Surrender A Section 8 Novel

Chapter Two





Avery Welsh knew the end of the line when she saw it, but it had never been in her nature to surrender.

This time would be no different.

She’d been questioned by the police after the second murder. They hadn’t had enough to hold her, so she’d left the small upstate New York town that very afternoon without looking back and headed for someplace in Manhattan where she could disappear.

Having no ties to anyone or anything made that so incredibly easy, it actually made her chest ache to the point where she could’ve sworn she was having a heart attack.

Now, in this shitty one-room apartment on the third floor in a building in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, the pain started again. Her bags were packed on the floor in front of her, but an unmarked car had staked out the front of her building all night. But maybe she was more suspicious than ever, because they didn’t act like feds or cops—either group would’ve just come in and kicked down the door. She was wanted—there was no reason for such surveillance. She didn’t know if that was better or worse and decided that, either way, it was bad news.

The only way out was down the condemned, rickety fire escape, but her fear of heights hadn’t let her work up the nerve to head that way. Yet.

Another deep breath. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck despite the freezing-cold apartment. The heat wasn’t working, but complaining wasn’t an option since she wasn’t an official tenant.

When she knew there were most-wanted posters of her in the local post office, discretion and a low profile were warranted.

Mom, I’m sorry, but I had to . . .

She felt a sudden gust of air and whirled around, gun pulled. The man who stood silently in the middle of her living room seemed unconcerned about the weapon.

He must’ve come up the fire escape, but she’d sworn she’d locked that window.

“You picked the wrong place to rob,” she told him as she took in the handsome face and military posture.

“Avery, I’m here to save you.”

He knew her name. Undercover? PI? She tried to pretend he hadn’t thrown her. “I gave up on the prince-and-white-horse fantasy when I was seven.”

His mouth twitched. “Good. But now it’s me or the guys coming up the stairs.”

Guys, not cops or feds. She hadn’t been wrong. Shit.

“Who are you?”

“I know your father,” he said. “No time to explain further. Come on.”

The man was unblinking. The honesty coming from him could be an act, but she prided herself on her bullshit meter. Right now, this guy seemed the safer of the two options.

Another bounty hunter? Repo? He looked capable of anything, but she couldn’t afford not to take risks. So when he slung both her bags over his shoulder, she followed her only way out. She’d been looking for information on her father—a man named Darius—for as long as she could remember, but it was like tracking a ghost.

When the past came knocking, she knew she had to answer the door.

“I’m scared of heights,” she told him when he’d gotten down to the level of grating below hers.

“You should be more scared of jail. They’ll eat you up in there.” His comments both scared and infuriated her, so much so that she followed him out onto the rusted stoop and down the stairs and was threading her way down behind him.

She hadn’t realized how fast they’d been going until her feet hit the ground with a hard thump on the concrete. She found herself looking down the barrel of a mean old Sig. “I’m already following you.”

“Just making sure.” He motioned for her and caught her arm, hustled her to a waiting truck. She’d barely scrambled into the seat when the man was in his, cranking the old vehicle out of the alley.

She turned to see the unmarked car starting to make chase but she felt the truck speed up under her, as if there was something extra under the hood. Whatever it was, she was more than grateful. Maybe her mother really was looking out for her. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer as he edged the car through traffic, winding along the side roads, and finally zoomed along the ramp toward the highway.

She turned to check the trailing car’s progress.

“Don’t bother—I lost them,” he told her.

“You’re that sure of yourself?”

“I’m that good.”

That should’ve sounded cocky, but instead it came out like a simple truth from a handsome man who was no doubt a warrior.

Like your father . . .

At least that’s what her mother had always said about Darius. Avery wanted to believe that, felt like she had some of that warrior inside her.

Now revenge ran too hot in her blood and she was discombobulated. But she was free—for now. “Who are you and how do you know my father?”

“He’s my father too.” He glanced at her for a second before his eyes were back on the road. “My name’s Dare.”

