Surrender (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-fou
r

D
are was playing g
ames—like father, like son—but Rip would be damned if that mattered. His plans were moving along in the right direction, despite his missing man. Now, as Rip went over the encrypted e-mail his men had sent, he knew it was nearly time to tighten the noose he’d placed around all of them—Grace and Dare and Avery. He almost regretted having to include the brothers, Key and Jem, but they were too involved, too risky.

He didn’t know how the man with the tattoo parlor played into all of this, but he was confident he would soon. In the end, he always got his way.

He wasn’t going to be brought down by the group he’d created.

Rip had been given the chance of a lifetime when he got the offer to create an elite team made up of the craziest men and women the military ever had the pleasure of court-martialing.

They had the training—they’d had money spent on them—and they had the drive, the ambition, just didn’t have the outlet any longer. He cultivated them from a pool of thousands, picked them because of their opposition to authority.

“You really want this?” his supervisor had asked. “Because you could be blowing your entire career on a bunch of fucked-up misfits.”

Rip was a fucked-up misfit himself—he just hadn’t let the CIA in on that entirely. “Yes, sir.”

He’d taken the sealed envelope and left the office, and he’d never looked back.

Left in an orphanage in Belgrade, he’d been liberated by some goddamned American hippies and brought here at age ten. He’d spent the first few years hoarding food and trying desperately to lose that pathetic accent.

After three foster homes, they’d given up, mainly because he’d learned to fight and never let go of what was his, be it food or hand-me-down clothing or even something as simple as a school notebook. He’d had everything taken from him, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen ever again.

He’d done institutional living until he’d left at age fifteen. By then, he’d come to the conclusion that he’d never let anyone be in the position to control him.

By then, he’d decided he was going to rule his own empire, and it was going to be big and dangerous.

At first, he lived on the streets in New York, and later, Miami, running drugs and guns and getting addicted to the latter rather than the former. He liked the power behind the guns, liked knowing different and even better ways to kill his opponents.

At nineteen, when he’d acquired just enough street knowledge to be truly dangerous, he embraced the legitimacy of the Navy. Because he’d need that legitimacy to carry out his plans.

Behind every great fortune lay a great crime. His was still being committed daily.

Rip could’ve contented himself with simply being the best goddamned CIA spook he could be. Started out that way, trying to leave behind the stench of poverty and anger that had followed him from Belgrade.

He’d tried to be grateful. Humble.

Neither was part of his genetic makeup, though, and he’d stopped faulting himself for it a long time ago. Instead, he double-crossed the CIA, his friends—anyone and anything to make himself better at what he did. Studying the human condition became a second full-time job; it fucking fascinated him.

Because of it, he ended up heading one of the greatest secret teams of all time.

Teams of elite former soldiers were nothing new. Rip had made sure his team rose above by purposely picking men no one wanted and letting them work their magic.

After the Zaire mission, Section 8 had been officially disbanded. Although he knew they continued doing black ops on their own, by that point he was too far into his own assignments to worry. The lure of money and power strong-armed him.

And when he needed a team he trusted to work a personal mission for him, he called S8 together one last time. When that mission went wrong, Rip cut off all contact with them, but it didn’t matter. Darius had discovered through mutual contacts at the CIA that it had been a personal mission for Rip . . . and he’d discovered Rip’s identity as S8’s handler.

Rip had had that mutual contact killed, but the damage had already been done.

Darius knew that S8 members had been killed doing Rip’s personal business. And then Darius had taken Grace right out from under his nose.

Create a team that scares the hell out of you, and you know you’re doing it right.

His pride and joy. His ego. His baby.

He’d created his own worst enemy, and they were the only ones worthy enough to be his adversaries. He smiled when he thought about the leverage in his basement and the intel that had been tortured out of him. Breaking a man you’d taught never to break was equal parts satisfying and heartbreaking.

It was only a matter of time before Grace was back on the island safely, and this time, he knew she’d never leave. She’d spit the name at
him. Rip.

Rip.
He rolled the name on his tongue out loud, but it never sounded right when he said it. That didn’t stop him.

Grace had been the first one to call him Rip—she’d refused to call him Dad or Richard . . . and somehow she’d known that he’d see Rip as an insult, even though they were his initials.

But then he’d decided to embrace the nickname from her.

