Target: A Military Romance (Unwanted Soldiers Book 1)

by Aden Lowe

  ©2016 by Aden Lowe. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication or series may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Aden Lowe or his legal representative.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, brands, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and owners of various products and locations referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication or use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Thank you for purchasing an authorized copy of this book. By doing so, you say NO to Piracy and support authors so they can continue to bring you the books you enjoy. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  Author's Note: This book contains adult situations and language, violence, and sexual activity. Mature readers only.

  Cover photo by Randy Sewel of RLS Model Images Photography

  Cover model: Christopher Hubbard

  Cover design: Ashley Wheels

  Acknowledgements:

  So many people contributed to this book, it's impossible to name them all. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the ladies in the Lowe Down for holding my hand, reminding me to breathe, and putting up with my general goofiness as I wrote this one. Thank you for all your encouragement and kind words, and for all the effort you put into helping promote my books. You know you're freakn incredible, right?

  All the bloggers who help share my work with readers, on behalf of myself, and all the other Indie authors you promote, thank you. You bring it all together.

  Huge thanks to all the authors who support, share, and cross promote with me. You fuckin ROCK.

  To my readers, thank you so much for supporting my work. I treasure all of you, and appreciate you more than I can express.

  Randy, you and Chris fucking rocked the cover image! Big thanks to both of you!

  Ashley Wheels, my Assistant/BabySister, and yes, baby sitter—thank you for keeping me focused, and for calling me on my bullshit when I try to cheat on a scene. Thanks for all the other stuff you do, too, but mostly, thanks for being my friend. That means more than all the rest. Stay as fierce as you are gorgeous. Love you, rotten girl.

  Tape, dude, don't know what I would do without your constant nagging to do my best. I know you won't see this, but it needs to be said. Thanks for being my rock, and kicking my ass through the dark times. Love ya, man.

  Elyse, there are just no words. Without you, nothing else would mean anything. Thank you for tolerating me, and all the people living in my head. Love you always and forever.

  I hope you enjoy Target, and that you'll consider leaving a review. This one was a stretch for me write as I left the familiar worlds of the Hell Raiders MC and Hunted Love. No horses, no bikes… I was kind of lost. Thank you for reading.

  -Aden

  Prologue: Unwanted Soldiers

  We sat in the conference room, drinking terrible coffee because nothing else was available, waiting. They didn't give us a chance to shower, eat, sleep, or anything else. Just scooped us up the instant we came off patrol, threw us on a plane, then stuck us here with no explanation.

  I paced until I practically wore the soles off my boots. Flag dozed in one of the old-ass metal chairs that looked like World War II surplus. Hell, everything about this place looked like it came from that era. Cinderblock walls painted a chilly gray. Black and white floor tiles in a checkerboard pattern. Dark wood chair rail molding divided the top half of the room from the bottom, and the same molding framed a real slate blackboard. It was like stepping half a century back in time.

  Kracken sat like a statue, lost in whatever meditative state he went to during wait-time. I envied that ability to just shut down and go somewhere else. He managed to remove himself from whatever frustrations faced us at the moment, and still remained remarkably in tune with whatever happened around him.

  I cursed, and walked some more, and drank some more terrible coffee from the white ceramic coffee cup. The room offered no clue to our whereabouts, and since we'd be put in the back of a closed truck the moment our plane touched down, we had no clue where on Earth they took us. My boots chafed around my damn ankles as I paced. And still, no one came to tell us why the fuck we were here.

  Every few hours, a civilian escorted us to the latrine. When we came back, there was more coffee, and one time, a tray of sandwiches waited on the table. Our escort refused to speak beyond telling us where we were going.

  Frustration, annoyance, and yeah, some fear, made my muscles tight. For the millionth time, I cracked my neck. Bitching to the others would do no good. They felt the same way, even if they managed not to show it. The thing that pissed me off most was being grabbed straight off patrol. Our absence would put undue strain on the others. We were spread thin as it was.

  Forty-three hours after they grabbed us, two men finally came into the room where they held us. The first, a smallish, graying Lieutenant Colonel looked harried and annoyed. The other, a civilian, in a suit and tie, looked like he could kill a man without blinking.

  "At ease." The Lt. Col. sat in one of the empty chairs, and the civilian took the other. "I assume you're wondering why you were brought here."

  The three of us nodded, cautious.

  The civilian tossed a folder to each of us. "You're discharged."

  Those words came as a punch in the gut. I was career military, with no intentions of getting out before twenty years. I flipped the folder open, and started at the official letter of discharge.

  "What the fuck is this?" My voice sounded foreign, as if I had something stuck in my throat.

  "Your services are needed elsewhere. You'll get a nice bonus, enough to get you started in a new life. New names. New everything. And in return, you occasionally do a job for us." The civilian asshole acted like it was that simple.

  "What if we say no?" Kracken's deep voice rumbled through the room.

