Hard Core: Onyx Group, #1

By Jennifer Lowery

He takes lives. She saves them.

A supposedly hassle-free job for mercenary Cristian Slade becomes a mission of mercy when he saves a life instead of taking one. Slade's new mission might be his most dangerous yet, because the danger is to his heart.

Tragedy has sent esteemed surgeon Alana O'Grady to a remote Nicaraguan island where she immerses herself in the lives of a native tribe, using her talents for goodwill instead of wealth and prestige. But life turns upside down when her work requires she protect a rugged mercenary who commands her attention when she's awake and dominates her dreams while she sleeps.

Doctoring Cristian puts her entire tribe in danger from the man who's hunting him. Is it her professional oath or her unproffessional attraction to him keeping her from sending him away to heal on ihs own? Alana's fire warms Cristian's heart, but he's a hardened assassin and has no business falling for someone like her. Can they fight hard enough to keep what they might have together?

Content Warning: Sexual content

Previously Published by Lyrical Press, 2012

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Lowery
• Release date: Jan 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781498980739

Book preview

Chapter 1

Remote Island off the coast of Nicaragua

Slade belly-crawled across the jungle floor. Patience and stealth: both were essential if he wanted to survive. He checked the Gerber knife strapped to his thigh, felt the weight of the rifle slung across his back. His gaze locked on the man casually smoking a cigar in the distance. Cuban, by the scent of it.

Perspiration trickled between his shoulder blades. God, he hated the dark, dank jungle. His lungs ached when he breathed in the thick, wet air. He preferred his beach house on the west coast or penthouse in Chicago. At this point he’d be grateful for the rustic cabin he kept in the Rockies.

He continued to drag his body through the dense underbrush. The sting of an insect bit into the exposed area of skin on his neck. His shoulders tensed with effort to resist slapping it. To slap at it and take his focus off the objective could be fatal. He let the insect take its fill and move on.

Fifteen feet now. Close enough to see the color of the mark’s eyes. Slade settled into a prone position, body slack. He positioned the FRF-2 on solid ground and sighted down the scope, his finger wrapped feather-light around the trigger.

The cacophony of monkeys screeching in the trees faded to the slow, steady rise and fall of his own chest. The soft thrum of his heartbeat. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek. Bugs swarmed his head. Some went in for a bite or sting, but he didn’t waver from the target.

The man in his sights crossed one leg over the other, inhaled deeply on his cigar and blew out a lazy stream of smoke, unaware he was in the enemy’s crosshairs. Slade’s finger tightened on the trigger.

A noise which didn’t belong registered before he could pull the trigger. Cold steel of a gun barrel pressed against his temple.

Let go of the weapon. A hard, accented voice gave the order.

Slade let his hands slide off his rifle and drop to the ground.

On your back. Slowly.

Slade rolled and drove a booted foot it into the guy’s knee, bringing him to the ground with a grunt of pain. Within seconds Slade pinned the guy beneath him, a knife to his throat and an arm locked behind his back, dangerously close to breaking it.

You’re making a big mistake, the guy choked out. Little drops of blood pebbled where the razor sharp edge of Slade’s knife pressed against his flesh.

The distinct click of numerous guns cocking, one after the other, echoed through the jungle. Slade mentally counted ten of them, locked and loaded, and aimed at him.

He dropped the knife, let go of the man’s arm and raised his hands in surrender.

You should not have done that. Pain exploded in the back of his head. The ground slammed into him before everything went black.

* * * *

A punch to the ribs knocked Slade and the chair to the floor. He landed hard on his shoulder with a grunt, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Recon when he’d come to had revealed cement walls without windows and a steel door with a heavy lock. Not a room a prisoner escaped. Built for interrogation—not the first he’d been in—definitely soundproofed.

He breathed shallowly through aching ribs and braced for the next round of interrogation. One man demanded answers as to why he’d had the jefe in his sights and two others did his dirty work. None of which he would answer. He would die before he betrayed the group he worked for.

A pair of hands dragged him off the floor and forced him back in the chair. The scent of Cuban cigars penetrated his nose. El jefe.

