Unbreakable: A Section 8 Novel (A Section Eight Novel) (5 page)

S
mo
ke rose from the fire on the half-decimated yacht and covered the beach, thanks to the strong crosswinds. It got in his eyes and throat, and even after Landon left him there, telling him he was
a crazy son of a bitch
, Gunner stayed.

He inhaled deeply and he was right back in that place again, disoriented, in pain . . . If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear the chanting.

He wanted to give up, but he wasn’t built like that, even though he was dying. Everything was hazy when he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw were dark eyes, dark hair. He tried to focus on the face to see if he recognized it, reached out to make contact.

He hadn’t realized he had a woman’s arm in a death grip. She was a stranger, and she didn’t struggle, looked unconcerned and somehow concerned for him at the same time.

“Am I dead?” he asked in a raw voice because he really couldn’t tell. He was floating, suspended weightlessly, suspected that if he was alive, he’d be in excruciating pain.

The dark-haired woman blinked. Smiled. “You’re very much alive,
chère
.”

“Stay with me.”

“I will. Even if you don’t know I’m here,” she assured him as his mind clouded and the heavy smoke drifted back over him.

“Are they trying to kill me?”

“They’re healing you. Protecting you,” she murmured. The buzzing sound began again, etching what would turn out to be his first tattoo into his biceps.

“Who left you to die?” she asked when he woke again, even as she laid a cloth across his forehead and chest. The scent soothed him, the sound of her voice more so.

“It was my only way out.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“There are things you’re better off not knowing.” He glanced at his biceps. “You tattooed me?”

“It’s an old custom to ward off evil. It’s a charm. We have to press it with charms to keep the spell working, like we did before it healed. It’s called a gad—a guard. It’s a Voodoo charm that protects against harmful spirits. Some people say you can rub the herbs over the healing tattoo, but the right way calls for it to mingle with your blood. And you, my friend, need all the protection you can get.”

The knife remained poised over his arm. He’d never let anyone with a knife get this close to him, but she mesmerized him. “Go ahead.”

Fascinated, he watched as she used the tip of the blade to cut him so gently he didn’t feel it. He watched the thin line of blood emerge from the ink, watched her graceful fingers press the herbs along the cuts and murmur what sounded like a small prayer of thanks.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“Because you needed help. That’s what we do here.”

“Not in my world.”

“You’re not in that world anymore,” she reminded him.

The reality was, he’d never escaped it. The call he’d been waiting for for over a year came on a Thursday at twelve fifty-three p.m.

He’d packed, told Josie he was going to visit a friend from the Navy who was having a rough time. And for the first time since they’d met, he’d been forced to lie right to her face.

She believed him because he was a damned good liar. The last words he’d ever said to her had been full of lies.

And the job . . . that goddamned job . . .

It should’ve worked out like this one. Perfect. Instead, it backfired terribly and would haunt him forever.

The blood on his hands was her blood. He could feel her in his arms, tried to choke out her name but couldn’t.

Gunner was still holding Josie when Mike and Andy came in. He wouldn’t let go, not until Mike forced him back so he could check on his daughter.

Gunner couldn’t look either of them in the eye.

“She was dead when I got here,” he said, his entire body numb with grief. “There was nothing I could do.”

“She’s been gone for at least twenty-four hours,” Andy said. “Where the hell were you, James?”

“In hell,” he echoed. “I went back to hell.”

And Josie had paid the price.

•   •   •

Six
minutes
. Avery wasn’t sure she was really breathing. She was flushed, sweaty, her hands holding tight to the glass, trying not to slip on the cellophane.

She didn’t know a lot about flowers, beyond the ones Gunner had etched onto her body, a riot of pink and white flowers that trailed along her rib cage, licked her breast. Magnolias were the state flower of Louisiana, although she hadn’t known that at the time she’d lain down on his table and allowed him the intimacy of etching something permanent into her skin.

At the time, they were simply beautiful.

He marked you. Pushed you away but marked you to make sure you couldn’t be with anyone else without being reminded of him. And then . . .

And then this.

“We can’t trust him. He’s been gone too long,” Jem had said, just a week earlier. “He’s not the same man.”

Then again, Avery wasn’t the same woman either.

She desperately tried to picture Gunner doing this, sending her these beautiful, graceful white orchids and planting a bomb at the same time. Orchids died and rebloomed, but she knew it took time and patience. There was a lot of waiting and hoping. The message was sadistic.

Unless Gunner hadn’t been the one to plant the bomb.

“You’re really willing to give him the benefit of the doubt,” she whispered to herself angrily. She swallowed hard. Sweat dripped into her eyes and she blinked it away because she couldn’t do anything else.

