Surrender A Section 8 Novel

Chapter Fourteen





Avery couldn’t sleep, had wandered out to the balcony to stare at the bar when a knock on the door made her start. Gunner called through, then came in before Avery gave the okay.

She came off the balcony to meet him, but he was on her in seconds, pinning her outside with his body.

“Do you think I didn’t know you’d left?” he asked gruffly.

“I didn’t know I needed a bodyguard.”

“You do, sweetheart. You really damned do.” His words were clipped and even. “And you still owe me a sit-down in my chair.”

“I don’t welch on my promises.”

“Good to know.” He was almost out the door before she asked, “How did you know I’d left?”

He crooked a finger at her, and she followed him down the hall to a room that housed a wallful of monitors for security cams. She glanced over several of them—the downstairs, the outside steps, none of her room, thankfully.

And several in the bar she’d been in. “You spied on me.”

“You stole a wallet.”

“Does the bar know you do this?”

“Since I pay the mortgage, I’m allowed to,” he informed her.

“Anything else I should know about you?”

“How much time you got, chère?” he drawled. “Although I think you prefer the pretty boys.”

“I’d count you among those.”

He gave a short laugh. “Oh, I haven’t been one of those in a long time. If that’s what you’re looking for—”

“I was looking to blow off some steam. I should’ve told you. But I need to be able to take care of myself.”

“Most people who are able to take care of themselves do so with help—that’s the paradox of helping yourself. It can’t be done—not for long, anyway.” Gunner frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I’ll help you, the way I’m sure Dare did—or would—but you’ve gotta stay close. Especially with these two around.”

“What two?” she asked.

He rewound the recording from the bar and showed her Key . . . and then a dark-haired guy snapping a cell phone picture of her as she left.

“Friends of yours?” she asked.

“I don’t have friends.”

Had he seen the kiss? If he’d been watching her the whole time, he’d seen everything. She dug into the pocket of the jeans she’d worn earlier and pulled out the wallet and went through it.

His name was Key Brossard. His driver’s license gave his residence as North Carolina, his address near the Army base. She found an old military ID tucked into a side pocket. Army. Motor pool.

But the card was expired. No recent one. Some cash, one credit card, no pictures or condoms.

She wasn’t even sure why she’d taken it, but she no longer ignored any instinct. It might prove too costly.

“Don’t worry about getting that back to him—they’ll come to you,” Gunner said.

She frowned and closed the wallet. “As long as they don’t bring the police.”

“They won’t.” Gunner checked over the other security monitors, and she looked over his shoulder to see the restaurant several doors down, past the end of the parking garage.

“You own that too?”

“Yes.”

It appeared he owned basically the whole block, which included the parking garage. “I guess tattooing pays well.”

He snorted and looked over his shoulder at her. “You’re cute. Glad I decided to let you stay.”

“Sarcasm?”

“The truth.” He spun in the chair and pointed to a matching one. She sat in it cross-legged as a burst of cheers from the bar floated up through the window. “Nice to hear this town in the partying spirit again.”

“What makes this place so magical?”

“Ah, the age-old question. You know what I say? Don’t question it. It doesn’t make sense and it never will—and that’s the beauty of it.”

“When did you start tattooing?”

“I gave myself my first one when I was sixteen.” He lifted his jeans and pointed to a skull and crossbones on his calf. It was faded, definitely not as professional as the others, but that was its charm. “Tattoos are like a road map of where you’ve been, where you’re going. I like to think of them as a résumé. You know, in certain countries, you can tell a man’s entire past just by reading his tattoos.”

“That would come in handy if everyone followed that rule,” she commented.

“Or it would get you in a hell of a lot of trouble.”

“Right.” She wrapped her arms around her bare legs and rested her chin on her knees. “Speaking of troubles . . . any way to get rid of my charges?”

“I’m no magician, but I can put your name toward the bottom of the pile, so to speak. Or I would’ve, if there was any trace of the men you killed or you as a suspect.”

“What do you mean? Last time Dare checked—”

“This time I checked. You’re officially a free woman.”

“That’s why it was okay for me to go to the restaurant. That’s why you didn’t stop me from going to the bar.”

“Partially,” he agreed.

“What does that mean?”

“The cops aren’t the ones you need to worry about. Someone was interested in having you erased, so they could take care of erasing you the way they wanted to.”

She went cold again, and her thoughts went to Richard Powell. Dare had told her not to bring his name up to Gunner, but he did have enough power to keep her crimes hidden so he could mete out his own form of punishment. She wondered if she should bother Dare with this and decided against it. He had too much on his mind already, and most of it centered around her safety.


* * *

The picture was clear enough, taken from the back room of the bar, where Jem had left the poker game for a moment to check on his little brother.

Key was having no trouble getting his game on with her, until she pulled away and left.

Jem’s picture caught the reluctant look on her face. She looked completely different from when she’d entered Gunner’s earlier that evening—and that was definitely a purposeful move. No one stayed with Gunner for fun. There was always danger or money involved. But the fact that she was here with Key was just dumb luck. Key hadn’t seen any of his surveillance from earlier, would have no idea who she was.

“Little girl lost, what’s your deal?” he asked softly.

