Midnight Revenge (A Killer Instincts Novel, Band 7) - Softcover

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Elle Kennedy is the New York Times bestselling and RITA-nominated author of the Outlaws series, the Killer Instincts series, the Briar U series, and many more novels. She grew up in the suburbs of Toronto, Ontario, and holds a BA in English from York University. From an early age, she knew she wanted to be a writer and actively began pursuing that dream when she was a teenager. She loves strong heroines, alpha heroes, and just enough heat and danger to keep things interesting!

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Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

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

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Excerpt from CLAIMED

Chapter 1

Two months ago

Oaxaca, Mexico

“You need to pull him out.”

Just as Derek “D” Pratt had anticipated, his blunt command caused silence to fall over the line. But making this call had been unavoidable. He’d held his tongue for months—fuck, almost four months now—and it was time to make sure the boss knew that one of their men had become a liability.

Still, it felt like he was ratting out Macgregor, and although D was many things, a rat was not one of them. He knew when to keep his mouth shut. Most days he preferred it. But if the choice came down to snitching on a teammate or staying quiet and watching that teammate get himself killed, then he’d sing like a fucking canary.

And people accused him of having no honor.

“Is it that bad?” Jim Morgan’s gruff voice slid into D’s ear, and he could picture the other man back at their compound in Costa Rica, sucking on a cigarette and pacing the stone terrace as he worked over the implications of this latest hiccup.

D took a drag of his own smoke, then blew a gray cloud into the night and watched it dissipate slowly. No breeze tonight. Not much humidity either. In fact, the temperature had taken a dramatic dip from afternoon to evening. Earlier it’d been so hot that he’d stripped off his shirt while waiting for the doc to treat Macgregor, and now he was in a threadbare hooded sweatshirt, wishing he hadn’t forgotten his jacket in the chopper.

The small brick building that housed the clinic was three hours from Oaxaca and nestled at the base of the mountain, its isolated location making it the ideal place for an in-and-out patch job. D and the other men on Morgan’s team of operatives had paid many visits to this clinic over the years. Sofia Amaro, the sole physician in charge, didn’t bat an eye anymore when one of the mercenaries showed up bloody and broken and requiring a quick fix.

“It’s bad,” D confirmed. “He almost got both of us killed this morning, not to mention Ruiz, the fucking person we were supposed to be protecting.”

“You told me Delgado’s men engaged.”

“They did. With the ceiling. One of them fired a warning shot after Ruiz said something that pissed off Delgado. The motherfuckers were trying to make a point.” Aggravation bubbled in his throat as the morning’s clusterfuck buzzed through his mind. “Macgregor shot and killed that guard, Jim. He lost his cool and snapped.”

Christ, they’d been lucky to get out of there alive, which probably wouldn’t have been the case if the meeting had taken place in cartel territory rather than at the neutral site chosen by the DEA. Morgan’s team had been tasked with protecting Agent Joseph Ruiz while he negotiated with Delgado, a major cog in the cartel machine who’d been willing to cooperate with the DEA in exchange for . . . for who the fuck knew what, because they hadn’t even reached the demands portion of the meeting. Because of Liam fucking Macgregor.

Thanks to pure, blind luck and their armory of skill, D and Liam had managed to keep Ruiz alive during the gunfight and shove him into the armored truck outside, and then D had floored it all the way back to Guadalajara.

Now the DEA was foaming at the mouth because of the botched meeting, and Liam was sedated in a hospital room because he’d taken a bullet to the shoulder and refused to swallow his pain meds. It was like dealing with a goddamn child.

“He’s done,” D told his boss, taking another deep pull on his cigarette. “This Sullivan thing has screwed with his head, and if you don’t bench him—indefinitely—then he’s going to get himself killed. He’ll get us all killed.”

Morgan sighed. “I was hoping sending him out on jobs might distract him.”

“Bad call. Now he’s just distracted in the field. Pull him out, or I’ll drag him back to the compound myself and lock him in the tunnels.”

A tired chuckle sounded in his ear. “And you wonder why everyone’s terrified of you. You need to learn some diplomacy instead of forcing people to bend to your will.”

“I don’t force shit. I do what needs to be done.”

There was a beat. “How’s he doing? Did Sofia get the bullet out?”

“She did, and he’s fine—physically anyway. Mentally, he’s fucked. He’s one bad decision away from hopping a plane to Dublin and shooting answers out of people.”

“Shit. All right. The moment Sofia clears him for travel, bring him home. I’ll call Ruiz and placate him, but the DEA is pretty fucking pissed. Might be the last time they contract us out.”

“Who cares? Government jobs are a bitch anyway.”

“Yeah, but government allies are an asset,” Morgan countered. “We could’ve used Ruiz if the Sullivan thing ends up being connected to the cartels.”

The Sullivan thing. Even though he was guilty of using the phrase himself, he hated that they were referring to their teammate’s disappearance like that. Like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal, so big that Liam Macgregor was lying on a gurney right now with a bullet wound in his arm.

“Is that what you think?” D asked in a low voice. “That Sully might’ve gotten mixed up with a cartel? Because now you’re reaching.”

“I know I’m fucking reaching, but what the hell else am I supposed to do? It’s been four months. Sully’s gone off the grid before, but he’s never stayed away this long without making contact.” Morgan sounded as frustrated and confused as he’d been when D had called him from Dublin in October to tell him that Sullivan Port had gone AWOL.

“We’ll find him, Jim.”

After a split-second pause, Morgan said, “I know.”

That nanosecond of silence, unnoticeable unless you knew Jim Morgan as well as D did, was enough to stiffen every muscle in his body.

Son of a bitch. The boss had given up.

After months of tapping every contact available to the team, months of following every lead and leaving no stone unturned, Morgan had given up on Sullivan. He didn’t expect to find him. Or, rather, he didn’t expect to find him alive.

The knowledge triggered a burst of anger in D’s gut, along with a sickening rush of guilt that caught him completely off guard. He didn’t experience that emotion often.

His past choices, the mistakes he’d made . . . He didn’t dwell on them, because regret was a waste of time. When he made a decision, he was fully prepared for the consequences. If he took a life, he made peace with the action before he even pulled the trigger. And once the deed was done, it was fucking done. No looking back. No moaning and griping and feeling bad about it. Guilt and regrets were for...