Surrender (8 page)

C
hapter Thirteen

Y
ou could live in these bayous for years and still not know there were houses hidden in secret pockets. Darius’s was one such place; the small bridge that connected it to the road could easily be missed or hidden. Darius had made sure of it every time he barricaded himself in.

Dare had done the same after he’d driven across the bridge tonight.

By boat, the house was impossible to find unless you had exact coordinates. If Powell ever found the place, it would be because Darius had given him the coordinates. Dare could never see that happening.

Now, as he headed to Marnie’s house, he made a mental note to find out more about Grace Powell. That was no headache she’d had. Her eyes were open, so she hadn’t fainted, and she seemed like she was in pain. He dismissed seizure—he’d seen enough of them in the field to know—and wondered if it was a panic attack.

He needed to get to the bottom of all of this, but somehow this kidnapping had turned into a protective detail. He supposed he was closer to S8’s mission statement than he’d originally thought.

Beside him, Grace was clutching the dashboard, willing him to go faster despite what she’d said earlier about Marnie already being dead, and he was already pushing it along these slick and narrow back roads. He was chilled to think of the risks she’d take if she was driving herself.

On a calm night, Marnie’s place was fifteen minutes away. With the storms continuing to blow through the area, which still sustained a lot of hurricane damage, it would take double that, if not longer. He had to bypass a lot of side roads, and many they did drive through were partially underwater.

“Sit back, Grace. Put the seatbelt on,” he told her. She glanced at him, and when he returned the look, he noted the surprise on her face. She did as he asked.

Her reaction when he’d mentioned her mother had been interesting. Sadness coupled with anger, which made sense when you considered Esme’s rap sheet. It had been easy enough to find—public record—and from there he’d found a lot of her aliases and other information. And then nothing—from the time she’d married Powell until her death when Grace was twelve.

Raised by a grifter and a psychopath. Saved by assassins and now working to help battered women. What the hell was he doing with her?

Steel yourself up, Dare—got to prove you’ve got the balls for the job,
Darius always said.
Gotta be a cold motherfucker.

Was Darius? Dare supposed so—or else he was a hell of a good actor.

“Your father used to play the guitar all the time,” she said suddenly.

He realized he’d been playing with the pick around his neck as they waited for another truck to cross the road in front of them. “Yeah. Said he wanted to be a country music star but settled for the Army instead.”

“He was good. You’re better.”

At those words, he swallowed hard. Tucked the necklace into his shirt and continued driving. “It might not be too late, Grace.”

“For Marnie?”

“For you.”

He felt her stare at him for a long moment, and then the radio clicked on. Low, but the sound was enough to overshadow the blustering winds.

He could still taste her. Feel her body against his. If she hadn’t stopped, he wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to. Maybe he’d just gone too long without. Or maybe Grace was purposely pushing his buttons.

He was so damned angry—at S8, at his father, at Powell and, by extension, at Grace, because he couldn’t tell whose side she was on. Because he couldn’t blame her for being on her own side.

Because she was trying to seduce him and she was winning.

“Pull over here,” she instructed. “Marnie doesn’t want anyone closer than this by car.”

He did as she asked, but not for the reason she’d stated. His biggest concern was that whoever had come after Marnie was still around, and he wanted the element of surprise. Of course, he’d rather do it without Grace, but she’d never stay put.

He cut the engine—had already cut the lights a while back, using night vision he’d practiced and instincts he’d never had to in order to guide him toward the house. Now he waited, a hand on her shoulder to keep her still while he stared out into the darkness, watching, waiting for any movement.

He had the firepower and he would keep Grace close to him, in case this was a trap. But judging by the screams they’d heard over the phone, Marnie wasn’t acting. There had been real fear—real pain—and he had a feeling they were about to intrude on a crime scene of some sort.

Grace seemed to know it too, almost seemed to steel herself.

He saw nothing. “Let’s go. Stay close and behind me. If I tell you to get down, get down.”

“I will.”

She waited in her seat until he came to get her. He shut the doors quietly, clicking them closed but not all the way shut. The rain came down harder as they slogged through the mud. He’d put her in a pair of wellies before they’d left so she’d be protected against snakes—they’d be numerous in this weather, washing up from the bayou and swimming wherever they could.

Darius had made him learn about all the snakes out here, poisonous and non. How to handle snakebites. How to kill the snakes before they killed you.

