Until Adele showed up on his doorstep, dragging the past with her like an anchor.
“She’s a known fugitive and I’m supposed to hide her?” he asked now.
“She’s family—and she needs your protection.”
He turned swiftly, fighting the urge to pin her against a column of the porch with an arm across her neck. The animal inside him was always there, lurking barely below the surface, the wildness never easily contained. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Adele hadn’t moved. “Don’t make me spell everything out for you, Dare. You know you’re still wanted. Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I can’t do this. Find—”
“Someone else?” she finished, smiled wanly. “There’s no one but me and you, and I’m about to buy the farm, as they say. Cancer. The doctors give me a month at best.”
“I’m sorry, Adele, but—”
“I know what happened to you. But we protect our own.”
“I didn’t choose to be a part of your group.”
“No, you were lucky enough to be born into it,” she said calmly.
“Yeah, that’s me. Lucky.”
“You’re alive, aren’t you?”
He wanted to mutter, Barely, but didn’t. “Where’s my father, Adele?”
She simply shrugged. “He’s gone.”
“Yeah, gone.” Darius had been doing that since Dare was six years old.
“They’re all gone—the men, their families. All gone over the course of the last six years. Do you understand?”
He had known. Dare had kept an eye on the families left behind by S8 operatives. Even though Darius had growled at him to stay the hell out of it, he’d found a line of accidents and unexplained deaths. They were all spaced widely enough apart and made enough sense not to look suspicious to the average eye.
But he wasn’t the average eye. This was an S8 clean-house order, an expunging, and Dare knew he was still on that list and there was no escaping it.
For Avery, he would have to come out of hiding.
“Hiding won’t stop your connection with Section 8,” Adele said, as if reading his mind.
“I’m not hiding,” he ground out.
“Then go to Avery—show her this from Darius.”
She handed him a CD—the cover was a photograph of Avery. He glanced at the picture of the woman, and yeah, she resembled her father—the same arctic frost blue eyes—but her hair was light, not dark. She was really pretty. Too innocent looking to have committed murder, but he’d learned over the years that looks could never be trusted. “And then what? I’m no good for this.”
“You’re better than you think.”
“Bullshit—I’m just the only one you’ve got.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
He looked at the picture stuck into the clear CD case again, and something deep inside him ached for his lost childhood. He hoped Avery had had one. “I’ll think about it.”
With that, she walked away, turned to him when she was halfway to her car and stood stock-still in the driveway. The back of his neck prickled. “Best think fast, Dare.”
It was part instinct, part the way Adele paused as if posing. She gave a small smile, a nod, her shoulders squared.
He sprang into action, yelled, “No!” as he leaped toward her, Sig drawn, but it was too late.
The gunshot rang out and he jumped back to the safety of the house, cutting his losses. Adele collapsed to the ground, motionless. A clean kill. Sniper.
She’d made the ultimate sacrifice—going out like a warrior to force him to get off his ass and into action—ending a life that was almost over anyway. His father would’ve done the same.
Now there was nothing to be done here but get away and live. A hot extract involving just himself.
He shot off several warning rounds of his own to buy himself time. He took a quick picture of Adele with his cell phone camera and then went inside, grabbed his go bag and the guitar, then ignited the explosives he’d set up for a just-in-case scenario because, as a kid of a Section 8er, he was always a target.
That entire process took less than a minute, and then he took off in the old truck down the back road, the CD still in his hand.
Adele was too good not to know she’d been followed. She’d trapped him by bringing the trouble literally to his front door.
He cursed her, his father and everyone in that damned group as he motored down the highway, even as another part of his brain, hardwired for danger, made lists of what he’d need.
New wheels.
Guns.
New safe house with a wanted woman.
He threw the CD on the seat next to him and fingered the silver guitar pick he wore on a chain around his neck.
Goddammit, there was no escaping the past.
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF STEPHANIE TYLER
“Unforgettable.”
—New York Times bestselling author Cherry Adair
“Red-hot romance. White-knuckle suspense.”
—New York Times bestselling author Lara Adrian
“No one writes a bad-boy hero like Tyler.”
—New York Times bestselling author Larissa Ione
“A story that kept me on the edge of my seat.”
—New York Times bestselling author Alexandra Ivy
“Stephanie Tyler is a master.”
—Romance Junkies
“Sexy and witty.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A thrill ride with twists and turns to keep the reader guessing.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“Takes murder, suspense, psychic gifts, and passion; twists them all up; and then tosses them out in a way that will keep you wondering what will happen next.”
—Joyfully Reviewed
“Brimming over with intrigue, heroics and plenty of action. . . . Add some hot romance, and you’ve got another winner.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A very satisfying romantic thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly