Unbreakable_A Section 8 Novel

by Stephanie Tyler

  She was safe. She’d survived. She’d made it through.

  She’d let the need for revenge carry her the rest of the way through, would let it burn through her body like a fire that would stop the pain.

  “She needs a hospital,” Gunner said quietly at one point. “I can stitch her, but I don’t have all the supplies with me.”

  “No. Too many questions,” she murmured.

  “I’ll figure this out,” Jem told them. “Plane had to take back off—air traffic control reported him.”

  The car sped up measurably and Gunner’s arms tightened around her. She didn’t know how long they drove, but at one point they’d stopped and Gunner was putting an IV in, applying pressure bandages where he saw blood and she was fighting him, telling him no. “I don’t want you to see this,” she told him, hated the hurt on his face. He didn’t understand. She couldn’t hurt him more.

  And then they were back in the car, driving more. “Keep talking to me, baby. Just keep talking and everything will be okay.” He’d repeat that over and over until he believed it himself.

  “Tell me . . .” she started.

  “What, chère?” Gunner prompted. “Tell you what?”

  She needed something to focus on, something beyond the terrible, horrible tragedy that was now filling the truck, making these men too close to anger and panic. She needed to bring them back.

  If you find the strength, your men will pull it from you. Find it. In your darkest of times, it will get all of you through. She swore she could hear Adele’s voice telling her that, even though she’d never met the woman.

  “How did you two first meet?” she asked, her voice slightly slurred. “Or is that classified, supersecret spy information?”

  “You’re kidding, right? You want to know that now?” Jem asked over his shoulder.

  “Road, Jem—watch the road,” Gunner told him. Looked at her. “Really?”

  “Would help me. Please.”

  Gunner’s jaw tightened, as though he didn’t think he should be telling stories at a time like this. But that’s exactly why she needed him to do it.

  “It was my first year with the teams,” he started. “We were in Beirut on a recon mission when we got the call about a hostage situation in the British embassy.”

  “I still don’t know why the hell they called you guys in,” Jem interrupted, and Gunner stared at the back of Jem’s head, the familiar I will kill you expression on his face.

  She would’ve laughed, but it would hurt too much. The truck’s steady rhythm and Gunner’s voice soothed her in a way not much else would’ve at the moment.

  Get them to treat you normally, no matter how abnormal the situation. Reassuring them reassures you.

  “Our objective was recon during the day, and then we were supposed to go in, grab the hostage, take out the gunman, all while the hostage negotiator with the CIA was distracting him,” Gunner continued. “It was a good plan.”

  “It was a shitty plan and you know that now,” Jem corrected.

  “It was meant to minimize bloodshed and unrest,” Gunner shot back.

  “It was already too late for that shit.”

  Gunner stared at the back of Jem’s head, then muttered to her, “He’s right. The gunman garnered all sorts of unwanted attention—purposely—from the media and the locals. By the time my team got there, it was a barely controlled mass hysteria in the streets. The local police were close to losing total control of the situation. They’d called in soldiers to help, but that seemed to make things worse. The gunman was already agitated and unstable, and he started to lose it when the soldiers rolled up the street.”

  “In a goddamned tank. Tell her that,” Jem prompted.

  “You just did,” Gunner pointed out. “The gunman—his name was Kassim—”

  “I thought it was Amir.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’m the one who got shot, so yeah.”

  “Jem got shot?” she asked.

  “Just a little bit, honey,” he told her.

  “Anyway, Kassim shot out the window, yelled to us that he was taking the first one out,” Gunner said. “The hostage negotiators weren’t there yet—”

  “Probably having lunch discussing the psychology of the hostage or some shit like that. Hostage negotiators are never there when you need them.”

  “That’s the first true thing he’s said so far,” Gunner said.

  “Who’s crazy now?” Jem added.

  “You still are.” Gunner looked at her. She was smiling a little. “So anyway, all of a sudden, I hear some guy yelling, ‘Fuck this shit.’ And this crazy-eyed person steps through the crowd. Cuts through it like butter, Avery. I’ve never seen anything like it. Or maybe they were just backing away from the crazy.”

  Jem snorted at that.

  “So this one guy—another agent, I think—says, ‘Sir, we’re waiting for the negotiator. Please don’t make the situation worse.’ And so Jem turns to him and says, ‘I’m the negotiator,’ and he keeps walking. He’s beyond the police lines at this point and everyone just goes quiet watching him walk into the building. Even the gunman’s looking out the window, and he’s kind of stunned at the death wish Jem had going on.”

  “Again, the second true thing Gunner’s said all night,” Jem added.

  “And so he’s inside and the gunman’s all freaked out, starts firing at him immediately, but he’s wired and so his shots are going all over the place. And Jem’s just walking toward him, weapon drawn, not firing. Just walking straight at him. And finally, he gets right up on the guy. Right in his face. And he just takes the gun from him. Tells the people to get the hell out of the building.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “How did you know what happened inside the building?”

  Jem started laughing, that crazy laugh she’d come to know so well. “Tell her, Gun. Tell her how you followed me inside the building.”