She couldn’t speak for a long moment, the surprise stealing her breath as she stared at Dare’s—her brother’s—profile. His hair was dark, strong cheekbones . . . a full mouth. He had blue eyes, nowhere near as light or cold looking as she’d always thought hers were.

Her mom used to tell her with affection, They’re just like your daddy’s. “Are you sure?”

“You knew you had a half brother?” A question for a question—from that alone, she could see the resemblance between them.

“I knew. Mom always said I’d never meet you.”

“You weren’t supposed to, but you’re in a hell of a lot of trouble.”

As she stealthily wiped away a tear, Dare asked, “Why are you wanted?” and handed her the paper with her picture on it.

She studied it as the truck barreled down the road. “It says ‘wanted for murder’ right here.”

“I don’t believe everything I read.”

“It’s true.” She wondered if she should just surrender. Explain. But those men she’d searched out were the ones who’d hurt the one person who’d kept her safe all her life, and she’d hurt them.

She’d felt indestructible. Lethal. An angel of death no one saw coming.

Afterward, she’d felt angrier, not better. She had to make things right, had to balance out the bad deeds with some good ones.

“Why’d you do it?”

She glanced at Dare and wondered if he knew what it was like to live with a heavy burden of guilt. “I hunted down and killed the men who tortured, raped and killed my mother. Think a jury of my peers would understand that?”

“I have no goddamned idea what drives most people,” he muttered. “You’re going to have to fill in the story.”

“My mom did bail bonds.”

“She was a bounty hunter?”

“Yes—she owned the company and had men working for her. She wouldn’t go out alone—but she was the one who usually talked the fugitives into surrendering.” Both tough and tender, her mom could bring out the best in anyone. Avery had worked in the office for as long as she could remember, typing up files and helping to keep things running as she got old enough to get her own bounty license. Learning things both legal and illegal from the men and women her mother employed as she helped them try to turn their lives around. “One night, she got a call from a woman she’d helped in the past. It was late and she wanted me to go with her, but I’d been up all night doing paperwork—I’d fallen asleep on the couch and she’d left me a note.”

It had been four hours later when she’d woken. Avery had tried to call and got voice mail, so she’d driven to the address her mother had hastily written on a pad of paper by the phone. Luckily, it was on carbon copy paper used for messages.

The fast, smooth motion of this truck was nothing like the way her drive had been that night, her arms jerking the wheel, fear knotting her limbs.

“I found her in the alley. She’d tried to fight—that was obvious. But they just . . .” She put a hand up to her eyes like that could stop the tears. Didn’t want to show the kind of emotion she felt to a relative stranger, but revisiting the image was something she did daily. When she got control back, she continued. “They’d cut her. Raped her. Then they stabbed her and let her bleed out. And I had no idea why. Before the police got there, I took fingerprints and samples from under her nails and went to a friend who worked in a lab to run them later that day. I was thinking about meting out my own brand of justice—it was the only thing that got me through.”

“You were supposed to be with her,” Dare said simply.

Why that was so hard for her to admit to herself, never mind out loud, she didn’t know. She nodded, knew now there was no turning back from all this.

“That same woman called again—tried to lure me back to that spot later that night,” she said. “I didn’t tell the police anything about that. I already knew how to shoot criminals. To track them. To think like them. It took me three weeks to find them—twenty-one days of following that woman around until I got a lead.”

“Did they say anything?”

“I didn’t give them the chance. I thought they went after her because of a jumped bounty or something. There was paperwork, but I found out later that was all stolen from another bounty hunter. I never suspected . . .” She brought a hand to her throat, and there was silence in the truck for a long time, even as darkness fell and they put more distance between her and the men who’d come after her. She assumed he was bringing them to a safe place for the night. If there was such a thing. “I think her murder was part of something bigger.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you and I both know that those men back at the apartment were hired hits, not cops or feds.” And now it was her turn for questions. “Where’s our father?”

