Stephanie Tyler - Unbreakable

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 grass.

“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.