But the way he’d touched her the other night . . .

The room was lined with Gunner’s sketches, the first things she’d noticed besides the man himself when she’d first burst in here on Dare’s behalf. She would take it all with her, all the portraits and the photographs, the tattoo guns, any last memories of the man she’d have.

•   •   •

Sudd
enly, strong hands were dragging Gunner off the beach, away from the choking thickness that lodged in his throat. He was shoved into a seat, an oxygen mask placed over his mouth, and told to
fucking breathe.

Drew Landon was standing over him.

My hero,
he mouthed, and Landon shot him the finger.

“I’m not letting you commit suicide.”

“That’s not what I was doing,” Gunner muttered. Landon held up his wrists and showed him where he’d been cutting into his own wrists. The cuts were hard to see because of the tattoos there, and Landon was cleaning and bandaging him, something Gunner thought was possibly the oddest thing ever.

Or maybe this is all a smoke-inhalation-induced dream.

Landon was muttering as he cleaned Gunner up.

Gunner in turn pulled the mask off. “You let me go. Why bring me back? There are plenty of men who can do what I do.”

“You’re wrong. You were the best. I think you still are. Your father might’ve thrown you away, but I never did.”

“Not until I fucked up.”

“You broke a rule, and you paid for it.”

“And then you paid your men to try to beat me to fucking death. So I paid, Landon.”

Landon furrowed his brow, as though he wasn’t sure he wanted to say what he was thinking. But finally, he said, “You can’t play dead forever unless you really are.”

Gunner shook his head and refused to think about that piece of his past. Because going there would bring him over the edge and he was already barely hanging on. He still didn’t know if he believed Landon had anything to do with Josie’s death, but he blamed the man just the same. Landon knew that and shrugged it off as easily as he did everything evil that tried to touch him.

One year, one month and four days was all Gunner had gotten with Josie. He’d disappeared and stayed dead for over ten years, until Avery showed up at his door.

She’d walked in and he’d known she was dangerous from the second she’d kicked the asses of two drug dealers on the street in front of the tattoo shop.

“I’m not playing dead to anyone but the people I want kept out of this.”

“You’ve said your final good-bye to your female friend then?” Landon asked.

She let you go. Didn’t even protest when you got out of bed and left.
And he knew she’d been watching. “What the fuck—you’re having me followed?”

“I don’t need to, James. I know you better than you know yourself. You’ve finally given in.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’re here. I didn’t have to track you down.”

“And you would’ve,” he muttered.

“Because I need you, yes.” Landon shrugged. “You fucked up after I gave you a second chance and then you ran. You thought I’d just let that go?”

“I don’t think for you. I have no fucking idea what makes you do what you do.”

“That’s not true, James, and you know it.”

“I didn’t fuck that mission up,” Gunner said tightly, wondering why he bothered. “I don’t care what you believe, but I would never take a chance like that.”

“Then why run?”

“A lot of fucking reasons. You killed Josie and set me up to take the fall. If her father hadn’t covered for me . . .”

Landon shook his head. “I told you that I had nothing to do with that. Nothing.”

“And you didn’t order the shit beat out of me?”

“No.” Landon sighed, reached out and put a hand on Gunner’s shoulder. “You disappointed me. I got rid of you. When the opportunity for you to redeem yourself came up, I gave you the second chance I knew you wanted. You fucked that up. I promised I’d find you and I keep those promises. Always.”

Landon’s hand lingered on his shoulder, then moved slowly down his biceps. Gunner willed himself to stand there under the touch.

“I
like the new look.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

Landon smiled. “You didn’t miss anything about working for me?”

Landon was better to Gunner than Powell had been. Didn’t hit him. Treated him like an adult. Taught him things.

Lured him in, let him think he was doing things for the greater good.

“I’m not like your father,” was what Landon used to say, and Gunner wanted to believe that so badly that he talked himself into it.

“I never smuggled humans who didn’t want to be smuggled. I don’t play with life like that.”

Gunner knew that—Landon had lost his mother and sister to human traffickers, which fueled his obsession with stopping as many of them as he could. It’s what made believing he was doing the right thing so easy at times for Gunner.

Landon did, however, move people around like chess pieces on his own personal board, and Gunner reminded him of that. “You take out people to further your business.”

“That’s what business is all about,” Landon said. “Stay with me tonight.”

“Landon.”

“Guest room, James. I don’t want anything more from you that you’re not willing to give.”

“Well, that’s a first,” he muttered.

“I don’t want to break you, Gunner,” Landon told him, using that name for the first time ever. “I don’t think anyone ever could.”