  “Even then, I knew someone had to watch your back.”

  “I had it under control.”

  “What happened to the gunman?” she asked.

  “Jem waited until everyone got out safely. Then he shot the guy dead and told everyone he’d done them a favor by saving them the cost of an execution. I visited him in jail,” Gunner said wryly.

  “I was only detained, not arrested,” Jem told her. “Ridiculous red tape.”

  “He tried to get into the hostage negotiating team right after that. Used that as proof he’d do a good job,” Gunner said with a roll of his eyes. “I told you—twenty pounds of crazy stuffed in a five-pound bag.”

  “But he’s our crazy,” she said with a smile.

  “Yeah, he is,” Gunner confirmed. “Crazy and I will get you through this.”

  “Crazy just found the perfect motel.”

  Under the cover of night, Gunner carried her into one of the adjoining motel rooms and put her on one of the beds. She was holding the blanket tight, shivering uncontrollably. Her body was wet with blood, although the cuts had stopped bleeding considerably, thanks to the pressure bandages.

  “Come on, chère. Gotta let me help,” Gunner urged.

  “She doesn’t want you to see this, man,” Jem told Gunner.

  “I don’t have a choice. I need to help her.”

  “Get her comfortable and give me half an hour.”

  “What are you going to do, find a doctor?”

  Jem pointed and for the first time, Gunner noted they were across the street from a clinic with an ER. “Gotta be someone in there who’ll help and keep their mouth shut.”

  “Jem—” Gunner started, but the man was already out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Gunner focused on Avery, who was trying to make sure the blankets were covering her. Keeping her calm and from going into shock were two things he could do. Uncover
ing her now would make things worse, although he wished to hell he’d brought his medic bag. Being helpless never sat well with him, but this . . .

  “I’m . . . okay,” she managed to say.

  “You’re comforting me?” he asked. “You never cease to surprise me, Avery.”

  “I promise I’ll be okay. You’re what got me through.”

  I’m the one who got you into this, he wanted to tell her. Instead, he said, “I was with you, every step of the way. You’re so fucking strong.”

  “For you,” she murmured.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The twenty-four-hour clinic had seen better days. Jem eyed the staff, assessing them quickly, and focused in seconds on the female doctor who was talking to a young woman in the waiting room.

  Her hair was in a messy bun, a pencil stuck through it. She was touching the woman, who looked like a prostitute, kneeling in front of her. Reassuring her.

  She’d be perfect. Especially because it didn’t take her long to get up and walk away from the main part of the clinic. He slid past the waiting area where there was too much chaos and not enough security for anyone to notice him and followed her into the back room.

  He would recruit Dr. Drea Timmons as urgently and persuasively as possible.

  When she whirled around to face him, she looked more angry than terrified that he’d followed her in here and blocked the only exit. The locker room was small and crowded, with a cot in the corner.

  This had happened to her before, and he was suddenly oddly protective of someone he was attempting to kidnap.

  She didn’t say anything, didn’t try to scream. Simply went to punch him in the jaw, landing a semisuccessful and damned good right cross, but he subdued her in seconds. At that point, she looked suitably impressed and fearful. And then irritated when he drew his weapon.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he started, and she snorted. “I have a friend in need of medical attention. You come with me and I’ll make sure you’re more than suitably compensated.”

  Her amber eyes searched his. Beautiful eyes, like a wary lioness. Her hair was long and blonde and wavy, although it was now tucked into a loose ponytail, sans pencil. She’d only managed to take her white coat off before he’d come in, and she wore a plain black T-shirt and blue scrub pants.

  “I don’t want money from you,” she said evenly.

  “Either way, sweetheart, you’re coming with me.” He pointed to the phone. “Excuse yourself from work.”

  “I’m off the clock now,” she told him. “No one’s going to miss me.”

  He wanted to tell her that was something she should never, ever say to someone, but who was he to lecture people about doing stupid things? “Come on. I will pay you.”

  He released her, a show of good faith.

  “I don’t want your money. Donate to the clinic,” she said as she grabbed her bag, stuffed it with supplies like IVs and the like.

  “You’ll need stitch kits. Several of them.”

  “Blood?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Bullets?”

  “No. Knife. And a rape kit,” he said quietly. The anger dissipated for a brief moment.

  “Are you criminals?” she asked.

  “No. We’re the good guys,” he told her. Couldn’t tell if she believed him or not, but he hoped she would walk out with him, not alert anyone that she was leaving under duress.

  As if to reiterate that point, she turned to him, pointed at his chest and hissed, “This is my choice. Just remember that. Put that goddamned gun away.”

  He did.

  “Please. My friend, she’s really hurt.” He locked the door and she went to her locker, but not before he showed her that he’d taken her phone and her beeper.

  She took her bag out of her locker, along with a black medical bag like the one he’d seen Gunner haul around.

  “Is this what you consider something good guys do?” she asked quietly.

  He thought about that carefully. “Yeah, it is. Because sometimes being good requires you to do some of the most fucked-up things you’ve ever seen.”

