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.
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.
The outside of the envelope read I thought you could use an outlet for your aggression.
Gunner ripped it open and found his plane tickets that had him leaving in the morning, plus the new job. He read the missive, then lit it on fire. He continued holding the papers in his hand until the flames rose and they burned down to nothing between his fingers.
Chapter Seven.
"This is a bad idea," Jem told her, five hours later as they traveled through the backwoods of the bayou in an old pickup truck he'd acquired.
Avery didn't ask from where. "So why agree to it?"
"Never met a bad idea I didn't like," he retorted with a grin. He sobered immediately when he said, "You know how goddamned lucky you are to be sitting here right now?"
"I know," she said quietly. "Billie Jean's out of surgery, but she's still critical. I don't know the names of the other exes to contact them."
"I've got a few searches going on that," he said. But that wouldn't help to warn those women anytime soon. "Suppose this guy who came in to ask about you is the one who tried to kill you?"
"Then at least we'll know," she countered.
"And if he's not, we're still screwed. But we'll hunt his ass down."
The great thing about Jem was he was crazy enough to try what most people wouldn't. His logic was different from other people's and he took risks because he could.
Jem truly lived. And that's all Avery wanted to learn to do. She'd already learned the lesson that life was too short.
The bayou was all narrow paths and missteps. Some of the paths were meant to purposely throw strangers off. It was easy to get lost here.
She and Jem both quieted when they reached the bridge that took them past Grace's old house and then farther along the old swamps, through roads that didn't seem as though they should be drivable at all. And they were barely so. It was only Jem's skill that kept them from rutting out or going into the bayou itself.
After another half an hour, Jem turned the headlights down. "We're close."
"And you know that how?" she asked.
"Bayou numbers are hard to find. You've got to just count from the start of the road, and sometimes that doesn't even make sense. But I know this house." He'd pulled over, cut the engine and pointed now to one they could barely see through the mist and the cypress trees that provided protection and coverage.
"How?"
"Old girlfriend used to live there. I snuck into her window more times than I could count, until her daddy caught me." He pointed. "Window's still there, but the tree's been pruned away from it."
"What if this guy's the father of the old girlfriend?"
"He owes me an ass full of buckshot. Let's move." He was out of the car, moving around the back of the house in a wide enough arc to not get spotted. She followed closely, her own weapon drawn. Her adrenaline raced again, although her entire body suffered from the fatigue of the day's earlier events.
It was so dark out here. She didn't dare look away from Jem for fear of losing him. He walked carefully, exaggerating each step. He'd warned her of the possibility of tripwires.
She was slightly more worried about snakes.
When she got close enough to be able to see the outline of the porch clearly through the low-lying fog, she paused. Took another couple of steps and realized she'd lost track of Jem. She couldn't call for him, so instead kept going forward.
Minutes later, someone wrapped a strong arm around her neck. Her arms were pinned in place before she could do anything. The grip was python-strong. She wanted to call out for Jem, but a rag was stuffed into her mouth. A pinch on her neck and everything went black.
When she woke, she stared drowsily at the man standing in front of her. He was massive-at least six foot six and broad as a door.
He didn't look happy to see her awake in the least.
She swallowed around the gag and he said, "I'll give you a sip of water. Don't make a goddamned sound. We've got your friend here, so there's no one coming to save you."
She nodded. Let him take the gag out and took a sip of water and then gulped it while he held the bottle. Whatever he'd shot her up with was wearing off and she hoped there was nothing in the water. But she couldn't have stopped herself from drinking it.
After a few minutes and more water, her head cleared considerably. "Who are you?"
He laughed, but there was no mirth there. "You come sneaking around my house with guns and you want to know who I am? Who the fuck are you?"
He leaned into her and his military roots were definitely showing. Just being around Key, Dare and Gunner gave her insight into what to look for. "I heard you were looking for me earlier-at Dove's bar."
His brows rose. He muttered something to himself and then stared at the ceiling. When he looked back at her, he said, "You've been asking questions you shouldn't be asking."
"So have you. And you hurt one of my friends," she snapped back.
"I haven't hurt anyone. Yet."
"You don't know who you're fucking with," Jem said, and she turned to see him several feet from her. He'd obviously just woken up and his eyes were dark with anger.