He wouldn’t tell Landon that one person could, that maybe she already had.

Gunner pushed himself up from the table. “Call me James,” he said before he walked out of the sliding glass door and back into the smoke.

•   •   •

Three minutes
. Avery desperately tried to remain calm and was failing. Her hands shook and it was getting harder to hold on to the vase. None of this made sense.

Memories flashed in her mind, almost too quickly for her to hang on to any of them—Gunner, holding her while she’d cried. Gunner tattooing her. Gunner, in her bed . . .

She avoided talking about anything that could be construed as asking him to stay. Instead, she asked, “Why tattoos?”

“Tattoos are like a résumé,” he explained. “They’re where you’ve been, where you want to go. In some cultures, they tell everything about you, if you’ve been to prison. If you’ve killed.”

He went quiet then, and she asked, “What do yours say?”

“More than you want to know.”

But she
did
want to know. She thought on those final hours, about how Gunner had remained under her, how he hadn’t struggled or moved. How she’d been the one to finally roll off.

He hadn’t wanted to let her go. And she’d forced his hand, let him slide out of bed and dress and leave as casually as if he’d be back that night for dinner.

Now, two weeks later, she had more regrets than she could stand. And obviously, so did he.

She could believe the flowers were from him. But the bomb . . .

She wouldn’t stand here waiting for death. She was going to grab that bitch by the balls.

She raised her arms above her head, felt her body shift into gear as adrenaline raced. And then she read the note one last time before throwing the flowers into the air and letting go.

A
ve
ry was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. The only thing that kept her from falling apart completely and immediately was the thought of Billie Jean and her text, sent right before the knock on the door from the flower delivery.

Someone’s been here asking questions about you.

She raced out the door of the panic room that led into the garage, took the alley away from the street and headed to find Billie Jean.

She only hoped she was wrong about not being the only target, that she wasn’t too late. The fact that whoever did this to her tried to make her think Gunner did this to her made her angrier.

The door was locked. She banged on it, tried to see inside but it was dark.

“We’re not open.”

She whirled around to find Lenny getting out of his car.

“Please, I think Billie Jean’s in trouble.”

“She’s not supposed to come in until seven,” Lenny told her. She wanted to shake him, almost grabbed the keys from his hands as he jangled them, looking for the right one.

“Please. Someone tried to kill me. I think Billie’s in real trouble.”

She pushed past Lenny into the darkened bar, listened, heard a moan. Weapon drawn, she motioned for Lenny to stay outside as she cleared the room.

A light that escaped from the partially open kitchen door allowed her to see that there was no one in the main dining area.

She looked behind the bar. Nothing.

She peered into the kitchen. Saw the blood on the floor by the industrial stove. She kicked the door open, ready to take anyone out.

The only one there was Billie, lying on her side on the floor.

“Billie, I’m here. Lenny, call the ambulance and police now!” she yelled, and Lenny came rushing in.

“Shit,” he said, grabbed the cordless phone from its holder and began dialing as she opened the door to the alley. It was well lit and empty.

She closed and locked the door behind her and grabbed clean towels. She put some under Billie’s head, used the others to press the wound in her belly.

Billie’s eyes fluttered open and she laughed weakly. “Guess this ring’s not such good luck after all.”

“You’re still breathing, so I’d say it is.” Avery looked around. Where was the goddamned ambulance? “Billie Jean, help’s coming. You stay with me.”

“Trying.” She gave a short laugh. “Funny, but I thought it’d be you who’d do me in when I first met you.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Avery told her.

“You’re not,” Billie rasped, clutched Avery’s wrist. “Avery, something terrible’s going to happen to you.”

“It already did. I got away,” she quickly reassured the woman.

“Avery, there was a guy in here the other night asking about you. He wasn’t Cajun but he lives here. Has for years. I got the feeling he might know Gunner.”

Billie Jean’s mother had been psychic, and although Billie Jean told Avery she didn’t have skills anywhere close, she got strong feelings at times. It was how she’d known Gunner was in love with Avery. It was how she’d known Gunner loved her but wasn’t in love with her. “You concentrate on yourself.”

“Not . . . okay,” Billie persisted.

“You will be,” Avery reassured her.

“Man . . . looking for you.”

“Is he the one who did this?”

“Not sure. He left . . . then someone came up . . . from behind. It was dark.” Billie closed her eyes then, her breathing labored.

The ambulance came ten long minutes later, although the fire and police were already there, helping Billie, talking to Lenny and Avery. By that time, other staff had started to arrive and one of the other waitresses went with Billie in the ambulance.