It was a lesson he’d learned all too well.

* * *

D
are held his gun in one hand and her with the other. Grace slipped several times as they threaded through the long grasses that lined the area around Marnie’s. She wasn’t worrying about snakes or anything else, but thankfully, Dare was. The boots he’d made her put on were an old pair of Adele’s, and they were slightly big but kept her feet dry and safe.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she sidled up to the porch, the grasses rustling against her jean-clad legs. Her throat was nearly closed with terror.

Something was very wrong. Marnie should’ve known she was here. By the time anyone got this close to the house, Marnie would be standing in the front yard with either a shotgun or a glass of lemonade, depending on the visitor.

Sometimes she had both, just in case.

The porch light was on, which meant nothing since Grace knew it was on a timer. There was another auto-timed lamp in the front room and one in the back, so no matter which way a woman looking for help approached the house, she’d get the comfort of light.

It wasn’t surprising that many of the survivors they’d met were scared of the dark. Grace willed herself not to be, but she knew Marnie rarely, if ever, turned off lights. Marnie also never slept more than an hour at any given time, and Grace always suspected it was more because of what had happened to Marnie than the job.

She wanted to explain all this to Dare, to tell him this was very bad, but nothing would come out even if she tried. Instead, she knocked on the door, a loud rap . . . and the door swung wide open.

“No.” That sin
gle word leaked out, and Dare was in front of her, headed inside first even as she clung to his back.

Lights blazed inside, and there was no sound or movement. She heard Dare bite back a curse, and then he said, “Don’t look, Grace. Let me get you back to the truck.”

“I can’t. I have to see.” She let go of him and moved to stand next to him.

Her throat went dry and she mouthed the word
no
a few times, her tongue hitting the roof of her mouth by rote.

There was so much blood, all of it pooled around Marnie’s head. Marnie, lying on her back in the middle of the living room, the pale yellow rug surrounding her. There was evidence of a fight, but Marnie had been expecting someone. There were no signs of a break-in.

Marnie had let her guard down and the attacker in. How could that have happened?

Grace wanted to sink to the ground, to hold Marnie’s face between her palms, to pick her up and bring her away from this violence, but she knew not to touch anything or to leave footprints.

If she hadn’t known, Dare would be there, as he was, holding her shoulders. “Turn away.”

“She suffered.”

He didn’t try to lie. “But she’s at peace now.”

“She didn’t deserve this. She was so good, and I can’t help but think it’s my fault. Anyone who gets close to me dies.”

He had no answer for that beyond, “It’s not you—it’s your circumstances.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he agreed before he physically turned her around toward him and away from Marnie’s body.

It had been forever since she’d hugged anyone. Neither she nor Marnie had been particularly affectionate, thanks to their backgrounds. And hugging a man for pure comfort? Never.

But instincts—needs—were strong things; they refused to be denied. Her cheek found his chest and her arms went tentatively around his waist. His body was as tight as a strung bow at first, but he put his arms around her, one on the small of her back, the other resting gently on the back of her head, each one caressing just a touch.

She didn’t think they should stay there long, but he didn’t rush her or pull away. She mumbled, “We should go, but I can’t leave her like this,” with her face still against his shirt, eyes closed as if that would somehow make the entire scene behind her disappear.

She felt bruised, like she’d taken an internal beating that would never heal.

Marnie. She’d been Grace’s second chance, her phase two, and now she was gone. The guilt that she hadn’t gotten here in time was ever present, holding her like a weighted chain wrapped around her ankles. “I can’t leave her like this.”

“We’ll call the police,” he promised. “Does she have any family?”

In a small voice, she said, “No. She’s alone, like me.”

There was a long pause, and then, “I’ll send someone to claim the body and give her a burial.”

She wanted to ask him why he was doing all this for her and decided that sometimes it was better not to question, but rather just to accept.

* * *

Marn
ie’s death didn’t look like it had been done by a pro, but that was what nagged him. It was almost too staged, too imperfect. If Marcus or someone like him had gotten to Marnie, it would’ve been messier.

And if Marnie had been killed by a pro, Dare would have to think it might be connected to Grace. Because even if she was telling the truth about having no contact with him, there was no telling if Powell knew where she was.

Which meant Dare might very well be a moving target in a place where he’d thought he was well hidden.

“Were you supposed to be at Marnie’s tonight? Working?” he asked. Grace looked up at him as though she was seeing him for the first time. Which meant she was in shock.

