Vipers Run

by Stephanie Tyler

  “Eli, don’t you dare go with him!” I called, but it was too late. Eli was at the door of the van and the gun was no longer pointed in my direction.

  “He’s the president of the founding Heathen chapter,” Rocco told me, holding my shoulder like he was worried I’d try to run and grab Eli.

  The president looked at Eli, then at Rocco. “Tell Cage to call me. The kid’ll be fine until then.”

  * * *

  Of course, it couldn’t be over as easily as cutting his father and oldest brother out of his life forever. Eli was still at risk, because even though the feds and ATF were all over that particular Heathens chapter, there were still others to answer to, including the main chapter. The original.

  Cage took Tals with him to the bank where the box was being kept. They took it to a different bank, used a different code to lock it up tight.

  “That takes care of Calla’s involvement at least,” Cage said.

  “You’re not that naive,” Tals told him. And no, Cage wasn’t. But they all knew that having anyone they loved in their lives made them vulnerable.

  He was willing to take that chance, if she was.

  “What? Rocco, slow the fuck down,” Tals was saying into his phone. Then he paled. “Okay. Got it.”

  He hung up and said, “Cory’s got Eli. Took him and said you need to call him.”

  Two hours later, we sat in front of Cory, the president of the original Heathens chapter, who told Cage, “You sold out your family. And Eli’s still a probie, which means he’s still Heathen property and you’re no longer a Heathen.”

  “My family patched Eli in. He’s fifteen. They tattooed him. He’s not just a goddamned probie,” Cage growled. “You think that shit’s cool, maybe you deserve to be taken down too.”

  “Way to stay cool, Cage,” Tals said through clenched teeth. “We’re going to die if you’re not careful.”

  “Your friend’s the smart one,” Cory said.

  “First time anyone’s ever accused him of brains,” Cage said. “And I wouldn’t count on us being the ones to die.”

  Tals put his head in his hands and groaned. “We have RICO evidence against all of you. We’ll leave it alone if you give us Eli and leave Vipers the fuck alone.”

  “I never agreed to that,” Cage said.

  “But you’re agreeing to get us dead,” Tals shot back.

  Cory studied us carefully. Tals slid the key to the safety-deposit box across the table. “Only copy of the key and the tapes.”

  “You could’ve used these against all of us—been rid of us once and for all.”

  “I’d like to believe one bad bunch didn’t spoil all of you.”

  “Been watching this war for years, son.” Cory was pushing sixty. “Tough choice.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Cage told him.

  “Get Eli’s tattoo covered.” Cory took the key and stood, knocked on the door. Eli came in, looking nervous but none the worse for wear.

  Cage and Tals guided Eli out of the building where Cory held the meeting—a neutral place, except it included a ring of Heathens. But none of them were familiar faces, which made Cage breathe a sigh of relief.

  Once they’d driven far enough away to consider themselves safe, Cage growled to Tals, “I can’t believe you did that—just handed over the tapes.”

  “You wanted to.”

  “I was about to, but you wouldn’t shut up.”

  “Can’t believe I made a copy of the tapes either,” Tals told him.

  “When?” Cage demanded, and when Tals shrugged, Cage sighed. “You got the numbers from Calla.”

  “She didn’t think you should ever give up all your evidence. But the fact that you were willing to, for family? That says it all.”

  Chapter 37

  “We can remove it, but it’ll hurt. It’ll never be completely gone,” Cage told Eli honestly. “Or you can cover it with another tattoo.”

  “Either way, there’s always going to be a reminder,” Eli said. “But maybe some things you shouldn’t forget, if they bring you to better things.”

  “So fucking smart for fifteen. So much smarter than me.”

  “I . . . ah, speaking of smart,” Calla started. “My dad and I might’ve done something. See, there’s this school for artists in Manhattan . . .”

  Eli’s eyes lit up.

  “And we showed them your drawings,” she continued. “It’s midsemester, but they’ll make an exception.”

  “Wait a minute—is the only reason I got in because of your dad?”

  “It didn’t hurt, but, Eli, they wouldn’t take you if you didn’t have the talent.” She turned to Cage. “I don’t want him to leave here—but he doesn’t want this life.”