  The civilian glared. "That word is no longer in your vocabulary. We call, you come. Period. Or, of course, you could choose to face the court martial for treason. Death penalty case."

  My gut froze. "What kind of jobs?" I had a billion questions, beginning with why, but this was the first I could spit out.

  "Need to know." A short way of saying we would find out when they needed us. "Suffice to say, you each have a skill set we require. Of course, others have the same skills, but your lack of personal encumbrances works for us."

  The Lt. Col. cleared his throat. "Pick a place. Settle in. You'll be contacted. In the meantime, you will work as mercenaries under a loosely organized group known amongst themselves as the Unwanted Soldiers. All men like you. You take whichever jobs you want. But you remain available to us." He stood. "Good luck, gentlemen."

  Just like that, he and the civilian left. I didn't know what the fuck to make of it, and Flag and Kracken didn't either.

  The civilian that escorted us to the latrine earlier returned. "Come with me."

  Two hours later, we had all chosen a location to settle, a new identity, a background story, a cover story. And just like that, we were Unwanted Soldiers.

  Chapter one

  The gate squealed as it swung open, reminding me I still needed to fix the damn thing. The kid I always got to take care of the place when I had to leave did okay with the basics, but he would let the place rot down around him before he actual
ly worked on anything. Three weeks in the jungle getting shot at, and I still had to come home and fix the damn gate. Story of my life.

  One step beyond the gate, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I continued walking, but kept my hand near the butt of the 9mm tucked into my belt. Someone uninvited breathed my air, and I had no intention of being ambushed at home.

  The intruder quickly gave herself away, stepping from the shadowed porch and into the sunlight. Tall, too thin, and tired looking, she pushed limp, dark hair back from her face. "Maleck Gibson?"

  It took me a moment to register her use of the name on my current legal documents. "You a process server?" One of the hazards of my work was the need to conceal my real identity.

  "What?" She blinked in momentary confusion. "No. I was told you might be able to help me."

  All my senses went on even higher alert. A very limited number of people knew about my actual work, and none of them would just give that information out freely. I shrugged. "In what way? I build roads. You need one, I might be able to help."

  "Just hear me out, please?"

  I sighed. "Look, I don't know you. I just got home. I'm not much in the mood for chit chat."

  A spark of defiance flashed in her pale eyes. "You're also a jerk, but that's beside the point. I'm Jessica Niels. My sister is in trouble, and no one will help. My husband is totally against this, but I had to try. I spoke to a man who calls himself King Rufus. He said if anyone would take the job, it was you."

  "I don't know anyone by that name." Why the fuck did Rufus always send me the dead end cases and rescues? At least now I knew how she found me. Rufus acted as a sort of coordinator for the loosely organized group of soldiers-for-hire I became part of when my real life went down the drain. Unwanted Soldiers. The name fit us all to a T.

  "He said tell you he could have sent me to Williams."

  "Fuck." Bastard knew how to get my attention. The thought of a female client being sent to that depraved son-of-a-bitch turned my stomach. "Okay, let's go inside."

  She seemed nervous as a cat at a hound convention, but she nodded, and followed when I stepped up on the porch and unlocked the door. "I have all the information with me."

  "First things first. I haven't had real food in a month, and I'm starved." I waved her toward a stool at the island counter. "You sit and talk. I'll listen and cook." I grabbed two steaks from the freezer. "How do you like your steak?"

  Confusion softened her features for a few seconds. "I, uh…medium well."

  I took the time to heat the cast-iron skillet before I dropped the steaks in. Within minutes, I had the steaks sizzling. "Okay, tell me."

  "My sister, Lauren, is dating a man that abuses her. He's cut her off from friends and family, and he's above the law." Her voice shook a little, but she still sounded determined.

  With the meat seared on both sides, I turned the temperature down and covered it to finish cooking. "No one's above the law." Of course they were, but I refused to make shit easy for her. If she bothered to track me down, she must have some reason to believe no one else could do it.

  "A Presidential candidate is."

  My jaw threatened to hit the floor. "Who are we talking about?"

  "U.S. Senator Jared Richardson."

  "Huh. Okay, go on." I checked the steaks, and put a container of frozen leftover roasted potatoes in the microwave. This job just might prove interesting enough to pull me out of my vacation. I doubted it, but maybe.

  "Lauren ran a small art gallery in DC, and that's where she met him, almost two years ago. They started dating, and I guess it was okay at first. A few months later, I asked her about an odd bruise on her arm, and he overheard. I haven't seen her since. Gradually, he's pushed the rest of the family away, too." She took a thick manila folder from her bag. "All our attempts to get her away from him have failed."

  "Can't she just leave if she wants?" My reluctance to butt into a domestic situation probably showed. My normal gig involved rescuing hostages from drug lords, retrieving stolen objects, and that sort of thing.

  Mrs. Niels shook her head. "As far as I know, she refuses."

  The microwaved dinged. "Look, if she doesn't want to leave him, how am I supposed to help? I'd hate to take your money, take the risk, and have her turn around and go right back." I hated to point out the obvious, but in that kind of situation, you couldn't save someone who didn't want to be saved.