You haven’t uttered one word since you were brought here. The mark, Gavin Ross—an American—spoke, narrowed green eyes curious as he studied Slade. He clasped his hands behind his back. Your will is commendable, if not foolish. We both know you cannot hold out forever.

Slade remained silent.

What I can’t figure out is which agency hired you to kill me. FBI? DEA? No, the CIA. This stinks of their work. You’re very good, I’ll give you that. You got closer to me than anyone ever has. Military background? Marine, maybe? I doubt it was the Navy. You don’t have the devotion with this career choice. I’ll go with Marine. Sniper. Am I close?

Slade said nothing. He wouldn’t disillusion the man by telling him he was partially right. He’d been military, but not anymore.

You choose silence? I suppose that leaves us at a stalemate, doesn’t it? Ross circled the chair. I find myself left with a dilemma. What to do with you? I could kill you and eliminate the risk of you fulfilling your contract. Or I could hire you.

Slade stared at the wall.

Hire you for what, you might ask. By the way, I know a very good doctor, if you accept my proposition. A smile ghosted past his lips and disappeared.

Slade swallowed, tasting blood. No way in hell would he sign on with this man or any other like him. Criminals were criminals. He didn’t ask, didn’t care. He would do the job he’d been hired to do. The leader of Onyx Group, Patrick Gallagher, handled the paperwork. Slade was the hired gun who took care of business, ridding the world of bad guys. What he knew of Gavin Ross could fit into the palm of his hand. What the man had done to bring him here didn’t matter.

Come work for me and head up my security team. You keep mercenaries like yourself from getting to me and I’ll pay you triple what the government is paying you to eradicate me. He nodded, brows drawn in thought, circling the chair. You have proven you have the skills to do the job and I could use someone with your capability. I promise you won’t regret it. I can give you things you’ve only dreamed of.

If the fool knew what Slade dreamed of, he’d withdraw the offer. He spit a stream of blood on the floor, narrowly missing an expensive leather shoe.

I find the adage about keeping your enemies close to be true. How about a little incentive? With a snap of his fingers, two men moved to Slade’s side and picked him up by his armpits. They carried him out of the room, feet dragging, and into a narrow hallway. Things were a blur after that as his head started to swim. Stars danced in front of his eyes when the pain in his ribs intensified and overtook him. Everything went black.

* * * *

Slade opened his eyes. He lay on a large bed in a luxurious bedroom. The faint scent of woman’s perfume drifted past his nose. A fan whirled slowly overhead, blowing cool air over his heated skin. In three corners of the room cameras were mounted to the ceiling, red lights blinking to show they were active. No doubt there were bugs hidden in the room, too. He was naked and still covered in blood.

"Ah, senor, you are awake. Come, I have prepared your bath."

Slade rose to a sitting position and sucked in a sharp breath. Hurt like a bitch to breathe. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The curvaceous dark-haired woman stood a few feet away, towels in hand, wearing a robe with nothing underneath. This was incentive? Beautiful women at his disposal? He didn’t need Gavin Ross for that.

Grunting with effort, he rose to his feet and pressed a hand to his ribcage while he scanned the room in case they weren’t alone. With a criminal like Ross, he could never be too sure. Whatever his plan, Slade needed to be one step ahead.

He followed the woman into a bathroom the same size as the bedroom and just as lavish, with gold plated faucets and black lacquered counter tops glossed to a shine. Even the glass doors on the shower were trimmed in gold. Unimpressed, Slade leaned against the sink for a moment to breathe through the fire in his side. Dots danced in front of his eyes, but didn’t drop him.

As soon as they were out of sight from the cameras, he snuck an arm around the beauty’s throat and whispered, Scream and I’ll snap your neck.

* * * *

Slade lowered the body of the guard he had lured into the bedroom to the floor. The dark haired beauty was tied to the bed, unconscious, from precisely placed pressure to her carotid artery. Painless, effective.

He glanced both ways down the hallway before closing the door. Quickly, he stripped the guard of his clothes and put them on. They were a size too small, but they’d work.

He grabbed the AK-47 out of the guy’s dead fingers and went in search of an escape. Steel bars barricaded the window behind the curtains.

The house eerily quiet, he crept through a library to find the windows barred there too.

Fuck.