The fact that she was truly psychic was almost more of a hindrance to him than a help, although Esme always insisted that Grace was the best thing to happen to them. But when Grace had given false intel that could’ve cost him his life, he’d taken Esme away. Grace had been twelve then. For the next few years, she’d given him intel, and he’d made sure to check and double check, never relying solely on it.

When she was seventeen and she’d tried to kill him a second time, he’d known it was time to break her.

He also hadn’t known if that was truly possible. Grace fascinated him in the way unbreakable people always had. He considered himself unbreakable, and the fact that Grace had never truly surrendered, no matter how much he tortured her, astounded him.

Her gift had been the first casualty when he’d attempted to break her—but not her spirit. Now, with the intel she’d learned from S8, she
could
take him down, gift or no gift. He had no choice but to kill her this time.

If at first you don’t succeed . . .

“Try, try again. I’m coming for you, Gracie,” he whispered quietly into the silence of his office. “And this time, there’s no escape.”

Chapter Twenty
-five

I
t was just be
fore first light when Gunner finished bringing the four of them through the bayou in the nearly silent Kodiak. Dare waited on the porch and watched them walk up toward the house, Key the last one in line.

The man had done that purposely. He waited until Avery, Gunner and the one Dare guessed to be Key’s brother filed past him without a word.

Only then did Dare step down from the porch to meet Key where he’d stopped.

Key probably thought Dare wouldn’t remember him, but Dare would never forget his face. That night in the jungle, it had been etched in an anguish that equaled Dare’s, and Key’s eyes still had a look of haunted pain that would never fade.

On that mission, Key had made the mistake of forging ahead against a direct order to save the single surviving member of not only the SEAL team but the entire village. Months later, Dare had been told that Key was still sitting in the brig. A year later, he’d been officially court-martialed and dishonorably discharged.

He’d lost everything because of Dare. Because of Dare’s connections. Another person S8 and Powell had nearly ruined.

Rescuing Key from the trial and its aftermath would’ve put him right back in the line of fire. He’d hoped Key would do exactly what he did—disappear. S8’s handler was no doubt still looking for him, or maybe he wasn’t. Since Key had dropped it, didn’t bring up what he knew about Dare and his background, he’d hoped that maybe Key was off the hook.

Dare hadn’t wanted any more deaths on his hands. The guy was safer out of the service with a dishonorable discharge following him. It meant that he’d have to seek work outside the usual avenues, which kept him off the grid and, more than likely, using an alias.

It had meant that he’d first spend all his free time hunting Dare down like a dog.

Now Key was looking at him like he was seeing a ghost, reliving everything, the way Dare had in his earlier nightmare. And then he lunged, and Dare didn’t bother fighting, let the soldier give him a solid punch and then tackle him to the ground.

Would he eventually let go of Dare’s neck? Dare wasn’t entirely sure.

“I gave you one shot. Next time, I fight back,” Dare croaked.

“You can’t think we’re even.” And yet Key eased up on his throat and, with a curse, stepped away from Dare.

Dare brushed himself off and motioned for Key to follow him.

He didn’t. Avery came out and told them, “No fighting in the house.”

“I’m not going in there,” Key spat.

Dare turned to stare at him. “Your life’s in danger because you saved me. You have to know I’m telling you the truth.”

“I don’t know anything anymore,” Key told him.

“Come in and find out. You can’t fucking believe I’d screw you over for saving my life.”

“You didn’t show at the trial.”

“It was better for you that I didn’t.”
Fuck.
He looked at Key. “I’m sorry. I was in hell.”

“So was I.”

“I want to help you get out.” He turned and found himself chest to chest with Jem. “You shouldn’t get involved.

“You think I’m not involved already?” Jem snorted. “Now I want to know what we’re up against.”

He stepped aside to let Dare pass and then motioned for Key. Once they were all inside, Dare closed the door and put on the perimeter alarms and the cameras.

“Paranoid bastard,” Jem said, but he nodded approvingly.

Grace was sleeping in the other room. Dare had explained whom he was meeting with, and she’d agreed it would go better if she wasn’t present.

“I trust you,” she told him.

Now they all sat around the scarred table Dare remembered his father making years ago. The whole house had memories. Land mines were everywhere; he wasn’t sure how far back to begin.

Luckily, Key started by asking, “Did you know I was in danger at the trial?”

“I suspected.”

“So you left me a sitting duck?”

“Coming close to you could’ve made it worse,” Dare countered.

