Midnight Rescue Read online

  Advance Praise for

  Midnight Rescue

  “With a large cast of colorful characters, multiple intertwined plot threads, and sick, twisted villains, Midnight Rescue is a high-stakes story about overcoming the darkest, most depraved side of humanity. Fans will be eager to see what Ms. Kennedy has in store for her mercenaries.”

  —Shannon K. Butcher, author of the Edge series

  Praise for Elle Kennedy

  and Her Other Novels

  “A must read.”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews

  “An undeniably erotic story.… The sex scenes are incredible and the characters are compelling… a great read!”

  —TwoLips Reviews

  “Wickedly entertaining.”

  —Joyfully Reviewed

  “A top-notch tale.”

  —Romantic Times (4½ stars)

  “Elle Kennedy makes her characters sexy, lovable, and realistic.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “[A] heart-wrenching, sensual story that will make you laugh and cry as the characters come to life before your very eyes… this is one emotional roller-coaster ride you don’t want to miss.”

  —Long and Short Reviews

  MIDNIGHT

  RESCUE

  A KILLER INSTINCTS NOVEL

  ELLE KENNEDY

  A SIGNET ECLIPSE BOOK

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58525-2

  First Printing, May 2012

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Leeanne Kenedy, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book is a solitary process, but I couldn’t have done it without the support, guidance, and encouragement of some very wonderful people:

  Jesse Feldman, my editor at NAL, whose advice is always spot-on and whose faith in this series is utterly contagious.

  My agent, Don Fehr at Trident Media Group, for taking me under his wing and finding this series a good home.

  And, of course, my family and friends, who continue to encourage me—and who don’t take offense when I repeatedly cancel plans by giving my trademark excuse: I have to write!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Elle Kennedy’s

  Chapter 1

  Corturo, Colombia

  “Are you ready to talk?”

  Abby cranked open her right eye—the left one was too swollen—and stared up at the harsh face of her captor. It was an unpleasant face, a menacing one. Pale blue eyes cold enough to freeze an ocean, hollow cheeks, a two-inch diagonal scar slicing his left cheek.

  Devlin.

  His thin lips curled in an angry frown. “Who are you? Who do you work for?”

  She kept silent.

  Gripping the whip in one hand, he crept closer, catlike. “Still determined to stay quiet?” He smirked. “That will change. A few more visits with me and you’ll reconsider.”

  He raised the whip high over his head. It sliced through the air with a hiss and connected with her bare stomach. Pain jolted through her.

  Block it out. They can hurt you only if you let them.

  The whip slapped her thighs. Her hands were bound, tied to a rusty pipe over her head. Her feet suffered the same fate, attached to a metal peg protruding from the cold stone floor. The room smelled like sweat and blood.

  Mind over matter.

  He can’t hurt you.

  Abby repeated the mantra in her head, hoping to convince her aching, bleeding body that the whip couldn’t hurt it. She didn’t know how much longer she could take this.

  “Turn her around,” Devlin ordered the silent guard by the door. “No need to damage those breasts any further.” He leaned closer, his faint British accent becoming more pronounced as he murmured, “Are they real, luv? I’d bet they are.” He touched the bloody welt on her right breast, then pinched her nipple.

  Abby spat in his face.

  “Bitch.” He retaliated with a vicious backhand.

  The guard approached and turned her body around without untying any of the ropes. Her wrists twisted in an unnatural way, drawing a soundless yelp of pain from her swollen lips. One wrist was definitely sprained, if not broken.

  “Who are you?” Devlin whispered in her ear. His hot breath fanned across her neck in a sadistic caress.

  She mumbled something under her breath.

  He pulled her hair. Hard. Almost tugging it out by the roots. “What was that?”

  “I said I’m your worst nightmare.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Ah, I knew you weren’t the pussycat Blanco claimed you were. I had your number the moment you spilled your drink in his lap at the bistro.” He chuckled. “Clumsy, clumsy Erica, with her big blue eyes and fragile little body. What’s your real name, luv? C’mon, tel
l me. It’ll be our little secret.”

  She feigned boredom. “Call me whatever you want, Devlin.”