Paranoid bastard. Ross owned the private, deserted island. Who the hell was he trying to keep out? Or in?

Slade gripped his side where fire burned and moved toward the door. His hand was on the brass knob when he heard voices on the other side. He slipped between two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and waited, weapon raised and ready. Blood pounded in his ears as he breathed through the pain wracking his body in waves.

Sweat beaded his forehead as footsteps pounded past the door. Good chance they already knew he had escaped.

He wasted no time and left the library in search of a way out. Following hallways, avoiding detection, he ended up in the kitchen. A middle-aged woman in a black dress and white apron walked through the back door, leaving it open as she held a lemon to her nose. She looked up, startled, at the same time Slade came in.

Her eyes widened, dropped to his clothes and the gun in his hand, then came back up to meet his. Recognition didn’t register and he knew before she opened her mouth he was screwed. He sprinted for the open door and burst through just as the woman started screaming.

Outside, he stumbled over a potted plant and fell to his knees, one hand braced on the ground as his vision narrowed. Footsteps pounded through the kitchen, a pan clanged to the ground. He pushed to his feet and ran through the gardens toward the jungle bordering the house.

A bullet zipped past his head and he ducked. His head swam. Focused on getting his bearings in the darkness, he dropped to a crouch and winced as the stolen clothes bit into his crotch.

Jungles were deceptive, the darkness unlike anywhere else in the world. Danger could lurk a foot away and you would never see it through the true black. No light from the stars or moon made it past the trees’ heavy canopy.

His camp lay hidden seven clicks northwest of Ross’s estate. Slade headed on a diagonal to his left and kept low as he waited for his night vision to adjust. Ross’s thugs were hot on his tail. The guy had no shortage of soldiers. Sounded like an army crashing through the jungle behind him. Their flashlights made it difficult for him to move without being seen. Having no night vision goggles put him at a disadvantage.

A bullet ripped through his side. White-hot pain brought him to his knees. He cursed the lucky bastard as blood seeped from the wound. Left with no choice but to stay on the move, he clamped a hand over his side and pushed to his feet.

They were gaining on him.

He stumbled to his knees again. Warmth leaked through his fingers. His ears began to ring. With a shake of his head he tried to clear the ringing, but it only got worse.

Gunfire erupted around him.

With a curse he tried to stand, only to have his legs give out. Weak, he dropped down and crawled through the underbrush on all fours. He might not be in any shape to fight, but he had the skills to hide. They wouldn’t be able to follow his blood trail until dawn. By then he would be on his way back to the States with Ross dead and a contract fulfilled. No lucky goddamn bullet would keep him from finishing the job.

A creature moved beneath his hand, hissed and shot through the bush. Slade froze, listened, then kept moving.

God, he hated the jungle.

* * * *

Alana O’Grady staggered out of the old church and dropped down on a crumbled stone step. Weary, she drew in a deep breath and let the rich, humid air saturate her lungs. She stared down at her hands, scrubbed clean.

"Is the bebe well?" A woman asked softly in the darkness.

The light coming through the doorway shone on the tribal elder’s dark, leathery face and Alana nodded. "Yes, the bebe is fine. A smile touched her lips as she remembered how many hours she’d spent bringing the breech baby into the world. The mother had insisted she carried a boy because of how active he was. A girl."

A knowing grin stretched across Maia’s face. "She is healthy, si?"

A bit small but healthy. She’s a fighter, she’ll do fine.

Maia’s smile turned wise. "Si. Buenas noches, get some sleep. You’ve earned it."

I think I’ll bathe first. Good night, Maia.

As the old woman shuffled away Alana rose from the steps and crossed the clearing to the thatched-roof hut behind the church. She didn’t need a torch to see through the inky darkness. She knew the way by heart. The jungle had been her home for a long time.

With a soft knock she entered the small home and smiled at the thin man sitting hunched over a journal, a lantern burning low at his side. He turned when she walked in, and put down his pen.

Alana. Her father’s voice came out weak and raspy. Not like the strong man who had taught her everything he knew. The delivery went well?

Alana rested a hand on his shoulder. Just fine. A girl.

Her father’s graying brows rose. A girl? That is a surprise. Strong will, that one. How are you doing?

