Stephanie Tyler - Unbreakable

Turned out, she had been, even though Rip had tortured her for a year, kept her locked up, let his men hurt her, but her gift of premonition had suffered, retreated so deeply inside her and refused to come out. Slowly, the premonitions were returning, but although they were unreliable as to when they would come, the feelings were spot-on.

At least she hadn’t had any that were like the ones Dare first saw. Those were painful, made her space out and lose consciousness.

Now that Rip was out of her life for good, Grace felt she was able to come to terms with it all.

Except for what Gunner had been through. She knew Gunner felt guilty about her. And she worried that that could actually be all their undoing.

* * *

It wasn’t an easy process. Avery knew that, with every week that passed, they were losing Gunner more and more.

Mike and Andy were amazing with comms. They’d made a lot of headway in tracking Landon, or rather, keeping track of him.

“Gunner must’ve been doing the same thing,” Jem surmised. “Ever get a look at his computers?”

“Sure, but there was so much going on I wouldn’t have known what to look for. Landon’s info might’ve been right in front of my face and I wouldn’t have known. My focus at that point was on Dare and Powell.”

Tracking Landon wasn’t the same as tracking Gunner at all. The men were never in the same place at the same time, and for good reason. And the reports that piled up about the jobs Gunner was doing mainly showcased him taking down notorious human traffickers and freeing the women and children who’d been captured.

“Why does Landon waste time doing this?” she asked.

“Why does a criminal do anything? Sometimes it’s less of why and more of why not,” Jem said. “But hell, this guy has to have a motive. This isn’t ordinary stuff.”

“Maybe they’re trying to horn in on his business. Smuggling’s smuggling. And the people who want to leave the country would pay good money.”

“But it’s two different skill sets. Trafficking to sell humans is different than sneaking a few away from the law and creating a new life for them. The women and children who get sold sure as hell don’t need birth certificates and credit cards.”

Landon seemed to be a master at reintroducing fugitives into the world with a clean slate. Of course, half the time the CIA caught up with them, although it took years and was usually because of transgressions performed under the new names. Because criminals didn’t change. They couldn’t, Jem had told her. “What’s in your blood is what’s in your blood. You’re a prime example of that.”

What about Gunner? Powell was in his blood. But she didn’t say it out loud, didn’t want to make Jem answer. She’d bet he’d thought about it, though.

The only good that came out of waiting was that Jem was able to buy the properties back. He used a dummy corporation name and added extra security measures to the empty place and they stayed there in between searches. Avery was almost hoping they’d lure someone back who wanted to hurt them on Gunner’s behalf, but no one came.

Finally, almost four months from when she’d last seen Gunner, they had their first solid lead. Along the way, she’d met more men and women of dubious character, made contacts, hung out with mercenaries and thieves, sometimes those who were one and the same, and generally tried to keep herself calm.

With Jem, that was easy. Somehow his bent to crazy calmed her. When he would get drunk, dance on tables, ride the bull, drink the worm, she would be the one dragging his ass out of the bar and into bed.

“Sometimes I think you’re doing all this shit to keep my mind off the fact that we haven’t found Gunner yet,” she’d muttered to him one night.

He’d laughed drunkenly, touched his nose and then pointed to her. Yeah, bingo, she thought dryly.

In the morning, they’d take a small plane two islands over. Gunner was rumored to be doing a job for Landon, and that information was leaked from one of Landon’s own men in return for the sole purpose of chartering a boat for said job.

Tomorrow, she’d be closer to Gunner than she’d been in months. She said a small prayer that they were doing the right thing and braced herself for everything to go wrong that possibly could.

The guards positioned on the beach were taken care of. The house loomed in front of him. He wiped the blood from his knife along the grass and shoved it back into its sheath. He secured it around his arm and continued along the dark beach.

It had finally happened. He’d stopped feeling. Again. He’d known it would happen, wasn’t sure if he should welcome it or hate it.

This time, it had only taken five months. Five months of hell, in order to prove himself to a taskmaster he’d never wanted to impress in the first place. Five months to get back into the man’s good graces.