  Devlin dragged one finger along her spine. “I admit I liked you better when you were refusing to talk.”

  He made a tsking noise and stepped away. A second later the whip cut into her lower back.

  Dizzying pain.

  “Who are you?”

  Another lash.

  “Who sent you?”

  The whip sliced her skin.

  “It’ll be better for both of us if you talk. I truly hate hurting you like this.”

  She fought a wave of nausea. Her ears started to buzz. “Liar,” she said, wheezing. “You love every minute of what you’re doing to me.”

  He gave a deep laugh. “Ah, but there might be some truth to that.”

  Another lash. Two more. Three. Water poured down her skin. No, not water. Blood. The stench of it filled the air. Oh God, her body hurt. Ted had really worked her over this time.

  No, not Ted. That was a long time ago. Wasn’t it? Her head started to spin. Nothing made sense anymore.

  “I will break you,” Devlin murmured. “Sooner or later, luv, I will break you.”

  She bit her lip. It bled.

  He raised his fist and a second later it came crashing down on her jaw.

  Then everything went black.

  When she awoke, she was back in the cell. It was night. Or afternoon. Hard to tell. It was always dark in the cell. With a groan, Abby tried to sit up but failed.

  Block it out. Sit up.

  She tried again, this time managing to lift herself up. As she nearly keeled over, she braced her hand on the cold ground to steady herself. Bad idea. Her broken wrist objected to being put into use.

  Head spinning again.

  Blood drumming in her ears.

  Blackness.

  When she came to the second time, the faint sound of voices drifted from the end of the dark hall. They would come for her again. Soon. But she wasn’t going to talk, no matter how many beatings they forced her to endure. It would get worse. She knew it would. Soon the beatings would become rapes and the rapes would become torture. But torture would not lead to death. Oh no. Blanco wanted her alive.

  She drew in a breath, hoping the oxygen might clear her foggy head. She wiggled her right foot, tilting it to make sure the flesh-colored Band-Aid was still attached to her skin. It was, and she felt the tiny metal key digging into the sole of her foot. She’d swiped the key from one of the guards when they first brought her in here. Managed to get it off the key ring and everything—the moron hadn’t even blinked. Picking pockets was just one of the many skills with which Jeremy had supplied her. She wouldn’t use the key, though. Not yet.

  Not until the time was right.

  Chapter 2

  A black Mercedes was approaching the fence. From the porch of the compound, Kane Woodland raised his beer to his lips and took a deep swig, narrowing his eyes on the vehicle. The windows were heavily tinted, which made it next to impossible to see the driver. Whoever it was, he or she obviously knew the drill. The sleek car stopped by the intercom box.

  He watched as a long, slender arm emerged from the driver’s-side window and reached for the keypad. One of Morgan’s women? Nah, the guy never brought ladies home. Always drove into town to get his jollies. The compound was off-limits to everyone save members of the team and carefully screened staff.

  And since Jim Morgan knew it the second anyone so much as looked at the compound from a distance, Kane wasn’t surprised when the door behind him opened and Morgan stepped onto the porch. He was a commanding figure—six-three and all muscle, with intense blue eyes and a head of cropped dark hair. Women went wild for him. Men… Well, they usually kept their distance. Or at least the smart ones did. Morgan had Don’t fuck with me written all over him.

  “Fuck,” the man muttered under his breath.

  The radio poking out of Morgan’s front pocket crackled. “Sure about this, boss?” The security man’s voice was riddled with static.

  Morgan radioed back. “Let her in.”

  Kane turned to study the frown creasing the other man’s lips. Morgan’s jaw was stiff, his teeth visibly clenched. Not unusual, though, since the boss was always stiff and frowning. Morgan was as prickly as they came, way too sarcastic for his own good, and God only knew if he ever laughed.

  When Morgan had approached Kane after he’d left the SEALs nearly eight years ago, Kane had hesitated before accepting the job the other man dangled before him. Extraction had always given him the biggest rush when he’d been with the teams, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to work for Morgan, mercenary extraordinaire, the man who never smiled. In the end, he’d decided working for the unsmiling merc was worth it, as long as he was able to continue playing G.I. Joe without being forced to adhere to the strict rules the navy loved oh so much.