She tucked her other hand into the pocket of her cargo pants. I’m fine. Tired, but fine.

Her father’s hand covered hers where it rested on his shoulder. I’m proud of you, Alana. You’ve done your mother and me proud.

Tears filled her eyes and she quickly blinked them away. If he knew her secrets, he wouldn’t be proud. The burden weighed heavy on her shoulders, as it had since the day they’d left Boston. She hated the lie, but truth would only cause her father more grief. She wouldn’t do that to him.

You look tired. Go, get some rest.

I’ll help you into bed first. She moved to help him out of his chair, but he waved her away.

I have some more writing to do. I won’t be long. You go. I can manage.

Leaving her father his pride and his privacy, Alana leaned over, kissed his cheek and left quietly. With a heavy heart she walked toward her hut, set slightly apart from the rest. Reserved for the medico.

Once inside, she stripped out of her clothes and by the light of a lantern, gave herself a sponge bath using the bowl and pitcher of water provided by the women of the tribe. They left it every night and she never failed to use it. A small offering in exchange for the services she provided them.

Within minutes she changed into pajamas, a long sleeved shirt and drawstring pants, let down the mosquito net and climbed into bed, exhausted, but unable to sleep. Thoughts raced through her head, tormenting her with things she couldn’t change and the cruel fate Gavin Ross had delivered her. Another secret she would never reveal to her father. Seeing disappointment in his eyes and knowing she’d put it there would level her. The best she could do was make the most of their time together.

And make it last a lifetime.

Sleep evaded her, so she got out of bed, put on her boots, grabbed a lantern and slipped into the night. Only one place would bring her solace.

Minutes later, Alana hung her clothes over a fallen tree, stepped to the edge of the pond and stared into the sparkling pool lit by her lantern. Natural rock surrounded crystal clear water and dense, green foliage interspersed with brilliant tropical flowers. Her favorite place. A waterfall poured softly over a rocky ledge high above, creating a place of beauty no man could ever duplicate.

Her refuge when she needed to clear her head. Most often at night. The jungle was a dangerous place and the men of the tribe forbade her to go out after dark, though it did no good. She didn’t abide by their rules, although she participated in many of the rituals, but still went her own way. The hand-carved knife she carried would protect her.

She dove into the pool, the cool water driving away her troubled thoughts. She didn’t surface until she neared the waterfall. Calmer now, she dragged in deep breaths of air and pushed the hair out of her face. Gradually, the stream soothed away her troubles.

The jungle noises didn’t scare her. They had for the first year, but now they comforted her.

She rolled onto her back and floated across the pool, eyes closed, drowning out the sounds. The jungle came alive at night. She’d been intrigued, and fearful, the first time she heard the monkeys and macaws. Now, she barely noticed.

Her mind and body began to relax until soon she felt tired enough to sleep. She swam languidly toward the shore and let the last of her unease drift away.

She stepped out of the water and reached for her clothes. An unfamiliar noise stopped her. Cautiously, she looked around while reaching into the pocket of her pants for her knife.

The sound didn’t come again, but the hairs on the back of her neck bristled. Jaguars were night hunters and she’d run across a couple in her time here, but this was different.

No one from the tribe swam at night. The men hunted sometimes, but they didn’t come here, and none of them would invade her privacy. They would consider it a disrespect to watch her swim in the nude.

On occasion, people came to the island to explore, or lost travelers would stumble across it, but not often. Gavin Ross pretty much took care of anyone who wanted to visit his island.

Just the thought of Gavin Ross made her go cold. He was a lot of things, but not the type to hide in the bushes and watch her. He’d made it known where he stood when it came to her. So who, or what, was out there?

I know you’re there. She spoke clearly into the night. You may as well show yourself.

The bush rustled some distance away and she tightened her hand around the handle of the knife. Something moved, followed by a grunt, then a loud thump.

Without letting go of the knife, she dressed quickly while keeping her eyes on the jungle where she’d heard the sound. One of Ross’s guards maybe? She wouldn’t put it past them to spy on her. They were as despicable as their boss. On the flip side, her experience with Gavin showed him to be the type of man who demanded obedience and control. If one of his guards had snuck off, he would know about it. Given his interest in her, he never would allow one of them to spy on her. Especially while skinny-dipping.

