“Worried about you, but they’re all fine. No signs of anyone or anything suspicious. We’re in a good place. Everyone wants you to take your time and heal.”
She wanted that too, thought she’d want revenge so badly that it would heat through her like a white-hot fury, forcing her out of bed and into planning mode. By now she should’ve been insisting that they find Landon, stop him from ever hurting anyone again, the way she had that first night.
Instead, she was thinking about giving up S8. The fact that she could think about letting Landon take something else from her pissed her off.
“I have to tell you something, Gunner,” she started, and she looked wary.
“I’m listening.”
“When Landon was attacking me . . . he showed me a folder. He whispered, so you wouldn’t hear. The folder showed a list of times and coordinates that a cargo ship with underage women was leaving Mexico for . . . shit, I don’t know where. Or when. He said it was soon and I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t see . . .”
He pulled her close, hugged her to his chest as quiet sobs racked her. Gunner hated that Landon tried the same psychological bullshit that he’d used so effectively on him.
He hated that it had worked.
“I should’ve told you earlier,” she murmured when her breathing had calmed down, but she still wasn’t looking at him.
“There’s nothing we could’ve done without more information. And you don’t even know what he was showing you.”
“It was a cargo dispatch. I know what they look like.”
He tugged gently, forced her to look at him. “You’ve let Landon wrap you up in this. You’re not responsible for what the traffickers are doing.”
She shrugged, moved back to the pillow. He ran a hand through his hair. “I know you’re worried about me. But we have to stop keeping secrets. I started that, I realize, but I thought we agreed, secrets will kill us.”
She curled up around the pillow, looking so pretty and so vulnerable. He knew that was all a smokescreen, that underneath it all, Avery had more strength than any of them. She had more of Darius in her than anyone realized, and that in and of itself could be very good . . . and also, very destructive.
Right now he felt like that sense of justice was killing her. “I understand what you’re doing, Avery. I did it myself.”
“When you were with Josie,” she murmured. “That’s why you wanted to go back to Landon.”
Why he’d been pissed that Josie saved him.
He blinked again and realized that he was in goddamned pain, but there was no smoke or chanting. He’d made it through, with barely any memories of what had happened to him. But he had no doubts as to why he’d been beaten and left for dead in the first place.
His only question was why they didn’t finish the job. It wasn’t like Landon to leave things undone. Landon hated sloppy.
“Maybe you should’ve just let me die,” he told her.
“If you mean that, I’ll throw your ass out the door right now.” Her eyes snapped fire and no, he didn’t need this shit from some bossy thing.
“I’ll show myself out.” Would’ve too, if he could get up off the damned bed. His ribs felt like they were in goddamned pieces, and every time he tried to move, fire wrenched through his body.
Her hands were on his shoulders, pressing him down firmly. “Why are you being such an idiot? Most people are grateful to be saved. Or don’t you know that?”
“You have no idea about my life or what I should be grateful for,” he told her. “Where’d you find me?”
“You were near the back door, in the grasses. Petey found you,” she told him. Petey, a bloodhound who’d remained firmly curled at his feet. “You were lucky.”
“Yeah, lucky,” he echoed. Tried to get up from under the heavy quilt. Somehow it was easy enough for the petite woman to push him back down.
“Stay.”
“I’m not the fucking dog.”
“You’re acting like an asshole.”
He stared at the ceiling, trying to piece together what had happened. The last thing he remembered, was Landon telling him that he was done.
The last thing he’d said to Landon was, “If you ask me to come back, I would.”
“Landon brainwashed you,” Avery said now.
“You think that all of this is Landon’s fault,” he started. “You want to believe that I’m a victim, dragged in against my will. But that’s only a partial truth. That only applies to this last time, when I went back to Landon to save you and the others.”
“So tell me.”
“And risk having you never look at me the same way again.”
“That could never happen, Gunner. I know who you are. In here.” She pressed a hand to his heart. “And here.” A hand to the side of his head. “Whatever you did that you think was bad, you’ve more than made up for it.”
“Never.” His voice sounded hollow. “I liked working for Landon. Especially at first. He was better than Powell. And I was able to justify what I was doing because we were giving criminals a new life, letting them escape justice. I didn’t see their victims. And I got to blow the shit out of human traffickers. I got to save women and children. I was the good guy, and I told myself that the end justified the means.”
“I think it probably does,” she told him. “That’s why I feel like such shit for not being able to see a damned line of numbers. I went through all that torture for nothing. If I’d been able to get those numbers . . . it would’ve been worth it.”
He knew exactly what she was saying. Didn’t agree, but understood. He didn’t want to tell her, didn’t even want to think about it. But he had to. Talking about it, remembering it was the only way to make sure he wasn’t doomed to repeat the same mistakes.
He’d been so damned young that first time he’d taken down a trafficker. For two years, he’d roamed the goddamned globe, pulling off smaller jobs, helping Landon’s merc for hire, Declan Moore. Dec was a good mentor, was in it for the money and the explosions.
“You’re taking down bad men,” he’d told Gunner.
“And leading others across the border.”
Declan shrugged. “Karma. Give a little, take a little.”
Declan was killed the week before the transfer. Gunner swore to Landon that he was ready, that he wouldn’t fuck anything up.
But he’d fucked up big-time. Gotten the client arrested and nearly gotten himself killed in the process. By the time he’d made it back to Landon’s three weeks later, after hiding out in random safe houses, his name was mud and Landon was furious.
“But he called you back,” she said. “Is that when you tattooed him?”
He went cold. “I never tattooed him.”
“Good.”
“Why’d you think that?”
“I needed something to focus on. He had the tribal sun on his shoulder . . .”
Gunner stood, took two steps back as if someone had physically pushed him. “Was it a new tattoo?”
“No. It was actually faded. Looked like it needed a touch-up. Gunner, you’re so pale—what’s wrong?”
“Landon doesn’t have any tattoos.”
As soon as Avery told him about the sun tattoo, Gunner was up, grabbing for his laptop, pulling up a picture of Landon. “Was this him?”
“Yes, it was him. The guy from that picture’s the guy who hurt me. I’m sure of it,” Avery insisted.