He ran it through the facial recognition software on his phone until it pulled up an online picture . . . for a wanted poster. A single one—the rest of her was all too conveniently erased. But the problem with the goddamned Internet meant you couldn’t erase every last trail . . . and sometimes, that was a lucky break for him. “Ah, Key, come on—when you step in it, you really goddamn step in it.”

Granted, Jem was one to talk since he was a hunted, wanted man himself, but he knew how to hide. He also knew that the CIA and his various other acquired enemies would never take him down without losing many of their men—and eventually, they’d give up.

Keeping Key safe might prove more difficult. He was more of the smash-and-grab type—the Rangers utilized some secrecy but preferred big guns.

They’d arrived hours earlier, after Jem finally got some intel on Dare linking him to the New Orleans area. Dare had lived near them growing up, which ate at Key more than he’d admit. Jem always said there were no coincidences, that they were moved around the chessboard for reasons unknown. But f*ck it all, he never said he liked it.

The woman named Avery had undone his brother with a kiss. A couple of touches. Jem wondered if it was the first time since Key’s whole ordeal that his brother had tried to lose himself like that.

That would’ve been the first thing Jem would’ve sought comfort in, but Key had always had better control, never allowed himself to live in fairy-tale land the way Jem did. Key had fought that crazy gene with everything he had, and Jem sometimes wondered why. Maybe Key should’ve just let it out, given it free reign.

How much had it hurt Jem, really? It seemed like their careers were neck and neck for shit at the moment, and Jem seemed to be having a lot more fun.

“I’ve taken way too much of your money,” he told the men now, checked out of the game before they’d never let him play again. There was a delicate balance to these things, and he never overstayed his welcome.

He went back out to the bar, where Key was ignoring girls trying desperately to get his attention.

“The dark-haired one—she was cute.”

He accepted the beer Jem handed him, gulped it as though it might help. “She was all right.”

“You run her off?”

“Yeah, that’s what happened.” Key’s drawl got deeper when he drank, or maybe it was just the proximity to their childhood. Jem knew it was throwing him, although it was hard to tell when he was off balance.

“She’s a murderer,” he told his brother casually.

“You’re back here a couple of days and you’re a tarot card reader?”

Jem held up his cell. “Better. Facial recognition software.”

“Ah, f*ck.”

“Hey, you dodged a bullet. Finally. Maybe your luck’s turning around.”

“Which would make that the strongest occurrence to happen to me in this state forever.” Key held up his beer bottle for an invisible toast and then felt his jeans’ pocket. “My wallet’s gone.”

“The murderer’s also a damned good thief,” Jem commented. “And nothing good happens when you drink, Key.”

“That’s never stopped you.”

“I said nothing good happens when you drink. When I drink, it’s all good.” He paused. “We can get it back—she’s staying at Gunner’s.”

“The tat place?”

Jem cut his eyes to him. “That tat place . . . yeah.”

“Can we forget the girl?”

“No, we can’t. Because the girl shows up out of nowhere and stays with Gunner.”

“So?”

“Gunner and I go back a long way. I’ll check it out.”

“I don’t want to know any goddamn more,” Key told him, but Jem was now like a dog with a bone. He had no CIA job and he had to stay busy or go even crazier. “Maybe I shouldn’t have broken you out of that place.”

“Ah, Key, I would’ve done it anyway. Just wanted to give you something to do.”

“Gee, thanks.” Key shoved him, and Jem, in turn, decided to leave him there to drink his troubles away.

“Headed home—take a cab.”

“Thanks for watching out for me,” Key called, the sarcasm evident even through his slurred words.

Jem walked the five blocks in the heat back to the apartment they’d rented a week ago. The air-conditioning was blasting, and Jem stripped down and showered the smoke and bar smell off him before settling at the computer with a glass of sweet tea.

Key rarely drank—Jem knew this was a temporary situation so he didn’t have to relive the trial or the reason for it. But lately, if Key hadn’t had enough bourbon, he’d brood about it, turning events over and over in his mind until he finally fell asleep.

“Disobeying a direct order,” Jem muttered as he looked through Key’s classified file for the millionth time, the way he’d done from the time the incident first occurred. Key hadn’t called him, but Jem had contacts who’d immediately let him know what had happened.

Hadn’t mattered that the reason for disobeying a direct order had been saving one of the military’s own. The jury’s mind had been made up, despite the impressive array of men who took the stand in Key’s defense. The array of medals, awards and exemplary service records were all shot to shit because Dare O’Rourke refused to come forward and say that he’d needed to be saved.

The bastard had been hanging, for Christ sakes, according to Key. Unable to move. Exhausted. And there had been maybe three feet between him and certain death by burning alive.

Jem paged through the transcripts.

JAG prosecutor: “Did he struggle?”

Key: “He was unconscious.”

JAG prosecutor: “Not according to mission records. Not according to the man himself.”

Dare’s statement, put into evidence by his lawyers, simply said that he hadn’t needed help and that he’d told Key to stand down.

Key had been found guilty on all charges. Barely escaped the brig, and that was because Jem pulled every goddamn string he knew of and a few more he didn’t.

He’d never tell Key that—it didn’t matter. He owed his baby brother for the rest of the boy’s life, and he’d pay until the bank was empty.