Unbreakable s8-2

by Stephanie Tyler

  She also knew that when Gunner looked at her, he didn’t see any scars at all. This was all for her. “Make it beautiful,” she told him.

  “Can’t improve on perfection,” he teased, and she giggled. Giggled. It had been so long since she felt free.

  There were still more tests coming at them—she knew that there might be problems from what they’d done to Landon—problems from whatever they decided to do in the future as S8. But they’d handle them together. “I love you, Gunner.”

  She’d said it to him so many times in the past month. Loved saying it as much as she loved him.

  “Love you, chère.” He traced a finger over her skin. “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  She’d seen him do something similar to cover scars. The first night she’d met him, he’d been tattooing over the breasts of a mastectomy patient, making her look and feel beautiful. And now he was going to make his mark on her, turn something horrible into something beautiful.

  He was so good at that.

  The buzz of the needle was like a drug to her. She let herself drift in and out, confident that Gunner would keep all his promises.

  He didn’t finish it all that night, but he covered the large one on her upper torso and he repaired the very first tattoo he’d given her in painstaking detail.

  “You can’t even tell anything happened,” she said. “But it did. And you made it okay.”

  “I’m always going to make it okay,” he told her fiercely. “Always.”

  She believed him.

  Epilogue

  All she could remember was Danny. He helped her. Saved her from her family and now the handsome, dark-haired man was refusing to let her see him.

  He looked so grim when he told her for what had to be the hundredth time, “That’s right, Drea—I won’t let you be with Danny.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe one day, you’ll know the answer to that.”

  He’d told her the real answer, a few times, that she was broken up with Danny, that she was a doctor. That Danny had hurt her. That she’d run from him. That she’d asked Jem for help and now he was helping her.

  Sometimes she felt as if she was going crazy. After two weeks, she still couldn’t remember anything he’d told her. He’d even gone so far as to show her a picture of herself on the FBI’s database.

  A wanted woman. Because of Danny.

  So although she might believe it somewhere deep inside, because she knew that Danny was the head of a motorcycle club that sold drugs and could believe he’d get her in trouble, she remembered how bad it had been at home. How much better it had been with Danny.

  You’re a doctor.

  You’re strong as hell.

  You’ll remember everything soon.

  Jem told her that. A doctor did too.

  “So basically, I’m in hiding from the FBI?” she asked. They were in a rental house, he’d told her earlier, and it was cozy and furnished and very comfortable, but she was going stir-crazy staying inside. There was only so much TV she could watch, and she’d read so much her eyes were strained.

  Nothing could take her mind off the fact that she had no memory and that she was a fugitive, supposed to give testimony against a man she thought she loved. A man who had used her.

  “Yes. And I’m not turning you over to them. Not when you’re like this. Not ever.” He’d paused. “We can talk about it when you get your memory back.”

  “Okay.”

  He looked troubled. “Drea, look, I’ve got to go away for a little while, for work. And I’ve asked a friend of mine if you can stay with her. She’s cool. I know you’ll like her.”

  As he spoke, the doorbell rang. He went to grab it and when he came back, he was with a woman who wore a black pantsuit, her white hair swept back into an elegant chignon, and she had a serious look on her face. She made Drea feel completely underdressed and intimidated in her tank top and she tried to shrink into herself, wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Drea, this is Carolina,” Jem said. “I was just telling Drea that you’re going to make sure she’s okay.”

  “I will,” Carolina said in her cool, dulcet tones. Her voice was calming and Drea felt better hearing it. “I’ll keep everything under control.”

  “What if I never remember?” Drea blurted out suddenly, and Jem and Carolina turned to look at her. God, she hated feeling so out of control and lost, but she had a feeling she’d been like that for a lot of her life.

  Carolina gave her a small smile. “I’ll tell you what I always used to tell Jeremiah. We’ll deal with everything when and as it comes, not before.”

  “Okay. Yes. I can do that,” Drea told them both, and for once, she truly believed it.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book is never a solitary process, so I have the usual suspects to thank.

  For Danielle Perez, my fantastically patient and most enthusiastic editor. For Kara Welsh and Claire Zion for the overall support, for the art department who always comes through with one cover that’s more amazing than the next and for everyone at New American Library who helps with all aspects of my books.

  For my readers and writer friends who keep me going with their support.

  And always, to my family, because I could never to this without them.

  Don’t miss the first novel in the Section 8 series,

  SURRENDER

  Now available from Signet Eclipse.

  Prologue

  Zaire, twenty years earlier

  The explosion threw him forward hard, the heat searing his body, debris cutting into his back as he covered his face and stayed down. Darius didn’t need to look back to know what had happened—the bridge had exploded. Simon had purposely cut off their last means of escape. It would force their hands, Darius’s especially.

  “Darius, you all right?” Simon shook him, yanked him to his feet and held him upright. His ears would continue to ring for months.

  “How much ammo do you have?” he called over the din. Couldn’t see the rebels yet, but he knew they were coming toward them through the jungle.