She’d whispered to Lenny to say she was staff, and no one seemed to question that. Not yet, anyway. She owed Lenny, but he probably thought she just didn’t want trouble. He didn’t realize Avery was somehow the trouble.

Before he wandered off, because the man was in a daze, she asked, “Did anyone come in here over the past couple of days asking about me? Or asking Billie about me?”

He didn’t want to answer, she knew, but he finally wrote something down and handed it to her. “I didn’t see him talking to Billie at all. This was about a week ago he came to me. You didn’t hear shit from me, hear?”

“I hear.” She turned and found herself with a face full of Jem’s chest. He grabbed her, pulled her tight to him and she hugged him back. He kept her face tucked against him and she felt the change in the air as he brought her outside the restaurant, away from the chaos.

And then he pulled her away and asked, “What the hell, Avery? I heard the explosions when I was halfway to the shop. I wanted to surprise you and got the surprise of my goddamned life.” He looked shaken and she knew from experience how hard that was to do. He took her by the shoulders and stared at her. “Are you okay?”

“It’s not my blood. It’s Billie Jean’s—one of Gunner’s ex-wives.”

“And the shop?”

“Gunner sent me flowers.”

“Flowers don’t do that kind of damage.”

“There was a bomb.” If she said more, she’d break down. She pressed her lips together and let Jem lead her away.

Once in the privacy of the truck, she told him what Billie and Lenny told her, about the man asking questions about her.

“So we’re taking a trip into the bayou.” Jem sounded resigned. “First, you need a shower and new clothes.”

She didn’t argue. “If we can get into the panic room—”

“Forget it. Place is still crawling with cops and arson investigators. And the bomb squad.”

“I wonder what the new owner will do,” she murmured, and Jem pulled the truck over.

“New owner? Start from the beginning. Where’s Gunner?”

“He’s gone.”

“When?”

Twenty-four hours ago. “Three weeks ago,” she admitted, because it wasn’t a complete lie. “He left without saying anything. Left me the sale papers.”

Jem gritted his teeth but put the truck back into drive again, not asking any more questions. An hour later, she was showered and changed into a shirt and cargo pants Jem had in his bag.

“Why do these fit me?” she asked.

He looked slightly embarrassed. “I figured, two women on the team . . . I always carry extra gear so . . .”

She hugged him.

“Hey, no crying or hugging on the team,” he protested when she let him go, but he smiled.

“So, did you call Key and tell him any of this?”

“No. I figured you were pretty adamant about us making up our own minds. I’ve already done it. Just tied up some loose ends and was headed back here to look at places to rent.” He paused. “But they’re all going to be pissed if we don’t tell them.”

“I know. But not yet. They wouldn’t get here in time to hunt these guys in the bayou, and I’m not waiting. Plus . . . this might color their decision to come back.”

Jem, out of all of them, was the most open to keeping secrets and working on an alternative program. He would tell her it was because of his CIA training, but she had a feeling that was Jem’s way from the cradle.

“I’ve got weapons.” He paused. “You realize this could be a trap.”

She’d considered that. But the man who attacked Billie might not be the one looking for Avery. There were too many people in play. “You don’t know Gunner’s other ex-wives, do you?”

“No.”

“We have to ask Billie when she’s out of surgery.”

Jem was staring out the window. “Do you remember who the new owner was?”

“I took pictures of the sale papers.” She handed him her phone as he opened his laptop. He typed something on the computer and frowned. “This guy’s clean. And no doubt pissed.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll back out of the deal.”

She paused a beat, then asked, “Jem—how did you know?”

“I’ve been there,” Jem said. “I could see the signs. I stayed close, waiting for you to need me.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s what we do for one another, right?”

She could only nod.

“We’ll get him back, Avery.”

“Does Dare know any of this?”

“I didn’t want to disturb him or Grace. It’s just you and me, kid.”

“Then let’s figure out a way to get Gunner back.”

•   •   •

Soo
n, the jobs would blend until he could barely see straight. When Landon called him back into the house after he’d walked off, he’d braced himself for the inevitable, but he’d gotten the keys to a safe-deposit box where his cash was kept and his keys.

“The guesthouse is yours, James,” Landon said. “Welcome home. You’ve earned it.”

Did Landon have any idea how those words would eat away at him? He was going to say no, but the amount of time he’d be spending in the house would be nil if these last jobs were any indication of that. Easier not to fight. Instead, he took the keys and turned to leave.

“And, James? You’ve got a full plate for the next several weeks. Make sure you get enough sleep.”