“And telling them that I disobeyed your order as well as my commanders really made things better,” Key said, his voice steady, his eyes dark with anger.

Dare didn’t know what else to say except, “I really thought it would.”

Jem held up a hand. “Let’s stop with the bullshit. Tell me what you know for sure about this saving-Key’s-life crap, because I’m not buying it.”

Dare eyed him. “CIA?”

“Former.”

This could go so very badly. “You’ve heard of Section 8.”

“That was a goddamned myth,” Jem scoffed. Dare remained silent. “You’re saying you—”

“I’m a legacy.”

Jem stood and backed away, muttering under his breath. “This is bad, Key,” he said.

“No shit,” Key shot back, never taking his eyes off Dare.

“No, I mean, go underground for the rest of your life and don’t come out.” Jem lit a cigarette and remained standing. “We are fucked.”

“You shouldn’t have disobeyed that order,” Dare told Key.

“You sorry I saved you?”

“Sometimes,” Dare said. “I’m sure you feel the same.”

Key muttered something under his breath and Gunner handed him a beer. He declined and asked for coffee instead. Jem sat back down and Dare told them, “My father discovered that Richard Powell was the handler in charge of S8. And he’s trying to take out anyone with even a remote involvement with the original group. He’s got men no more than ten miles away in each direction, and he’s coming for us. There’s a bounty on our heads—and no way to lift it.”

Once Dare had laid it out for them, they remained silent for a while. Dare made the coffee Key had asked for; Avery played with her mug and tried to read the room.

There was no way out of this for any of them.

“So I’m supposed to die because I kept you alive,” Key said slowly.

“Sadly, that’s not the most fucked-up thing I’ve heard,” Jem told them. “We’re in this up to our necks, brother.”

“Are you here just to state the obvious?” Key demanded.

“That’s what family’s for,” Jem quipped. He lit another cigarette and winked at Avery, who realized she was a little bit in love with him because he was a general pain in the ass. “From what little I know, Section 8 turned out to be a fantastic cover for all Powell’s side deals. Because the CIA was the prime spot for a double agent to work and thrive during S8’s heyday. Now, with Homeland Security and ICE, things are tightening up. He’d never get away with that shit if he was starting out today. He went from handler to double agent and spy extraordinaire.”

“So why can’t we contact the CIA about this shit?” Key asked.

“Ah, my poor, naive brother,” Jem started.

“Don’t make me punch you,” Key muttered, and Jem continued, “Look, the CIA lost control of him years ago and didn’t seem to care, mainly because he made them a lot of deals, saved them money and, in the end, was too damned good at dealing with assets and double agents for them to let him go. Turned a blind eye and Powell took full advantage of it. He went from top-level CIA to international financier with top generals and other assorted politicians and alphabet agency higher-ups in his pocket. He makes them money; they keep him out of jail.”

“Because he doesn’t do his own dirty work.”

“Not true—he does a lot of it. He likes to keep his hands dirty and his skills up,” Jem said. “Can’t blame him.”

“Yeah, let’s all give him a round of applause for never asking someone to do what he won’t do himself,” Dare said.

Jem ignored him. “He doesn’t need technology—he needs people. And he gets them to do whatever he needs them to in terms of turning a blind eye or working for him. He convinces them that it’s in their best interest, and his funds make it very worth their while.”

“And you never ran across him?”

“He was high level when I went in. Retired before I got to top level—just heard the rumors surrounding the legend. People typically either loved or hated him, most a mix of both. One thing for sure—he’s not someone you want to try going up against alone, unless you have a death wish. And even I’m not that crazy.” Jem sighed. “And now Rip’s after Dare and Avery because you’re kids of an original S8 member. Rip’s after Key because he saved your sorry ass, and now Rip doesn’t know if Key was hired by you or another S8 connection. So Key’s effectively dead and I’m on the chopping block because I’m related to Key and CIA and probably because Rip knows I know of him. And Gunner?”

“No other reason than I let Avery walk inside my shop,” Gunner said. “Nice recap, Jem. Makes me want to put that bullet in my head now instead of after a last meal.”

Key stared at Dare now. “You’re right—we have no choice but to work together.”

“We’re being hunted,” Avery said quietly, and Key nodded in her direction.

“But if you have Powell’s kid, that should solve all our problems,” Jem said.

“You’d think,” Dare said. “We’re not using her.”