  Drea stared at him, blinked. It was like some kind of debate settling itself behind her eyes. “At least you’re honest.”

  “Some of the time. At least about that. Come on now.” He led her toward the door. “Do the people who work here know you well?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you talk about your personal life?”

  “No. Never.”

  She was telling the truth. “Well, you’re about to walk out holding hands with your boyfriend, so we can move past security.”

  He put his hand out and she took it. Glanced up at him for a long second before they passed the security guard, who opened the door for him.

  “Night, Dr. Timmons.”

  “Good night, Ray,” she called, caught Jem’s eye and smiled. He held her hand as they crossed the street. He pointed at the diner and they swerved in that direction until he was sure the guard was distracted by other patients entering the clinic.

  Then they moved behind the diner to the motel. She stiffened for a second outside the door, until he whispered, “Avery really needs your help badly. Please.”

  He held his breath because he really didn’t want her to do this under the duress of a loaded gun.

  “Let’s go, then,” she said, her voice sure.

  He opened the door. Gunner stood, not letting go of Avery’s hand.

  “This is Dr. Timmons. She’s agreed to help.”

  “Drea,” she said. “You can call me Drea.” She moved to the bathroom to wash her hands, kept the door open.

  Gunner raised his brows.

  “What? She came of her own accord,” Jem said.

  “I’ll believe that . . . never.”

  “Whatever. Avery getting help’s what counts, right, G?”

  “You have to stop calling me that,” Gunner muttered.

  “I’m going to need some help,” Drea said.

  “Not him.” Avery pointed to Gunner. “Please. Just . . . if you can do this yourself . . .”

  Her voice was a plea. Jem watched Gunner nearly crumple. He took his friend in hand, forced him to sit watch by the window in the second room so he was far enough away. He bolted the door, boarded the window behind the curtain so it wasn’t visible to anyone from the outside. He rigged it so it was alarmed and handed the small camera to Gunner. He also rigged a makeshift curtain between the bed and the rest of the room, where he could still see Drea and Avery, but there would be some semblance of privacy.

  He caught Drea’s eye as he did so. She nodded her approval and gloved up. “If I need you, I’ll let you know,” she said quietly. Calmly. Then she turned back to Avery, her competence shining through. “Avery, I’m going to help you and you’re going to be fine.”

  Jem knew he wasn’t the only one in the room who believed that.

  Chapter Seventeen

  While the doctor named Drea was washing up, Avery resumed her stare at the ceiling. She’d been doing that while Gunner was running her IV, grateful that the ceiling wasn’t reflecting back at her. The stark whiteness was a relief, as was the fact that Gunner hadn’t pushed her to look under the pressure bandages.

  He’d seen enough, though. Seen the ugly gashes in her skin. Seen the cuts through her beautiful tattoo. All of those marks hurt her more than anything.

  Gunner thought he’d heard everything, but he hadn’t.

  She closed her eyes and tried to remember the exact coordinates on the paper Landon had held up in front of her. Her mind had been swimming, a combination of the drugs and blood loss and fear making her unable to focus for any length of time, especially on tiny numbers that seemed to swim on the page every time she’d tried to focus.

  And Landon had laughed. Since he
had complete control of the audio, he’d lowered his voice, turned away from the speaker and mouthed, All the information is here, Avery. Come on, don’t you want to help these people, the way James had been doing?

  She’d cursed at him, viciously. Her hands had been able to make full fists by that point, but the assault had been too far under way.

  He’d held the paper closer. Whispered, “These are exact coordinates of the boat that leaves late tonight. Your drugs will have worn off by then. If you survive this, you’d be in time to help them. Then again, if you’d left James alone to do his job, this wouldn’t be your problem.”

  Landon’s words echoed in her ear now. Because of you, there are women and children who are suffering.

  And while she knew it was complete bullshit that it was her fault, the fact that she’d had tangible evidence of a cargo ship containing unwilling, kidnapped people that was too late to stop because she couldn’t read the information chilled her.

  It could’ve been a lie, but she’d seen the container invoice. The stamp with the approval number as it left Mexico. He’d pointed to the date—read it out loud to her. Taunted her with the arrival time. That cargo ship could’ve been docking anywhere in the world, and it would’ve been coming in right about now.

  She’d considered telling Gunner this part of it. It was important, but since there was nothing any of them could do about it, because he and Jem felt guilty enough for something they had no control over already, she decided she was best served living with that guilt all by herself.

  Stopping human trafficking was the one thing that made working for Landon bearable for Gunner. The fact that Landon would throw that in his face proved to her how depraved he was.

  Drea was watching her. Avery tried to school her expression and figured she’d failed miserably when the young doctor put a hand over hers and said, “It’s okay if you cry or yell or curse. Sometimes it’s better.”

  She wanted to, but she glanced past the curtain, could see the open door, although not Gunner or Jem.

  In response, Drea turned the clock radio on, low enough to be able to have a conversation, but loud enough that Gunner and Jem couldn’t hear.