Sleep. Yeah, like that would ever happen. He nodded and went on his way, bag slung across his body, and walked across the lawn barefoot, boots in his hand. The grass was sharp here, cut into his feet as he strode, the lights on the guesthouse blazing. Landon had been waiting for him. Gunner had no doubt he’d find a fully stocked kitchen and a hot meal in the oven.

He’d done the same for Gunner when he was sixteen and had no fucking clue what was going on.

He put a hand up to wave to one of the guards who was walking toward him, but the guy moved fast, put a hand out to stop him as he crossed the property. Another came up from the side and he tried to remember if either of these men was one of those who’d had a hand in beating him.

As much as Landon denied it, there was no denying he’d almost died the night he’d left this property all those years before.

“Where’re you going?” the man in front of him said.

“My fucking room.” He held up the key. “Check it with Landon.”

“Oh, we will. Don’t much like disloyalty here.”

Gunner tried to step around him, but the asshole moved and blocked him. Gunner went left; so did Asshole. The second guy scoffed and Gunner noticed a couple of the other guards had come out of the woodwork.

“Hear you’re some kind of hotshot,” the asshole said. “Hear you’re, like, some kind of expert.”

“And I hear that you’re going to get your ass kicked through the side of this building if you don’t move it out of my way,” Gunner told him calmly, as though he were reading a weather report. The anger that built inside him had had zero outlet, not until this moment. The guy in front of him had no idea what he was in for, and for his own sake, Gunner prayed he’d reconsider his decision to poke the lion with the stick and simply move.

But he didn’t. Gunner cut his eyes right and saw that Landon had come out of the house, his shirt half on. He strolled across the lawn, crossed his arms and waited.

He wanted to watch this shit. Should’ve known. Landon loved these little grudge matches between his men. Good for morale. Kept the good ones from getting too cocky, showed the others what they had to learn.

Gunner was tired of tests. He dropped his bag, yanked his shirt over his head and threw it onto the ground.

The asshole grinned and did the same and Gunner remained still while the guy circled him, until he tried to go behind him. Gunner turned with him, still calm, keeping his face expressionless.

“Who’s putting money on this one?” Landon called.

Bills were thrown into two piles as the men who’d gathered to watch widened their circle to give the men more room.

“Hasn’t been a good fight here in at least a year,” one of the men said. “Not until you kicked that last jack-off’s head in.”

The man across from him smiled. Gunner bet he’d had a minimum of time in the service, just enough to think he was some kind of badass. And when he lunged for Gunner, Gunner was ready. Grabbed the guy in a headlock and slammed him to the ground, then landed on him, his weight causing the breath to whoosh from the guy’s body.

He didn’t remember specifics. He knew he beat the shit out of the guy, not caring that he wasn’t supposed to fight. Because nothing was illegal on Landon’s property, in his world. Nothing fucking mattered and Gunner punched the man who’d tipped him over the edge.

He snapped back to it when he heard yelling and clapping. This was a bloodthirsty sport, the men like caged animals barely let out to play. Landon had everyone so tightly wound that any downtime brought out the worst in them.

Gunner had fought like this when he was sixteen, the first week he’d been on the island. Two of Landon’s men had cornered him and Gunner fucking shredded them. He might not have been the size he was now, but he’d never been a lightweight.

A born fighter, Landon had called him. He’d raised Gunner’s hand over his head that night, the winner and champion of that particular fight.

Two nights later, four men jumped him. They’d gotten the same exact treatment. It had taken a month of men trying to kill him before they’d given up.

Now he blinked at the man on the ground in front of him. He saw the guy’s chest rise and fall, and although Gunner had worked him over, he hadn’t done any irreparable damage.

There’s still a part of you that’s always in control.

He grabbed his bag and his shirt and strolled across the grass.

“You forgot your winnings, James,” Landon called.

“Keep it,” he said without turning around.

In the privacy of the guesthouse—and it was private because he’d checked for cameras and bugs because Landon knew he didn’t handle that shit well—he stripped down and showered, washed the dirt and grass and blood off him. His injuries were minimal, but he couldn’t afford to look hurt. Not in front of this crew, which was meaner and rowdier than any Landon had ever employed.

He’d need an ally when he spent time on the property. Or maybe Landon would keep him so busy he wouldn’t be on the property again.

He stared at himself in the mirror for a few minutes, ran his hand through his wet hair. Then he plugged in the electric clippers, slid it through his hair and said good-bye to Gunner. Watched the blond hair fall all around him until his head was bald. The dark hair would grow in fast, but for now, this suited him. He hadn’t seen the tattoos along his scalp in years. Tribal designs floated across the left side of his skull. There was an eagle on the right that wrapped around the back. He’d wear a skullcap until his hair grew in and covered them again.