But she managed to answer. “No. We never planned things like that.”

He thought about Marnie’s call—had she been forced to make it?

Someone had to have been lying in wait for her. Maybe they hadn’t made their move because he’d come here with her, given away his hand. And that had already been reported back to Powell. He was sure of it.

That didn’t mean everything else had to go according to plan.

Grace was kneeling near the body now, although she didn’t seem to be looking at Marnie, but rather at some point across the room. He’d take advantage of her grief-driven shock to investigate a little now, because he didn’t want to scare her even more.

“I’m going to make a call,” he said, and Grace nodded although he doubted she actually heard anything he’d said.

He checked the rest of the small house and found nothing out of place. He’d noted the set of boot prints leading up to and around the house as he and Grace had approached—but he hadn’t seen them leading away from the porch. Which meant Marnie’s killer had gone out the back.

Which meant he was still here.

This was definitely a one-person job—killing Marnie, taking Grace—a well-trained operative could do that in his sleep.

“Wait here,” he murmured, but she wasn’t even listening, was now staring at Marnie’s body, and he figured that was the lesser of two evils.

She’d have nightmares either way.

He kept talking to her, his voice low, as he moved along the edges of the room. They’d been spotted for sure. He needed to ensure that whoever had spotted them didn’t live to talk about it.

He slid out the front door soundlessly, edged around to the back porch and saw a man in all black looking through the window at Grace. Dare caught the glint of a knife, and then the guy looked up, realizing that Dare was no longer in the room.

He seemed to hedge between running and fighting, but Dare didn’t, lunged for him. They slammed off the porch into the tall grass nearly silently. The guy got him with the knife, but it was a nick along his biceps. Dare pressed against the man’s throat with his arm; he had both the bulk and the anger on his side.

“Who sent you?” he hissed.

“Fuck you,” the man told him. It didn’t matter. Dare knew this had nothing to do with Marnie’s work. It had all been a setup, and there wasn’t time to waste before getting Grace back to the safety of the house.

He knocked the man out using the pressure point in his neck, carried him down to the bayou and used the man’s knife against him over the water, pushing it cleanly through the carotid. He slid the dead man into the bayou, where the gators and the bayou itself would take care of everything, including the bones. He climbed into the small motorboat, let the engine drop off into the water as well, got out and pushed the boat out to float into the bayou, where someone would find it and claim it as theirs.

And then he double-timed it back to Grace. He grabbed a towel from the kitchen, shoved it between his arm and the jacket to stop the bleeding and found her in the same position.

“Grace, come on. Time to go.” He didn’t wait for her answer. She was beyond comforting. Instead, he picked her up and carried her out to the truck.

Chapt
er Fourteen

A
very
couldn’t sleep, had wandered out to the balcony to stare at the bar when a knock on the door made her start. Gunner called through, then came in before Avery gave the okay.

She came off the balcony to meet him, but he was on her in seconds, pinning her outside with his body.

“Do you think I didn’t know you’d left?” he asked gruffly.

“I didn’t know I needed a bodyguard.”

“You do, sweetheart. You really damned do.” His words were clipped and even. “And you still owe me a sit-down in my chair.”

“I don’t welch on my promises.”

“Good to know.” He was almost out the door before she asked, “How did you know I’d left?”

He crooked a finger at her, and she followed him down the hall to a room that housed a wallful of monitors for security cams. She glanced over several of them—the downstairs, the outside steps, none of her room, thankfully.

And several in the bar she’d been in. “You spied on me.”

“You stole a wallet.”

“Does the bar know you do this?”

“Since I pay the mortgage, I’m allowed to,” he informed her.

“Anything else I should know about you?”

“How much time you got,
chère
?” he drawled. “Although I think you prefer the pretty boys.”

“I’d count you among those.”

He gave a short laugh. “Oh, I haven’t been one of those in a long time. If that’s what you’re looking for—”

“I was looking to blow off some steam. I should’ve told you. But I need to be able to take care of myself.”

“Most people who are able to take care of themselves do so with help—that’s the paradox of helping yourself. It can’t be done—not for long, anyway.” Gunner frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I’ll help you, the way I’m sure Dare did—or would—but you’ve gotta stay close. Especially with these two around.”

“What two?” she asked.

He rewound the recording from the bar and showed her Key . . . and then a dark-haired guy snapping a cell phone picture of her as she left.