"I think it's a guy who's all tied up and should be shutting his mouth," another broad man said. He was shorter than the guy in front of her, but no less intimidating. Obviously, not to Jem, the way he goaded the man.
"Nice anchor, Popeye."
Popeye. Navy. Gunner. Okay. She blew out a breath. Maybe this could still be okay.
Maybe. "You know Gunner."
"Why are you asking questions about him?"
Oddly protective. And Avery suddenly knew who these men had lost.
"The story's true, isn't it? Your daughter was married to . . . James."
"Why does this interest you?"
There were so many things she could say, professional things. What came out was "I love him."
The men looked at her. Jem groaned and then suddenly he was free and slamming one of the men to the desk, pointing a gun at the other one. "Untie her."
"Do it, Mike," the man on the desk grunted. Mike moved forward and undid the bindings on her wrists and then her ankles. Jem didn't take the gun off the guy on the table, told Mike, "Move to the corner and sit your ass down. I'm asking questions now."
Avery stood and Jem motioned for her to grab a weapon. She did, but kept the gun down at her side. "We love Gunner. He left without warning and I think he's doing something bad. Billie said you were asking about me . . . and then an hour later, someone nearly killed her."
Mike shook his head and Andy cursed softly, then said, "It wasn't us. James was our family."
Mike looked at Andy and smiled and Avery knew two things then-these men loved each other, and they'd welcomed Gunner into their home, despite everything. Despite everything, they still wanted to protect him.
Mike cleared his throat and looked at her. "Josie was my daughter. Her mom, Amie, was my best friend. I grew up here."
"And I grew up in Texas," Andy said, his drawl thick and definitely not from Louisiana. His head was still pressed to the table by Jem, who was intent on listening.
"Amie wanted a baby, but she'd been pretty burned in the past by love. She decided she could raise a baby herself, asked me if I was okay with that. I knew I'd be away a lot with the Navy, and I knew she'd be a damned good mom. So I was always a part of Josie's life-she grew up knowing I was her dad and that I was gay and everything was fine. But then Amie got cancer-damn, it was so quick. And rather than relocate Josie, who was twelve at the time, or make her travel with me and Andy, which would've been damned near impossible with our jobs as SEALs, we moved here. I was willing to come alone, but Andy wouldn't let me."
"Best decision I ever made," Andy said. "We don't typically trade information on family, but you seem to want to help him, not use him. And you seem like you're in as much danger as Billie."
"Why'd you go to see her?" Avery asked.
"I wanted to talk to you," Mike said. "I knew James-Gunner-left New Orleans last month. What I don't know is why. Or at least I didn't. Now I think I know."
"He's in a bad place, isn't he?" she whispered.
"If he's back doing what I think he's doing, yes." Mike sighed, stared at the ceiling. "He's been in close proximity for years, but he never got in touch. For our safety, more so than his. He's got to be ruthless about cutting ties to his past."
Avery rubbed her wrists where the rope bit into them.
"Sorry about that. We're suspicious types."
"Jem, you could probably let Andy up now," Avery said.
Jem grumbled but did so. Andy got up slowly, moved away from Gunner. Avery put the gun back into its case then and Mike motioned for all of them to follow him farther into the deceptively worn house.
It was obvious these two men had a more than fleeting concern for security and privacy, especially once they were led through the living room, with the TV and the old couch into a room behind a locked door.
Andy sat in front of the large computer and began typing.
"Please, sit," Mike told them. There were several comfortable chairs and Jem collapsed into one while Avery stayed on the edge of her own leather recliner. Accepted a soda and turned it in her hands until they went numb from the cold and then the drink got warm, all in the space of the five minutes it took Andy and Mike to confer, wordlessly, about something on the iPad.
The men started slow, waiting to see if they could trust Avery and Jem. She appreciated that, even though she was frustrated with the pace.
They'd handed her and Jem a file folder marked CIA and confidential and branded with a red stamp that stated .
"Someone didn't do their job," Jem muttered. He opened the file, since he was the best one to interpret the legalese and covertness of the CIA's writings.
He explained that, according to the agents who were working this case-one of whom had been Richard Powell himself-James Connor had fallen off the map completely at the age of nineteen. From the ages of sixteen until nineteen, he had a long list of crimes that he was implicated in but never captured for.
He appeared to have been working for a mysterious smuggler known only by the initials DL. The CIA had been watching him for ten years and only had a trail of bodies, explosions and money.