Well, she wasn’t hanging around to find out. That was a too-stupid-to-live moment in a horror film. She picked up the lantern and booked it for home.

A few steps later, she gasped and dropped her lantern.

Chapter 2

Slade heard her crashing through the jungle before he saw her.

His hands were the only weapon he had and they shook too damn much to do him any good. He’d lost the AK-47 somewhere in the jungle. He didn’t remember putting it down, but the weapon was gone. The bullet he’d taken must have done more damage than he’d thought. Felt like the damn thing was still lodged. He couldn’t afford an infection in this environment.

Crouched low, he waited, hands poised to defend against whoever came toward him. The lantern, a beacon in the night, wavered, then fell.

In his narrowing vision he saw her and blinked, certain he hallucinated. The woman stopped a few feet away, her fiery red hair, aflame in the light, clinging to her shoulders in wet strands. Slender and lithe, her startled gaze trapped him.

He must be imagining things. Lost too much blood. This was a remote island in the Caribbean Sea. Only one man lived here. The one he was supposed to kill. And would still eliminate as soon as he felt better.

Maybe he hadn’t made it off Ross’s estate after all. Must be dying in the bastard’s basement and she was a figment of his imagination.

He’d always liked redheads.

This could be a ploy. Ross may have sent this redheaded beauty to kill him. For most men, women were a weakness, but not Slade. He’d put a wall around his heart long ago. He could go long periods without sex. He’d gone this long, he’d go longer. Ross would be disappointed when Slade sent this one back.

He wasn’t going to wait for her to take him out first. Gathering his waning strength, he attacked.

* * * *

The man leapt at her, his hands poised for her throat, but he stumbled, swayed, and did a face-plant at her feet. Alana set her lantern upright and knelt down beside him, knife gripped in her hand in case this was a ruse.

But when she nudged his shoulder, he didn’t move. She tucked the knife into her pocket and carefully rolled him onto his back. It took effort. He was over six foot and solid muscle.

She gasped. For a second she could only stare at the sharp angles of his battered face, a mass of bruises and scrapes, some open and bleeding, others red and angry. Someone had broken his nose and split his lip open. Yet, she couldn’t look away.

He’d been worked over good.

She could think of only one person capable of such brutality on the island. Gavin Ross. The guard’s uniform confirmed it. What had this man done to warrant such a beating?

Not the time to worry about it. Quickly doing an on-the-spot assessment, she discovered bruises and bumps on the rest of his body and a gunshot wound in his side. Nothing broken. Fractured ribs. She had to get him back to the church before the wound became infected.

How to get him there? He was too heavy for her to carry and it would take too long to go back to camp and get help. He needed treatment now. The tribesmen wouldn’t be happy about having one of Gavin’s guards in the village. They would have to deal. It didn’t matter this man was on Gavin’s payroll. As a doctor, she helped people. She would treat him no matter what and she wouldn’t ask why his employer had brutalized and shot him. Probably better if she didn’t know.

She gave him a good shake and leaned over to speak directly to him. Open your eyes.

He groaned and tried to push her hands away, but she didn’t let go. She had no idea how much blood he’d lost. The bullet needed to be removed.

Another shake and a light slap to his cheek brought him around with an angry grunt. One eye was swollen shut; the other gazed at her with an unsteady stare.

Don’t talk, she said when he began to speak. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help, but I need you to help me first. You have to walk back to my camp. I can’t get you there alone. Do you understand what I’m saying?

Hell, yes, I understand you. I don’t need help. He started to sit up and hissed out a breath.

She pushed him back down, hands on his muscular chest. He glared. She ignored it.

I have to wrap your ribs first, or you won’t get far. Just lay there and be still.

He did as told, but she didn’t think it was by choice. He looked ready to pass out again.

Bastard got off a lucky shot, he muttered, eyes rolling in his head as she lifted his shirt and prodded the gunshot wound. Blood seeped from the edges.

If he was trying to kill you, I’d say he wasn’t so lucky. She tore a strip off the bottom of her shirt and wrapped it around his narrow waist to cover the wound, stop the bleeding