  “Stop wasting time. You go.” Simon jerked his head toward the LZ and the waiting chopper about thirty feet away, crammed full of important rescued American officials and the like. Already precariously over capacity. “Go now and I’ll hold them off.”

  Simon had always had a sense of bravado and a temper no one wanted to deal with, but one against twenty-plus? Those odds were not in the man’s favor. Darius shook his head hard, and it was already spinning from the explosion.

  “You are no fucking help to me,” Simon told him. “I can’t watch your back this time, Darius.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Leave. Me. Here.”

  “If I do that, I’ll come back to just a body.”

  “You’re never coming back here.” Simon’s teeth were bared, ready for battle—with the rebels, with Darius, if necessary.

  “If we both fight, we’ve got a better shot,” Darius told him.

  “You would tell me to leave if things were reversed, Master Chief, sir.”

  Simon stood straight and tall, hand to his forehead, and Darius growled, “Don’t you dare salute me, son.” Their old routine. Simon managed a small smile, one that was as rare as peace in this part of the world.

  “Don’t take this from me, Darius. Let me save your goddamned life. You have your son to think about—I won’t take you away from Dare.”

  Dare was in middle school—his mother had already left them both, and pain shot through Darius at the thought of leaving his son without a parent.

  Simon knew he had him, pressed on. “The team will always need you, and me—well, you can always find someone who can fight.”

  “Not like you.”

  “No, not like me,” he echoed. “You go and you don’t ever return.”

  Darius didn’t say anything, and for a long moment they were silent, listening to the rustling that was still a couple of miles away. The bl
ood was running down his side, and if he stayed in this wet jungle much longer with a wound like that . . .

  “There’s one spot left for a ride home.” Simon told him what he already knew. “That seat is yours.”

  “I’m half-dead already.”

  “You think I’m not?” Simon asked, and Darius flashed back to a younger version of the operative in front of him, walking along a dusty road two miles from Leavenworth.

  Darius had gone from being a Navy SEAL, fresh from capture in an underground cell where he’d been held for twenty-two days, to a medical discharge, to a phone call inviting him to join a very different kind of team. The CIA was creating a group—Section 8. For operatives like him. They’d have a handler and all the resources they’d need. Their only rule: Complete the mission. The how, when and where were up to them.

  He was maybe the sanest of the group, and that was saying something. Simon always had the look of a predator, occasionally replaced by a childlike wonder, usually when Adele was around. If you looked at the team members’ old files, you’d see everything from disobeying orders to failing psych exams to setting fires.

  But if you knew S8, you’d see the mastermind. The wetwork expert. The demolitions expert, the one who could handle escape and extractions with ease. They could lie and steal and hack. They could find any kind of transport, anytime, anywhere, anyhow, that could get them the hell out of Dodge.

  In the beginning, they’d been nothing more than angry wild animals, circling, furious with one another and their circumstances. But once the trust grew, it was never broken.

  Separately, they were good. Together, they were great.

  And now, three years later, two S8 operatives stood near the wreckage of a bridge in Zaire and they were both about to die.

  “If you could save fifteen people . . . or just one . . . ,” Simon prodded.

  “Don’t you pull that trolley problem shit on me—I’ve been to more shrinks than you and I’m not leaving you behind like this,” Darius said, his voice slightly vicious. But they both knew he’d relent. He’d done everything Simon had asked of him, and this was for the good of the rest of the team.

  “They’ll never recover without you,” Simon told him. “You’re the goddamned heart of the team.”

  “And you’re my best goddamned friend,” Darius growled. Simon’s expression softened, just for a second.

  “Just remember the promise,” Simon warned.

  We don’t try to find out who’s behind S8. No matter what.

  Neither Darius nor Simon believed what happened today was a screwup their handler could’ve known about. But their promise referenced him specifically. They knew they’d been brought together by the CIA, but their handler picked the jobs, gave them orders and anything else they needed. Once they started distrusting him, it was all over.

  “I’ll remember,” Darius told him now.

  “Good. Go.” This time, Simon’s words were punctuated with a push. Darius barely caught himself, and when he turned, Simon was already running in the direction of the rebels, the crazy fucker confusing them with his contrary tactics. Because who the hell ran toward the bad guys?

  Darius made his choice—he was a liability, so he made his way to the helo, pulled himself on board and shoved himself into the pilot’s seat. Within minutes, the steel bird was grinding gears, rising above the heavy cover of jungle. As the chopper blades cut the air smoothly with their whoompa-whoompa-tink, Darius turned the helo and stared down at the man who’d left himself behind as Darius took the rescued civilians—aid workers, a diplomatic attaché and other Americans who’d been working in the area—away. He’d never take credit for the glory on this one, though. Simon could’ve sat in this pilot seat as easily as Darius did.

  There was a chance Simon could fight them off. There was always a chance. And as he watched for that brief moment, he hoped beyond hope that Simon could win, fight his way out of the mass of humanity that was trying to kill him simply because he was American.