  "We don't know why she hasn't left. She wasn't raised to be a victim. He has some sort of hold on her." Thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. "It doesn't matter if she wants to leave or not. She has to. This man is a serial abuser. The last woman he dated died in a mysterious car accident." She slid an envelope across the counter. "Mom got this three weeks ago."

  I wiped my hands carefully before picking it up, and slipped out the thin sheaf of papers. The first thing I noticed was the high quality of the paper. The handwritten note enfolded several photographs, but I waited to look at them.

  You don't know me, but a few years ago, I sat where you do now. My daughter dated the same man, and I was happy for her at first. When we questioned her about the bruises, he found ways to keep us from seeing her, and then from speaking to her. Not long after that, she died. I can't stand by and watch another young woman die at his hands. If you love your daughter, do not take no for an answer. Get her away from him.

  The snapshots showed a pretty, laughing young woman, the same woman wearing heavy makeup to cover a bruise to her jaw, and the same woman with the Senator gripping her arm with brutal force.

  "I can see where this would worry you, but it doesn't prove anything." I returned everything to the envelope and slid it back to her. The food was ready, so I made two plates, and passed one over to her, along with a bottle of beer. "Sorry, I haven't been to the store. Don't have anything else right now."

  She opened the beer and took a sip right away. "Beer is fine with me." She took some papers out of the manila folder. "These are letters from the families of women he has dated, all saying he abused his girlfriends."

  I glanced at one of the letters. "That's all well and good, but it means absolutely nothing. Without statements from his exes, these are useless."

  "Useless in court, and all that." She stabbed a bite of steak with her fork. "But proof enough for us that she's in danger." She chewed her steak. "Look, if it's about money, we'll pay you, whatever it takes. My family has the resources. I thought guys like you didn't care so much about what the job was?"

  "Guys like me?" My hackles went up a little. I didn't like being lumped into a group with anyone, especially not criminals and thugs.

  Those thin shoulders went up again. "Mercenaries. Guys who'll do a dangerous job for the right pay."

  Okay, when she put it in those terms, I really couldn't argue the point. That's exactly what I was. "Maybe I'm picky."

  "I'm sure." She grinned. "I never mistook you for stupid. Will you at least look it over, see if it's something you can do?"

  I sighed. "Alright, but no guarantees. I might look at it and decide there's too low a chance of success. I don't take suicide missions."

  She nodded and continued to eat, and I tucked into my steak. Having someone else in my house made me feel awkward. She seemed okay, but I still preferred she just finish eating and leave. I built this place with my own hands, and visitors always seemed like some kind of violation.

  She finished eating and offered to clean up. "No, I'll get it."

  "Nonsense. You cooked, and I need you to look over those things before I leave. Let me take care of the dishes." Her brows settled into a determined line.

  "Fine." I opened the folder and started sorting through the contents, quickly losing myself in it. Mrs. Niels finished the dishes and returned to the stool across from me, all without saying a word.

  A couple dozen photographs, all taken with a telephoto lens, showed the sister sporting different injuries, from simple bruises, to an arm in a sling. Notes on the backs detailed the explanation La
uren gave for the injuries. Ran into a door. Slipped and fell. Stumbled on the stairs. All the things I learned to look for in my subordinates' wives in my old life.

  When men in combat arms specialties in the Army returned from deployment, the risks for domestic violence went up as couples struggled to find a dynamic that worked again. As an NCO, I was sometimes more likely to spot the signs than those higher in the command structure. It was something we were trained to watch for, just like signs of substance abuse, addiction, or other behaviors that risked mission readiness.

  The troubled gray eyes in those pictures got to me, awakening a sort of protectiveness I never knew existed within me. Always before, when I rescued hostages, the people meant nothing to me, other than my job. The only reason I needed to save them was to get paid, and get another win on the record. This one…I saw her as a person.

  I shook the weird feeling off, and chalked it up to exhaustion. Mrs. Niels was right. Her sister, Lauren, was in big trouble. Senator Richardson was a powerful man, and he liked getting his way, precisely the kind of man I hated. I had no doubt of his guilt. Or that I wanted to help.

  Shit. Why should I want to take this mission? My hatred for powerful men who treated everyone else as pawns in a game, or simply took whatever they wanted, couldn't factor into the decision. Neither could the weird sense of the victim as someone I wanted to save.

  I had to consider it logically. The job wasn't a big payday kind of thing, not like rescuing a mining company executive from a Columbian cartel. And it would be dangerous as hell, not something I could simply shoot my way out of. Richardson possessed the resources to make anything happen. One slip and I would disappear, and so would Lauren, or worse.

  I looked at the snapshot of her again. Something in her damn eyes drew me, moth to the flame. "I'll do some re-con, see what I can find out." I sighed again. Looked like I had a new job. Learning more wasn't likely to dissuade me at this point.