.”

He took a step back like she’d physically pushed him. “You knew him?”

“Yes—I knew him and Adele. I knew you were coming for me—I just didn’t know exactly when.”

“If you knew I was coming, why didn’t you run?”

“Where would I go? I’m tired of running. I was finally happy here.”

“You have no survival instinct,” he told her, and no, he wouldn’t feel guilty about this. He was so tired of that, and it was heavy and he’d burdened himself with it for so long, he was pretty sure he’d never see himself clear of it.

“What if you’re my survival instinct?” she asked.

“Don’t you do that—don’t you make me that.”

She smiled a little, as if she knew that thought was more frightening for him than facing down the barrel of a Sig. “Your father used to fish down by the docks.”

“Don’t,” he warned through clenched teeth.

“He’s a good cook too. Adele couldn’t cook at all. She always joked that she could burn—”

“Water,” he finished. Pictured Adele laughing as she said it. “She always said her talents lay in other areas.”

“She was so lethal,” Grace whispered now. “Lethal, and still so good. I wasn’t sure that combination was possible.”

She trailed off and Dare was done asking questions for the moment. Questions were never the right way to do something. There were too many variables in the answers.

But she wasn’t done sharing.

“If you look in the closet in the last bedroom, you’ll find some record books with my handwriting,” she told him. “I know there are four bedrooms here. A basement with enough food to last for several months—and the bathrooms are down the hall—third door on the right and forth on the left, respectively. The room Darius stayed in had a picture of a guitar over the bed and a red quilt.”

There was no way she could know that. “You really lived here?”

“For a while, yes.”

“As a hostage?”

“At first, Darius and Adele treated me like one,” she agreed. “And then things changed.”

Why wouldn’t his father have told him about this, about whether or not he could trust her? Darius had to have known this would come into play at some point. Had to have known how precarious his son’s future was.

Darius had always been a selfish bastard, but nothing proved it more than this. Dare went to the closet and pulled out a few books, brought them to the kitchen table and found she’d written some key terms on a piece of paper.

He was no expert, but this wasn’t a hoax—the writing matched. “You worked S8’s books.”

She nodded. “I traveled with them. They passed intel through me.”

“You knew what they did?”

“I knew they weren’t bankers.” A wry smile twisted her lips. “They got me away from Rip in the first place. I left when I was eighteen and I’ve never looked back.”

“Had you tried to escape before that?”

She shrugged. Looked away. Didn’t want to go there, and yeah, he got that.

When she spoke, it wasn’t a direct answer to his question. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity when your father came along.”

“How did you pull it off?”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Got into a caterer’s trunk before they boarded the helicopter. Rip keeps the island on lockdown—very few people are permitted to stay longer than a night. For his parties, guests were flown in.”

“No private chefs?”

“One. He’s always on premises. If he needs help, he calls the same catering company that’s been vetted by security.”

“And they had no idea you were on board?”

Grace bit out the next words before she could stop herself. “Of course they knew. Darius sent them. It was all part of their plan. They wanted to use me at first, the way you want to.”

Recalling those early days, when she’d been nothing but a Section 8 pawn, the same way she’d been Rip’s pawn all those years, made Grace tense up. But it hadn’t taken Darius and Adele long before they’d stopped speaking to her like she was a prisoner.

She’d assumed what went a long way toward softening them was seeing the unhealed stripes from the whip on her back and arms. Adele had to help her medicate the newest ones after they’d gotten infected during her first weeks at the house.

Even after she trusted them and they trusted her—and she had no doubt they truly did—she never admitted to them that she had a gift of precognition. Broken or not, that might make anyone rethink their decision not to use her.

The psychic skills that lay dormant for years had never blossomed here, as she’d feared they might. She was more than grateful they remained silent, because that gift reminded her of her past, her mother . . . she refused to be a shell of her former self, another one of Rip’s victims.

So why had she let Dare take her so easily? She’d recognized him, yes, but his intent hadn’t been pure, like his father’s had. She’d felt his arms around her like strong bonds of protection. He was conflicted . . . but he was the better choice for what was coming.

“Are you sure . . . about Darius?”

“Are you?” he asked, his voice a fierce rasp. “Did you have something to do with his death?”

“No.” Darius had seemed indestructible. She couldn’t believe he was gone. And if he was, by Rip’s hand, that was her fault, another person to add to the list that made her cringe with guilt.

“So S8 rescues you and then you just happen to stay with them . . . and then Rip just happens to pick them off, one by one.”

“You can’t think I had anything to do with it.”

“I don’t know what to think!” he roared. “You’re his daughter. You could be working for him—now and then. It’s the perfect plan. Especially because Darius is the one who pointed me in your direction.”

“Maybe to save me, not use me. Maybe I’m in as much damned danger as you are, if not more.”

“Haven’t seen Rip try to kill you recently,” Dare told her. He spread his hands, palms up, and showed her the scars on both of them. They’d driven spikes through his hands. There were exit wounds on the backs of his hands when he turned them over. “It was just for show. Never would’ve hung—my skin and muscle would’ve ripped like paper trying to hold my weight.”

“He’s not me,” she whispered. “I’m not responsible for what he’s done. I can’t be.”

But in her heart, she knew she always would be, no matter how vigorous her protest, no matter how clear her conscience should be. Because it wasn’t, no matter how much she’d tried to repent for crimes she’d never committed, even though the only thing she was truly guilty of was not killing Rip when she’d had the chance.

“I’m sorry,” she said now. “I can’t say anything else.”

“You can. You will. I’ve got nothing but time.”

This time, there might really be no way out.


* * *

They both heard the noise at the same time—a truck, coming through the bayou at top speed, despite the rain. It was someone who knew the area well.

Dare took her by the biceps and brought her over to a heavy pipe that ran from floor to ceiling in the corner. He handcuffed her wrists around the pipe and then pushed a chair under her so she could sit.

Grace’s phone didn’t have GPS—he’d checked that already. “Who else knows about this place?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer, pressed her lips together until he said, “If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill them on sight.”

“No, please . . . it’s just my friend Marnie. She knows if she can’t find me at home that sometimes I come here and sit on the porch.”

He was out the door in seconds, flicking the lights off as he went, just in time for the truck to come barreling around the corner. He ducked along the side of the porch and crouched, weapon drawn.

The truck slowed, the passenger’s side window came down and he saw a woman with long hair peering out into the porch.

“Grace, are you there?” she called, and he held his damned breath, hoping Grace wouldn’t be stupid enough to answer. The last thing he needed was two female hostages; he wasn’t very effective at keeping even one controlled.

Granted, he’d gotten more out of her when he didn’t have her tied like a wild hog, but still . . .

“Grace!” the woman called loudly. Beeped a few times and was met with silence beyond the pattering rain. She shut the window and drove away slowly. He had no idea if she’d be back. No idea if he could trust Grace to lie to her on the phone so she wouldn’t return.

He’d have to convince Grace it would be in her friend’s best interest for her to lie.