  Cage stared between Eli and Calla. “Calla, your dad can keep an eye on him?”

  “He’s already got his guest suite set up. For you and your mom,” she said to Eli.

  “I see no reason the kid shouldn’t get a shot,” Cage said, putting his arm around Calla.

  “Wait till I tell Mom!” Eli said. He gave Calla a hug, then Cage, then went to make the call.

  “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “No. Not at all. Jesus, Calla . . .”

  * * *

  Cage was staring at me, his eyes dark with lust when he said my name.

  “I’m here, Cage. You’re not getting rid of me.”

  “And here I thought you were getting ready to run,” he admitted. “And I couldn’t blame you. You’ve gone through hell. And while this part’s over . . . there’s still a dangerous world out there for us. You could go to your dad’s. Start over.”

  “I did start over. Especially once I realized that you really wanted me here. That we belonged together.”

  “I sense a ‘but.’”

  And there was. I didn’t want to sound ungrateful but . . . “You have your thing, Cage. I don’t have mine.”

  “I’m your thing.”

  “You know what I mean. I can’t sit around all day waiting for you. Helping out at the tattoo shop and the bar here and there is fine and all, but . . .”

  “Why rush it?”

  I waved my arms. “You were born with this.”

  “Sometimes you’re born with it. Sometimes you stumble into it.”

  “Supposed I never find it?”

  “Suppose you do?” he countered. “Being with me won’t stop that, will it?”

  “No, it won’t. But I have a plan.”

  He smiled. “Bet you do.”

  “Amelia said Preacher promised to find her someone to manage the bar, that her role was just temporary.”

  “Here we go,” he muttered.

  “So I was thinking, with the experience I have, maybe Preacher would hire me.”

  “That’s really what you want to do?”

  “For right now, yes. From there, I’ll figure it out.”

  He sighed. Stared up at the ceiling. “Okay, fine. And Preacher said yes when I asked him.”

  “What? Cage, there you go, doing that protection thing again!”

  “Damned straight. Learn to love it.”

  “I do. I love it. And you.”

  Cage’s expression softened. “I’ve loved you from that phone call, babe.”

  I stood and moved to sit in Cage’s lap, asking, “Who are you, Christian Cage Owens?”

  “Just a broken guy, Calla. One you shouldn’t be forced to stay with.”

  “No one’s been forcing me for a while,” I told him.

  “I worry, Calla. I really fucking worry that this life is too violent for you.”

  “Soft with steel underneath, remember?” I wasn’t teasing with those words.

  “You’ll never get used to it.”

  “S
o you’re not?”

  “No,” he said firmly.

  “Then how do you do it?”

  “I got better at dealing with it.”

  “Then so will I.”

  Cage fisted a hand on the table. “You shouldn’t have to, dammit. You should be—”

  “I want to stay here with you. Want—not have to. Because someone needs to protect you.” I ran my open hand over his fist and he laughed then, a look of disbelief, but ultimately he looked pleased. His hand unfisted and he slid his palm against mine.

  He stopped laughing when he saw I wasn’t. Then he said, “Okay, yeah, Calla. You’re right. You have to stay and protect me.”

  It was my turn to laugh, which he quickly muffled with a kiss, a kiss that did that Bang—you’re naked thing that seemed to happen around him. Because I belonged in this world—and I belonged with Cage. I also belonged to him, but the best part was that Cage also belonged to me.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book is never a solitary endeavor, and I’m so grateful to the following people for their help and support.

  For the awesome Danielle Perez, whose insights and patience are always invaluable and appreciated. For Kara Welsh and Claire Zion for all their unwavering support, and for everyone at New American Library who helps make my books a success. And I have to give a special shout-out to the art department for their most awesome covers!

  For my friends, writing and otherwise, and my readers—the support, encouragement and laughter you supply is more important than you’ll ever know.

  For my family, who understand why I spend so long in the writing cave, and who are always waiting for me—usually with dinner—when I crawl out.

  Don’t miss the first novel

  in the Section 8 series by Stephanie Tyler,

  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 blood 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 had 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 wit
h 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.