He pushed forward like a machine. Couldn’t remember the last time he ate or slept and he really didn’t give a shit. All he needed to do was the job—this one and the one after it, get the people moved where they needed to be moved to and take out anyone Landon deemed unworthy.

Landon had made him the star of his show, Let’s Play God, Judge and Jury, all in his quest to take down human traffickers. The satisfaction he gained by helping the women and children go free after killing men who’d imprisoned them would wane quickly with every criminal he’d helped to sneak out of countries, across borders and away from justice.

It wasn’t like the first time. Would never be like that again.

He glanced up at the light in the window ahead of him. It blinked twice and as he moved forward, it went dark.

When he blinked again, he was no longer standing on a beach looking up at a house where he’d seen the signal.

He was in a room that looked like a police station. Bare cement walls, what he assumed to be a two-way mirror and him chained to a metal chair in the middle of the room. The chair was semichained in place too. It had a little give, but there was no way he could get up and tackle anyone without slamming himself down to the floor in the process.

Motherfucker.

He tested his hands to see if there was any give. Legs too.

“Wouldn’t bother, you asshole. I know how to keep someone from getting away.”

Jem’s voice. He stilled as he heard the man approach him from behind.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” he said, and for a moment, there was silence. Until he found himself with his cheek on the bare floor, his head aching from the blow, his body following suit on the unforgiving tile. “I will fucking kill you,” Gunner promised.

Jem righted the chair unforgivingly, stood in front of him and taunted, “I’m right here, big boy. Come on.”

He couldn’t believe he’d let the former spook get the better of him. He’d gotten too comfortable, had immersed himself back into the life. He’d assumed S8 had let him go.

Instead, Jem had used a dart filled with sedative and now he used chains with prongs inside the wrist and ankle bands, which Gunner grudgingly admitted was a nice touch. He shifted his weight slightly. Being slammed to the floor had cut the shit out of his skin. Blood trickled down his fingertips, dripped to the cement floor. He’d been drugged, so he hadn’t been able to count the miles or know how long he’d traveled to get here. Wherever here was.

He had no doubt they’d ditched his phone and his bag.

That was both good and bad. Meant Landon couldn’t find him. Which meant he couldn’t find Avery or Jem.

At least not yet.

He heard Landon’s words, whispered in his ear. “If you go missing, I’ll hunt you down. And you’d better pray I find you captured and not running. . . .”

He had to get the hell out of here. Even if he had to kill Jem to do it. Which needed to happen as soon as he regained full consciousness.

He didn’t know how soon after that thought it happened—Jem pouring water over his head. He sputtered. Spat. Cursed.

And then Jem did it again and again. What the fuck? Was the asshole trying to re-create hell week?

“I will kill you,” he told Jem when he was allowed to breathe air instead of water for a full minute.

“You try, Gunner.” Jem poured the water again. “Who’re you working for?”

Gunner. Fuck. He’d managed to keep that name out of his mind for months, didn’t slip when asked his name any longer. And in one breath, Jem brought Gunner back to life.

He choked out, “It’s James. You’re a failed agent, Jeremiah. Are you trying to get reinstated?”

“Fuck. You.” More water. Never-ending fucking water as his chair was tipped back and the spikes bit into him and he welcomed the pain and the light-headedness.

As if Jem knew that, he stopped, dead. Demanded, “Answer me one question—did you set her up?”

“No clue what you’re talking about.”

“The flowers with the bomb—you sent them?”

There were two ways to answer that. Gunner chose the one that would make Jem hate him. “I did. Did it work?”

The backhand Jem cracked across his cheek didn’t hurt as much as the pain involved in not knowing if Avery was hurt. And Gunner deserved it. He spat blood and smiled. “You didn’t answer my question.”

A glint in Jem’s eye told him the test he was about to endure.

But that’s what Gunner goddamn did. He endured.

He endured for hours. Days. However long Jem kept at him. The man didn’t give Gunner any real way out—there were no right answers he could give. It was only torture. Meant to break him. Bring him back.