“There’s a CD he made for you in the glove compartment.”

“I have a laptop in my bag,” she said after she pulled the CD out.

“Crank the volume.”

She found the CD and then took the small computer from her bag and prepared to watch it.

She drew in a sharp breath when the first image of her father came on the screen, and she paused it for a long moment so she could stare. Traced a light finger around his cheekbone.

There was no denying her parentage.

As Dare turned onto the highway and got lost in the blend of traffic, she hit “play,” and the voice—her father’s voice—filled the truck. Warm, dulcet tones that belied the ice in his eyes—her eyes. She felt at once comforted and sad that this would be their only contact.

But she’d never thought she’d even have this.

“Avery—doll—I’m sorry, but your momma and I decided a long time ago that it was much safer for you if I wasn’t involved in your life. But if you’re watching this, you’re in trouble because of me and things I’ve been involved in. If you’re watching this, you’re with Dare, and you’re both in trouble—and a man named Richard Powell is the one to blame.” A heavy sigh, a shake of the head. Fingers rustled in the short growth of beard on his chin before he continued. “Stay with Dare. Do whatever you have to in order to stay safe. Because the men Powell sent after you will not give up. Ever. Go home—you’ll find grace there.”

Go home . . .

She’d seen a magic show once, and what interested her the most were the interlocking circles—silver and shiny; they made the coolest noise when the magician separated them and hooked them back together until they made a long, interconnected chain.

Her mother had bought her some and she learned the trick behind them easily. Wished she hadn’t ruined the magic for herself, but she’d been too curious not to understand.

She was connected to this man, but not locked to him—not really.

Not yet. “Do you know where home is?”

He nodded. “Buckle up for a long ride.”


* * *

Avery didn’t push him for an explanation, was too busy staring at the computer screen, and Dare took those blessed minutes of silence to decide what the hell to reveal to her.

All or nothing. That had been Darius’s motto.

His earliest memory was of his father playing his electric guitar, the music ringing through the house. Darius would turn up the amps and let it blast at top volume until the walls and floors shook.

Dare’s mom had given Darius a silver pick on a chain, engraved with the date of their wedding, since he wouldn’t wear a ring. Darius gave it to Dare after Mom died, maybe when he was about twelve, and Dare couldn’t remember the last time he was without it.

He never liked being a slave to a talisman, but he was. Held the pick between two fingers and rubbed it like a worry stone.

He was never without Darius’s guitar either, although he hadn’t played it once this year. He could see it in the backseat if he turned his head, but he refused.

Maybe he’d never play again, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave it behind.

Avery touched the computer screen one last time and then closed it with a quiet click. “What happened to Darius?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he . . . dead?”

Dare shrugged. “He’s been MIA for a year, but that doesn’t translate to dead.”

“Have you looked for him?”

“No.” The past had reared its ugly head, and there was no turning away now. At least he wasn’t dealing with a shrinking violet here. Helpful . . . and in some ways worse.

“Don’t you think you should?” she persisted.

“I’ve lived with his fallout my entire life,” Dare told her. “If you’d like to take up the mantle after we find out who’s trying to kill us, be my guest.”

The first time he’d been taken from his home was when he was six right after his mom had left them. Dare had lived with Adele and her then husband for eight months before his dad came home. It continued like that until Dare was fourteen or so and would stay at home alone during his father’s missions.

“What is he a part of?” Avery asked, and Dare knew she had every right to know.

“They called themselves Section 8 because that’s the discharge they’d all been given by the military.”

Technically, it was called something else now, but the intent was still the same. Mental defect. Unfit for duty.

“Were they?”

“Crazy? In one way or another, yes.” He glanced at her. “You worried you inherited some of it?”

“I know I did,” she muttered, and he felt his mouth quirk up a little despite his attempts not to smile.

“Darius was afraid of heights.”

“Really?”

“His whole life. He got past it—but he said it was always his nemesis.”

“Thanks for telling me that, Dare.”