“Friends of yours?” she asked.

“I don’t have friends.”

Had he seen the kiss? If he’d been watching her the whole time, he’d seen everything. She dug into the pocket of the jeans she’d worn earlier and pulled out the wallet and went through it.

His name was Key Brossard. His driver’s license gave his residence as North Carolina, his address near the Army base. She found an old military ID tucked into a side pocket. Army. Motor pool.

But the card was expired. No recent one. Some cash, one credit card, no pictures or condoms.

She wasn’t even sure why she’d taken it, but she no longer ignored any instinct. It might prove too costly.

“Don’t worry about getting that back to him—they’ll come to you,” Gunner said.

She frowned and closed the wallet. “As long as they don’t bring the police.”

“They won’t.” Gunner checked over the other security monitors, and she looked over his shoulder to see the restaurant several doors down, past the end of the parking garage.

“You own that too?”

“Yes.”

It appeared he owned basically the whole block, which included the parking garage. “I guess tattooing pays well.”

He snorted and looked over his shoulder at her. “You’re cute. Glad I decided to let you stay.”

“Sarcasm?”

“The truth.” He spun in the chair and pointed to a matching one. She sat in it cross-legged as a burst of cheers from the bar floated up through the window. “Nice to hear this town in the partying spirit again.”

“What makes this place so magical?”

“Ah, the age-old question. You know what I say? Don’t question it. It doesn’t make sense and it never will—and that’s the beauty of it.”

“When did you start tattooing?”

“I gave myself my first one when I was sixteen.” He lifted his jeans and pointed to a skull and crossbones on his calf. It was faded, definitely not as professional as the others, but that was its charm. “Tattoos are like a road map of where you’ve been, where you’re going. I like to think of them as a résumé. You know, in certain countries, you can tell a man’s entire past just by reading his tattoos.”

“That would come in handy if everyone followed that rule,” she commented.

“Or it would get you in a hell of a lot of trouble.”

“Right.” She wrapped her arms around her bare legs and rested her chin on her knees. “Speaking of troubles . . . any way to get rid of my charges?”

“I’m no magician, but I can put your name toward the bottom of the pile, so to speak. Or I would’ve, if there was any trace of the men you killed or you as a suspect.”

“What do you mean? Last time Dare checked—”

“This time I checked. You’re officially a free woman.”

“That’s why it was okay for me to go to the restaurant. That’s why you didn’t stop me from going to the bar.”

“Partially,” he agreed.

“What does that mean?”

“The cops aren’t the ones you need to worry about. Someone was interested in having you erased, so they could take care of erasing you the way they wanted to.”

She went cold again, and her thoughts went to Richard Powell. Dare had told her not to bring his name up to Gunner, but he did have enough power to keep her crimes hidden so he could mete out his own form of punishment. She wondered if she should bother Dare with this and decided against it. He had too much on his mind already, and most of it centered around her safety.

* * *

The picture wa
s clear enough, taken from the back room of the bar, where Jem had left the poker game for a moment to check on his little brother.

Key was having no trouble getting his game on with her, until she pulled away and left.

Jem’s picture caught the reluctant look on her face. She looked completely different from when she’d entered Gunner’s earlier that evening—and that was definitely a purposeful move. No one stayed with Gunner for fun. There was always danger or money involved. But the fact that she was here with Key was just dumb luck. Key hadn’t seen any of his surveillance from earlier, would have no idea who she was.

“Little girl lost, what’s your deal?” he asked softly.

He ran it through the facial recognition software on his phone until it pulled up an online picture . . . for a wanted poster. A single one—the rest of her was all too conveniently erased. But the problem with the goddamned Internet meant you couldn’t erase every last trail . . . and sometimes, that was a lucky break for him. “Ah, Key, come on—when you step in it, you really goddamn step in it.”

Granted, Jem was one to talk since he was a hunted, wanted man himself, but he knew how to hide. He also knew that the CIA and his various other acquired enemies would never take him down without losing many of their men—and eventually, they’d give up.

Keeping Key safe might prove more difficult. He was more of the smash-and-grab type—the Rangers utilized some secrecy but preferred big guns.

They’d arrived hours earlier, after Jem finally got some intel on Dare linking him to the New Orleans area. Dare had lived near them growing up, which ate at Key more than he’d admit. Jem always said there were no coincidences, that they were moved around the chessboard for reasons unknown. But fuck it all, he never said he liked it.

