Unbreakable_A Section 8 Novel Page 6

  “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.

  Chapter Six

  Avery 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.”

  • • •

  Soon, 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 gra
ss.

  “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.

  Instead of being cathartic, the haircut instead reminded him of the first night he’d met Avery, when he’d helped to disguise her. At the time, he hadn’t known his father was the one who’d tried to kill her. No one had wanted to mention Powell, because they knew he’d know him. But they’d never suspected the biological connection.

  Avery’s blonde hair had immediately reminded him of Josie, and he told himself that’s all it was—the hair. But when he’d helped her cut and dye it, the attraction hadn’t gone with it. He’d wanted her more. And there wasn’t really any resemblance between the women, except in their take-no-shit-from-him attitudes.

  After watching her kiss Key at the bar, he’d broken two of his favorite tattoo guns and promised that when she walked back in, he was going to fucking kiss her silly. By the time she’d come back into his place, he’d calmed considerably and convinced himself it was the worst idea ever.

  It still was.

  He walked out of the bathroom and caught sight of the envelope on the bed. Fucker let himself in here and did that, a job that involved killing people left like a mint on his pillow, just because he could.