Surrender A Section 8 Novel

Chapter Twenty-eight





Jem took the stairs with Key up the four flights because Key still couldn’t handle the enclosed space of the elevator. Jem knew exactly where that fear came from, knew his baby brother would white-knuckle it if he had to . . . but Jem wouldn’t put Key through anything further. Hell, he owed him too much already.

When they got to the landing, they both stilled. Something was wrong—the door to their place was partially open, and it didn’t look as if it had been kicked in.

“F*ck me,” Jem said. He went in, gun drawn, with Key backing him up. Luckily, he’d taken his computer with him, because that would’ve been what they wanted. For the most part, it looked like a random robbery, their clothes strewn around, dishes slammed to the floor.

But Jem knew better.

“Part of the herding process?” Key asked. Jem nodded.


* * *

It was after midnight when Avery and Gunner arrived at the tattoo shop. Jem and Key had rejected the idea of staying there, and so they planned to meet up late the following night and head back to the bayou.

Now Avery used Gunner’s washer and dryer as he drew on a sketchpad, shielding it from her view. She didn’t know if he was drawing her or not, but she wasn’t self-conscious about it.

“You and Key are getting closer,” he noted, not looking up at her.

“You think?”

“Come on, Avery, who are you kidding?”

She shrugged. “I have more to worry about than my feelings.”

“Now, that’s the smartest thing I’ve heard you say all day.”

“And I believe Dare about trusting Grace.”

“And now you’re back to square one,” he told her. “Sometimes, men think with their dicks,” Gunner pointed out.

She raised her brows. “Sometimes?”

Gunner muttered under his breath, then said, “Fine—we’ll let Dare guide us through this one.”

He put aside the sketchbook, said, “Come on, I’ll show you the panic room.”

She followed him downstairs—it was the same level as the garage, but she felt like she was on a different planet when she walked in and the security system slammed the two doors shut around them.

“This is very bare.”

Gunner rolled his eyes. “Typically, people who hide here are grateful, not pissed at the lack of pretty.”

No, pretty had left the building, probably scared away by the cement-block walls and chilly atmosphere, despite the near hundred-degree temp outside. “This is worse than prison.”

“Trust me—if you’d been there, you’d know better.” He showed her the alarms, the codes.

“Why do I have the feeling we’re sleeping down here tonight?”

“Trust those feelings,” he said as he released the security. “You can bring a blankie.”

“A*shole,” she muttered as they went back upstairs. Instead of going for the sketchbook again, he opted for the laptop. He poured them each a whiskey, handed her one before he began typing.

“Seems my tracker is underwater,” he told her. “F*ckin’ TV shows are ruining my game by giving away all my tricks. Before Burn Notice, none of the bad guys thought to look for trackers. Now, forget it—you have to install it inside the door, and even then they have these scanner things . . . you’re not even listening, are you?”

“Not really.”

“Typical. No regard for technical genius,” he grumbled.

She stared at the dot on the screen, which remained unmoving. “How long did it take him to find it?”

He smiled. “He wasn’t that smart.” He showed the path the man took, out of the bayou and into New Orleans, before he turned around and made a circle.

“So he’s staying in the city.”

“I’d bet on it.”

She paused and then asked, “Do you think Powell killed Darius?”

He stopped typing. “It doesn’t matter. Dare’s already hell-bent on revenge. And that’s a hell of a way to live and die, hear?” He took a sip of whiskey and then downed the rest of the brown liquid with a smooth chug.

“It matters to me,” she said quietly.

“Drink,” he told her, like that was the answer. Maybe it was.

She took a small sip and watched him carefully. He’d stilled a little. Typed more, read more, stilled.

She waited, even though patience certainly wasn’t her strong suit. Finally, he told her, “I think we need to call Dare.”

“What did you find?”

“We’ve got a problem. Grace’s mother is alive and well.”

“How did you find that out?” she asked, and he slid her a sideways glance that basically said, I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.

What he actually said was, “I have my resources.”

“You’re all so brooding and mysterious. Do you cultivate that or does it just come naturally?”

“Everything about me is natural, chère.” He drew out the last word and smiled, and yeah, she could totally see women standing in line to marry him. The fact that he’d actually done so three times was what surprised her. He didn’t seem the type to be caught by anyone or anything.

Unless he lets himself.

Yes, Gunner was definitely an interesting one. “Grace told Dare that Rip took her mother away. You’re saying she left the island—and Grace—behind voluntarily?”

“For a lot of money, and she appears to be suffering no twinge of a guilty conscience.” Gunner cursed. “Grace said her mother was taken away when she was twelve, right? Said Rip killed her.”

“Maybe that’s what she thinks.”

“Maybe. But hell, twelve years of programming from a grifter. Add in six more from Rip and we’ve got the makings of a perfect con.”

“I know why I’m doing this—why Dare is. I can even understand Key and Jem, but you? You’re not involved.”

“You keep believing that,” he muttered, and then, with his voice tight, he said, “We’re being hunted. No one hunts me in my goddamned home.”

Avery believed he could take on anything. All these men could.

The problem was Grace. Could they trust her? Her gut said yes, but there was so much evidence against her.

She dialed Dare’s number, prepared to tell him the news while Gunner got their beds together in the panic room.

She was in no rush to go down there again. But when Jem and Key showed up at the door, she knew there was no longer a choice.