The woman named Avery had undone his brother with a kiss. A couple of touches. Jem wondered if it was the first time since Key’s whole ordeal that his brother had tried to lose himself like that.

That would’ve been the first thing Jem would’ve sought comfort in, but Key had always had better control, never allowed himself to live in fairy-tale land the way Jem did. Key had fought that crazy gene with everything he had, and Jem sometimes wondered why. Maybe Key should’ve just let it out, given it free reign.

How much had it hurt Jem, really? It seemed like their careers were neck and neck for shit at the moment, and Jem seemed to be having a lot more fun.

“I’ve taken way too much of your money,” he told the men now, checked out of the game before they’d never let him play again. There was a delicate balance to these things, and he never overstayed his welcome.

He went back out to the bar, where Key was ignoring girls trying desperately to get his attention.

“The dark-haired one—she was cute.”

He accepted the beer Jem handed him, gulped it as though it might help. “She was all right.”

“You run her off?”

“Yeah, that’s what happened.” Key’s drawl got deeper when he drank, or maybe it was just the proximity to their childhood. Jem knew it was throwing him, although it was hard to tell when he was off balance.

“She’s a murderer,” he told his brother casually.

“You’re back here a couple of days and you’re a tarot card reader?”

Jem held up his cell. “Better. Facial recognition software.”

“Ah, fuck.”

“Hey, you dodged a bullet. Finally. Maybe your luck’s turning around.”

“Which would make that the strongest occurrence to happen to me in this state forever.” Key held up his beer bottle for an invisible toast and then felt his jeans’ pocket. “My wallet’s gone.”

“The murderer’s also a damned good thief,” Jem commented. “And nothing good happens when you drink, Key.”

“That’s never stopped you.”

“I said nothing good happens when
you
drink. When I drink, it’s all good.” He paused. “We can get it back—she’s staying at Gunner’s.”

“The tat place?”

Jem cut his eyes to him. “That tat place . . . yeah.”

“Can we f
orget the girl?”

“No, we can’t. Because the girl shows up out of nowhere and stays with Gunner.”

“So?”

“Gunner and I go back a long way. I’ll check it out.”

“I don’t want to know any goddamn more,” Key told him, but Jem was now like a dog with a bone. He had no CIA job and he had to stay busy or go even crazier. “Maybe I shouldn’t have broken you out of that place.”

“Ah, Key, I would’ve done it anyway. Just wanted to give you something to do.”

“Gee, thanks.” Key shoved him, and Jem, in turn, decided to leave him there to drink his troubles away.

“Headed home—take a cab.”

“Thanks for watching out for me,” Key called, the sarcasm evident even through his slurred words.

Jem walked the five blocks in the heat back to the apartment they’d rented a week ago. The air-conditioning was blasting, and Jem stripped down and showered the smoke and bar smell off him before settling at the computer with a glass of sweet tea.

Key rarely drank—Jem knew this was a temporary situation so he didn’t have to relive the trial or the reason for it. But lately, if Key hadn’t had enough bourbon, he’d brood about it, turning events over and over in his mind until he finally fell asleep.

“Disobeying a direct order,” Jem muttered as he looked through Key’s classified file for the millionth time, the way he’d done from the time the incident first occurred. Key hadn’t called him, but Jem had contacts who’d immediately let him know what had happened.

Hadn’t mattered that the reason for disobeying a direct order had been saving one of the military’s own. The jury’s mind had been made up, despite the impressive array of men who took the stand in Key’s defense. The array of medals, awards and exemplary service records were all shot to shit because Dare O’Rourke refused to come forward and say that he’d needed to be saved.

The bastard had been hanging, for Christ sakes, according to Key. Unable to move. Exhausted. And there had been maybe three feet between him and certain death by burning alive.

Jem paged through the transcripts.

JAG prosecutor: “Did he struggle?”

Key: “He was unconscious.”

JAG prosecutor: “Not according to mission records. Not according to the man himself.”

Dare’s statement, put into evidence by his lawyers, simply said that he hadn’t needed help and that he’d told Key to stand down.

Key had been found guilty on all charges. Barely escaped the brig, and that was because Jem pulled every goddamn string he knew of and a few more he didn’t.

He’d never tell Key that—it didn’t matter. He owed his baby brother for the rest of the boy’s life, and he’d pay until the bank was empty.