Surrender A Section 8 Novel - By Stephanie Tyler Page 0,1

like this,” Darius said, his voice slightly vicious. But they both knew he’d relent. He’d done everything Simon had asked of him, and this was for the good of the rest of the team.

“They’ll never recover without you,” Simon told him. “You’re the goddamned heart of the team.”

“And you’re my best goddamned friend,” Darius growled. Simon’s expression softened, just for a second.

“Just remember the promise,” Simon warned.

We don’t try to find out who’s behind S8. No matter what.

Neither Darius nor Simon believed what happened today was a screwup their handler could’ve known about. But their promise referenced him specifically. They knew they’d been brought together by the CIA, but their handler picked the jobs, gave them orders and anything else they needed. Once they started distrusting him, it was all over.

“I’ll remember,” Darius told him now.

“Good. Go.” This time, Simon’s words were punctuated with a push. Darius barely caught himself, and when he turned, Simon was already running in the direction of the rebels, the crazy fucker confusing them with his contrary tactics. Because who the hell ran toward the bad guys?

Darius made his choice—he was a liability, so he made his way to the helo, pulled himself on board and shoved himself into the pilot’s seat. Within minutes, the steel bird was grinding gears, rising above the heavy cover of jungle. As the chopper blades cut the air smoothly with their whoompa-whoompa-tink, Darius turned the helo and stared down at the man who’d left himself behind as Darius took the rescued civilians—aid workers, a diplomatic attaché and other Americans who’d been working in the area—away. He’d never take credit for the glory on this one, though. Simon could’ve sat in this pilot seat as easily as Darius did.

There was a chance Simon could fight them off. There was always a chance. And as he watched for that brief moment, he hoped beyond hope that Simon could win, fight his way out of the mass of humanity that was trying to kill him simply because he was American.

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, the surviving members 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