“Makes sense—there’s nothing to keep him from killing us once Powell gets her back,” Key pointed out.

“She’s leverage,” Jem argued. “And I think I get a goddamned say in this.”

* * *

Avery knew thi
s would be the point of contention. Jem wasn’t wholly wrong, but he didn’t know what Grace had been through. She knew only the small amount Dare had shared before she’d left the house the last time, and it made her sick to her stomach.

Now she hoped to be the voice of reason.

“Grace started as leverage, but she’s become more than that,” Avery told them.

Dare continued: “I think she’s an innocent, and that she can help us. More than that—she needs our help.”

Jem stared at Dare. “You slept with her, didn’t you?”

When Dare didn’t answer, Jem continued. “I’ll handle her from this point on.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” In the blink of an eye, Dare was on Jem. They were evenly matched, so it could be a fight to the death.

“Stop them,” Avery urged Key.

“Not my fight,” he said mildly. She noted that Gunner remained strangely silent, taking it all in.

Avery thought about throwing water on them as though they were dogs, but in the end she left them to their fight and watched them intently, thinking of another time and place.

There was too much violence they needed to face. If they were already turning on one another, what hope did they have?

“Jem was gonna blow sooner or later,” Key said.

“Dare too,” she admitted. Gunner sighed and muttered something about being a lover, not a fighter, to which Key said, “I guess that’s why you lost our fight last night.”

“That, my friend, was a draw. We were too close to my tattoo equipment.”

Key rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”

How they could stand there in the middle of this—the fighting, the death threats—and yet still somehow be light . . . “Do you think this is what the original Section 8 was like?” she asked them.

“It’s not exactly how it started,” Gunner said as he pulled Avery to the side as Jem and Dare slammed through the kitchen door out into the living room.

“From what Dare said, the operatives liked S8. It gave them an outlet,” she said.

“They were . . . different. Doesn’t mean they didn’t have consciences. But their skills, their inability to follow traditional rules made them perfect for this opportunity.”

“They had to follow some guidelines,” Key said.

“They were told who to kill. That was the only rule in their playbook—kill the mark. How, when, where—that was all left to their creativity, and believe me, they got creative.” Gunner shook his head. “We don’t have to keep talking about this.”

“I need to know. Want to, have to. Darius is a part of me. It might explain . . . me.”

Gunner gave her a wry grin. “You think you can inherit that special brand of crazy?”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Key said quietly. “Sounds like S8 was the CIA’s version of
if you can’t kill it, hire it
.”

She had to agree. “Look, according to Dare, Powell had no reason to go after S8. As their handler, he knew they did their jobs well. After the last mission went to hell, they were officially retired, with benefits and full immunity. There were never any leaks.”

“So what happened to make Powell go after them?” Key asked.

Gunner shrugged. “When he went after S8, S8 turned right around and went after him. But I’ll bet that when taking Grace became Darius’s first priority, he signed his own death warrant.”

She’d heard Dare’s stories, absorbed them, turned them over in her mind, trying to think about what that must’ve been like to be a part of the original S8. There was George and Mad Dog Martin. But the king and queen of his team were Darius and Adele.

Adele had gone to war in a support position, as females did in the late seventies and early eighties, but she insisted on training along with the men. She continued to push for combat, and when she couldn’t get it, she contented herself by blowing the enemy up as often and effectively as possible, albeit without any order, direct or otherwise.

They had new rules, a different set of standards, no boundaries to be seen and an oath to keep one another safe, no matter the cost to the mission. They knew how to lie and cheat and steal, deal with live ammo and find transport anywhere they were.

They kept people safe.

They functioned as a group, not alone.

“Dare’s worked with a team. And you have too,” she said to Key, who nodded, then pointed to Jem and said, “Obviously does not play well with others.”

Jem and Dare had separated and were circling each other but somehow still managing to listen. “Ah, bite me. Gunner doesn’t either.”

“No, Gunner never has,” Dare agreed before he lunged at Jem.

“Gunner is right in the fucking room, and I’m here with all of you, right? Fucking numbnuts.” He continued muttering under his breath, during which time Avery learned several new creative combinations of curse words and committed them to memory for future reference.

She looked at Gunner and Key. Turned to watch Dare and Jem fighting. Thought about Grace, trying to take it all in. Of all of them, Grace was most used to this, had the closest connection to the original, maybe even closer than Dare, in some respects.