One last glance afforded Darius the view he didn’t want—the mob surrounding Simon. It was like watching his friend—his teammate—sink into a manhole as they swarmed over him.
Section 8 had ended at that moment, at least for him. He’d later learn that their handler had agreed, and the group of seven men and one woman who’d been thrown together to work black ops missions around the globe with no supervision and very few, if any, rules, had been officially disbanded, given large sums of money to buy their silence and thank them for their service.
He would have to explain to the team why he’d left Simon behind, although they’d know. They’d get it. They all prepared for that eventuality every single time they went out. It was part of the thrill.
There was no thrill now as he watched his best friend die. And he didn’t turn away, stared at the spot until he couldn’t see anything anymore, and knew he’d never get that image out of his mind.
Chapter One
Twenty years later
Dare O’Rourke believed in ghosts because they visited him regularly.
He woke, covered in sweat, shaking, and immediately glanced at the clock. He’d slept for fifteen minutes straight before the nightmare. A record.
The screams—both those in the dream and those that tore from his own throat whenever he allowed himself the luxury of sleep—would stay with him as long as he lived, wrapping around his soul and squeezing until he wished he’d died that terrible night.
A part of him had, but what was left wasn’t a phoenix rising from the ashes. No, Dare was broken bones and not of sound mind. Might never be again, according to the Navy docs, who said the trauma Dare had faced was too severe, that he wasn’t fit for duty. He had no doubt those doctors were right, wasn’t sure what kind of man he’d be if he had been able to go the business-as-usual route.
He’d never be the same.
The CIA felt differently. You’ll survive. You’ll recover. You’re needed.
And even though he knew the world needed rough men like him, no matter how fiercely the government would deny his existence if it came down to brass tacks, he told them all to fuck off and went to live in the woods. He was no longer a SEAL, the thing that had defined him, the job he’d loved for ten years.
Dare had prayed for many things that night in the jungle, including death, but none had been answered. And so he’d stopped praying and holed up alone and just tried to sleep through the night.
Three hundred sixty-three days and counting and not an unbroken sleep among them.
Three hundred sixty-four was a couple of hours away, the day giving way to the dusk, and the car coming up the private road couldn’t mean anything but trouble.
Three hundred sixty-three days and no visitors. He saw people only when he went into the small town monthly for supplies. Beyond that, he remained on his property. It was quiet. He could think, whether he wanted to or not.
As for healing . . . that would all be in the eye of the beholder.
He rolled out of bed, flexed the ache from his hands before pulling on jeans and a flannel shirt he left unbuttoned. Barefoot, he went out to greet his guest.
He met the car with his weapon drawn, put it away when the car got close enough for him to see the driver.
Adele. A member of the original Section 8—a black ops group of seven men and one woman recruited from various military branches and the CIA. All loose cannons, none of them taking command well. All of them the best at what they did. A real life A-Team, except the reality wasn’t anything like it was portrayed on television.
Dare’s father—Darius—had been a member, was MIA and presumed KIA on a mission last year. At least that’s what Adele had told Dare.
All Dare knew was that S8 had officially disbanded when he was thirteen, and for years, its members worked black ops missions on their own steam. Until they’d gotten a call—that call—the remaining six members and one last job. Back into the jungle they’d sworn not to go back into. A mistake to go, Darius told him. We’re too old. But they were still strong, with plenty of experience. And they went anyway.
Four men never returned. Adele and Darius did, but they were never the same. Refused to talk about it and went off on more unreachable missions until they’d both disappeared more than a year ago.
Dare had wanted to assume that the secrets of the group were all dead and buried with them.
Fucking assumptions would get him every time. He knew better. His father and Adele had come back from the dead more than once.
Adele took her time getting out of the car. She was stately looking, at one time considered more handsome than pretty, with short hair and kind blue eyes, a thin frame that belied her strength. It was hard to believe she was as deadly as the men she’d worked with.
“I have a job for you,” she said when she reached the porch he refused to leave. No preamble, all business. The only thing contradicting her deadliness was the frail frame she now carried.
She was sick—he could see it in the color of her skin, the darkness shading the skin under her eyes. His heart went out to her; she’d been the closest thing to a mother he’d ever had, even though she’d been far more like a mother wolf than a nurturer.
But it had been enough. “I can’t.”
“You’re not broken, Dare.” Adele sounded so damned sure, but why he wanted her reassurance, he had no idea.
He jerked his gaze to her and saw her own quiet pain that she carried, kept so close to the vest all these years. “It was