  Kane hated rules. The only reason he’d joined Morgan’s team was because he’d been strapped for cash at the time; he’d figured it would be a temporary gig, a few fast jobs and then he’d move on. But he’d quickly come to respect Jim Morgan. The first mission out, Morgan had saved Kane’s ass—big time. But gratitude wasn’t the sole reason he’d stuck around. Morgan had a way of inspiring loyalty in his men. Treated them like equals rather than subordinates. With Morgan, it was no uniform and no rules; sure, the man barked orders at them, but it was easy to say yes, sir when you genuinely liked and respected the guy you were yes, sir–ing.

  Still, it would’ve been nice if his boss weren’t such a prickly bastard most of the time.

  Right now, Morgan seemed extra prickly, his dark gaze fixed on the approaching vehicle. The guy looked… nervous? Nah, no way.

  Kane arched one brow and said, “A friend of yours?”

  “No.”

  The two men stood in silence as the gate creaked open, allowing the car to drive into the courtyard. The Mercedes’ wheels slid over the red dirt, slowing as the vehicle pulled up next to Kane’s silver Escalade.

  Morgan looked like a volcano ready to erupt. A vein throbbed in his forehead, and he kept clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. Well. This was fucking weird. In the eight years they’d worked together, Kane had never seen his boss this agitated.

  Curiosity sparked in his gut. Leaning against the railing, he waited for the driver to show her face.

  And damn, what a face it was.

  The woman who stepped out of the Mercedes belonged in a museum, in an exhibit called “The Most Beautiful Woman in the World.”

  She had the face of an angel—wide-set blue eyes, a delicate upturned nose, sensual red lips that other women would kill for. And that body. Petite and curvy, with full breasts hugged by a tight black tank and shapely legs encased in leather. Angel face and devil body. Damn, what a combo.

  Next to him, Morgan didn’t seem to appreciate the view. In fact, the other man’s shoulders only stiffened again.

  “Hello, Morgan,” the woman called. Oh yeah, that throaty voice definitely suited her.

  She sauntered toward the porch, the heels of her black leather boots snapping against the red dirt beneath them. Her blond hair shifted in the warm afternoon breeze. Great hair, Kane noted. Fell in waves almost down to her ass.

  He felt his body stirring the closer she came, until Morgan uttered one word that killed every flicker of arousal and appreciation.

  “Noelle.”

  Kane forced his mouth to stay closed. Noelle? Noelle? He supposed it could be a coincidence, just another woman with that terrifying name, but Morgan’s next words confirmed Kane’s suspicions.

  “Here to kill me?” the boss said mockingly.

  Holy shit. The queen of fucking assassins, standing on their freaking porch.

  “Of course not—would I really do such a thing?” she drawled.

  Morgan snorted.

  “How’ve you been?” she added, her midnight blue eyes never leaving Morgan’s face.

  He didn’t reply to the
question, but posed one of his own. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Kane saw an indefinable glimmer flash across those fuck-me eyes. Anger? Annoyance?

  Resting one delicate hand on her hip, she cocked her head thoughtfully. “Guess.”

  Morgan released a sharp laugh. “Well, you say you’re not here to kill me. So…” He slanted his head in thought. “Hope it’s not to fuck me, because we both know that’s not gonna happen, baby.”

  Wow. Okay. Morgan might quite possibly be the only man in the world who would dare to call the queen of assassins baby. His balls were that big, apparently.

  Kane wondered if he should discreetly disappear. This conversation had personal written all over it. But he was far too fascinated to leave. Besides, he couldn’t quit staring at that dainty hand she had perched on her hip. Her fingers were long and slender, fingernails manicured and painted bloodred. Those hands were capable of killing men twice her size, or so the stories went.

  Noelle—no last name, as far as he knew—was a legend. A private contractor, she sold her services to various government agencies and the occasional civilian, though rumor had it she only took out slime bags that deserved it. An assassin with a moral code, apparently. Rumor also said the women she employed were just as deadly. Kane’s contact at the CIA had called them chameleons. You didn’t see ’em until they were gunning for you, and by the time you realized the threat, you were dead.