“Welcome. There’s a lot more I’ve got to fill you in on. There were eight of them altogether. Just happened that way, but Adele always though it was poetic.”

“Were there other women?”

“Just her. She was killed yesterday after coming to tell me you were in trouble.” The thought of her lying on the ground made his throat tighten. She would’ve told him that this wasn’t the time for sentiment, which was reserved for the dead of night when the mission was over, and then you killed it with strong whiskey. Drown the sorrow before it drowned you.

“And this Richard Powell . . . he knows about Section 8?” Avery said, and realization slowly dawned on Dare . . . and on Avery.

“The men you killed—,” he started.

“Are the men sent by Powell?” she finished it as a question, and there was surprise in her voice, since she’d obviously just come to that conclusion with Dare’s information. “Do you think they tortured her, trying to get information about my father, to see what he’d told her about Section 8?”

Dare forced his eyes to stay on the road, kept his breathing slow and steady. “Maybe.”

“Still think I should be in jail?” she asked quietly, and he shook his head no. “I didn’t know I’d be dragging anyone else in. I didn’t know anything about the group. I only knew I was trying to avenge my mom’s murder.”

“I was already dragged into it,” he told her. “You heard Darius—I’ve been marked for death, same as you.”

“All because Darius was part of Section 8?” she asked, and he nodded. “Are you part of it too?”

“No. There was only one S8, and they’d disbanded long before I would’ve been able to work with them.” It had been a moment in time. It had been so perfect . . . and it had all gone so horribly wrong. “On what was supposed to be their last mission—twenty years ago—they lost a man. Almost lost Darius. He left Simon behind and then got a call that S8 was officially disbanded.”

“But they kept working.”

“Yes. Plenty of work for operatives like that,” he agreed. And whether he’d wanted to or not, his formative years had been spent learning from each of them. Adele in particular had come in most useful with her love of demolition—she took it to an almost spiritual level with the way she wired the bombs, predicted the blast outcome.

Darius was the mastermind, second only to S8’s handler—he kept the team together, let them work on their individual strengths and made up for their weaknesses. And he’d never replaced Simon—they’d continued to work one man down.

And now they were all gone.

“Did you know their families?”

“No. We were all kept apart, for good reason.”

“So you couldn’t be used against one another.”

“That was the theory.”

Darius had been more secretive than ever these last years, like he knew letting Dare in on everything would sign his death warrant. As it was, the burden of the legacy of Section 8 was falling firmly on Dare, even though he knew only the sketchiest of details on the missions, where the bank accounts were, who S8’s enemies had been.

But the name Powell . . . that was new.

Avery was telling him, “But we’re part of it . . . because we were born to an S8 member.”

“Trust me—you don’t want to be a part of it. It’s not conducive to staying alive. Anyone who had a connection to S8 is being systematically hunted and killed for their knowledge, no matter how much or how little.”

“Doesn’t the CIA care?”

“S8 fell off their radar a long time ago.”

“But not off this Powell guy’s,” Avery pointed out.

“I’m guessing he was their handler.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“They were never supposed to find out. I’m guessing Darius did, and that bought him a world of trouble.”

We’re running for our lives, he wanted to tell her, but she knew. No reason to say the words out loud.

At some point, they were going to have to turn around and run toward the enemy, just like Simon had done. Sometimes that trick didn’t work. But sometimes it did.

“Can we stop Powell?”

“We don’t have much choice.”

“We could hide.”

He’d been doing that, but nothing had changed. The evil was still festering, and if he didn’t try to stop it, he couldn’t live with himself. “We’ll get Powell.”

“Don’t you think he knows we’re coming for him?”

“Sometimes that’s the best way.”

She nodded and felt her resolve steel like a palpable force. “We’re kids of Section 8—we need to live up to the group’s rep, right?”

“No, we don’t,” Dare told her, heard the fierceness in his voice for the first time in more than a year. “We need to exceed it.”