  One last glance afforded Darius the view he didn’t want—the mob surrounding Simon. It was like watching his friend—his teammate—sink into a manhole as they swarmed over him.

  Section 8 had ended at that moment, at least for him. He’d later learn that their handler had agreed, and the group of seven men and one woman who’d been thrown together to work black ops missions around the globe with no supervision and very few, if any, rules, had been officially disbanded, the surviving members given large sums of money to buy their silence and thank them for their service.

  He would have to explain to the team why he’d left Simon behind, although they’d know. They’d get it. They all prepared for that eventuality every single time they went out. It was part of the thrill.

  There was no thrill now as he watched his best friend die. And he didn’t turn away, stared at the spot until he couldn’t see anything anymore, and knew he’d never get that image out of his mind.

  Chapter One

  Twenty years later

  Dare O’Rourke believed in ghosts because they visited him regularly.

  He woke, covered in sweat, shaking, and immediately glanced at the clock. He’d slept for fifteen minutes straight before the nightmare. A record.

  The screams—both those in the dream and those that tore from his own throat whenever he allowed himself the luxury of sleep—would stay with him as long as he lived, wrapping around his soul and squeezing until he wished he’d died that terrible night.

  A part of him had, but what was left wasn’t a phoenix rising from the ashes. No, Dare was broken bones and not of sound mind. Might never be again, according to the Navy docs, who said the trauma Dare had faced was too severe, that he wasn’t fit for duty. He had no doubt those doctors were right, wasn’t sure what kind of man he’d be if he had been able to go the business-as-usual route.

  He’d never be the same.

  The CIA felt differently. You’ll survive. You’ll recover. You’re needed.

  And even though he knew the world needed rough men like him, no matter how fiercely the government would deny his existence if it came down to brass tacks, he told them all to fuck off and went to live in the woods. He was no longer a SEAL, the thing that had defined him, the job he’d loved for ten years.

  Dare had prayed for many things that night in the jungle, including death, but none had been answered. And so he’d stopped praying and holed up alone and just tried to sleep through the night.

  Three hundred sixty-three days and counting and not an unbroken sleep among them.

  Three hundred sixty-four was a couple of hours away, the day giving way to the dusk, and the car coming up the private road couldn’t mean anything but trouble.

  Three hundred sixty-three days and no visitors. He saw people only when he went into the small town monthly for supplies. Beyond that, he remained on his property. It was quiet. He could think, whether he wanted to or not.

  As for healing . . . that would all be in the eye of the beholder.

  He rolled out of bed, flexed the ache from his hands before pulling on jeans and a flannel shirt he left unbuttoned. Barefoot, he went out to greet his guest.

  He met the car with his weapon drawn, put it away when the car got close enough for him to see the driver.

  Adele. A member of the original Section 8—a black ops group of seven men and one woman recruited from various military branches and the CIA. All loose cannons, none of them taking command well. All of them the best at what they did. A real-life A-Team, except the reality wasn’t anything like it was portrayed on television.

  Dare’s father—Darius—had been a member, was MIA and presumed KIA on a mission last year. At least that’s what Adele had told Dare.

  All Dare knew was that S8 had officially disbanded when he was thirteen, and for years, its members worked black ops missions on their own steam. Until they’d gotten a call—that call—the remaining six members and one last job. Back into the jungle they’d sworn not to go back into. A
mistake to go, Darius told him. We’re too old. But they were still strong, with plenty of experience. And they went anyway.

  Four men never returned. Adele and Darius did, but they were never the same. Refused to talk about it and went off on more unreachable missions until they’d both disappeared more than a year ago.

  Dare had wanted to assume that the secrets of the group were all dead and buried with them.

  Fucking assumptions would get him every time. He knew better. His father and Adele had come back from the dead more than once.

  Adele took her time getting out of the car. She was stately looking, at one time considered more handsome than pretty, with short hair and kind blue eyes, a thin frame that belied her strength. It was hard to believe she was as deadly as the men she’d worked with.

  “I have a job for you,” she said when she reached the porch he refused to leave. No preamble, all business. The only thing contradicting her deadliness was the frail frame she now carried.

  She was sick—he could see it in her pale coloring, the darkness shading the skin under her eyes. His heart went out to her; she’d been the closest thing to a mother he’d ever had, even though she’d been far more like a mother wolf than a nurturer.

  But it had been enough. “I can’t.”

  “You’re not broken, Dare.” Adele sounded so damned sure, but why he wanted her reassurance, he had no idea.

  He jerked his gaze to her and saw her own quiet pain that she carried, kept so close to the vest all these years. “It was all a setup.”

  Adele neither confirmed nor denied, but the truth of his own words haunted him.

  It was a setup . . . and you were supposed to die.

  A Ranger had received a dishonorable discharge for rescuing him against a direct order. Dare would never forget the soldier’s face, and he doubted the soldier would ever stop seeing his.

  Two men, bound by pain.

  He closed his eyes briefly, thought about the way he’d been found, nearly hanging from his arms, up on a platform so he could watch the entire scene being played out in front of him.