Wrapped Up In You: A Military Romance (Unwanted Soldiers Book 2) Read online

  ©2017 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.

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

  Acknowledgements:

  Model: Matthew Hosea

  Photo by: Golden Czermak - FuriousFotog

  Cover by: Ashley Wheels

  First and foremost, I want to thank all the ladies from the Lowe-Down for all their help and support. Y'all fucking rock, and don't let anyone tell you any different.

  All the other amazing people I've met through Facebook, readers, bloggers, authors, models, photographers, designers, etc., thank you so much for all you do for the Indie book world.

  Matthew, I'm glad we had the chance to work together again. Thanks, man! Golden, I'm honored to have been able to work with you! Mad respect to both of you for all your talent and hard work.

  Ashley Wheels… best Assistant/BabySister in the world. You fucking bring it, girl.

  Tape, as always, thanks for having my back, man. You know what I mean.

  Elyse… I don't even know what to say. You fucking rock my world.

  I hope you enjoy reading Flag's story as much as I've enjoyed writing it, and working with such incredible professionals to bring the story to the cover.

  Prologue

  You know, growing up, I thought my life was fucking hell. Then I grew up and found out. Dodging bullets turned out to be much more difficult than dodging blows from the old man's cane. And then I grew up again. Yeah, you heard me right. Again. That day the damn CIA spooks snatched us up, fresh off patrol, that's when it happened. I really grew the fuck up then.

  Having to forget friends and family? That's fucking nothing. It hurt the rest of the boys, I guess, but to me, it was almost a relief. I didn't have to think about them anymore. No, the hard part for me was having to forget about honor. Deep down, where it counts, that was the most important thing in the world to me.

  See, I grew up hearing how worthless I was, bastard kid of a little whore that couldn't keep her legs closed. As if that weren't bad enough, my bitch of a mother had the balls to fucking walk away, right after she dropped me at her folks. Maybe it wasn't so bad at first, I don't know. Don't remember that far back. But I do remember the day I came home from kindergarten, and all of a sudden, my G-Ma was dead. EVERYTHING good ended for me that fucking day.

  Sometimes I think the only reason the old man didn't just kill me outright was because he knew I had honor. A sense of duty. Stupid me, I took care of the old bastard. Made sure he ate, and didn't burn the house down by falling asleep with a lit cigarette. And he thought I would go to school, get a good job, and take care of him the rest of his life.

  My only refuge from a world that hated me was books. I ate them up, learned every fucking thing I could get my hands on. So even the kids who picked on me because my clothes came from the thrift store had to shut the fuck up when it came to grades. I smoked their asses.

  Around the time I got to middle school, by some miracle, I also hit a growth spurt. I went from skinny and scraggly, to tall and muscled over the summer. Gym class gave me another avenue for revenge, and I took full fucking advantage. So much so that I caught the eye of the football coach. Next thing I knew, he had me suited up and on the field. That was when I learned I was also good at sports. Coaches wanted me on their teams, and that was fine with me, because it meant less time within range of the old man's cane.

  High school came along, and even though it seemed like I excelled at everything, I was still alone. No friends. Other kids still picked on me. The old man still occasionally caught me across the shoulder with that fucking cane.

  On the first day of junior year, I met Azia Mendez when she came into my English class and the only empty seat happened to be beside me. For some reason, that girl was good to me, wanted to be around me, and even asked me to meet her for walks. No one liked her either, because of a last name inherited from a father she never knew. I always figured it had more to do with others being jealous of her effortless beauty, but she refused to believe that. Neither of us had any money, so there were no proms, or movies. Everyone hated us both, so there were no parties, or trips to the lake with friends. And it didn't matter, because we had each other.

  Our scores on those tests they give to see if you might be a good fit for military service had the recruiters camped out in our guidance counsellor's office for weeks. We came up with a plan. Even though we both had offers of scholarships, college was a pipe dream. Scholarships weren't enough to get by on, and one misstep could get it pulled. We decided to enlist, and once we got through basic training, we would get married. Education, career, and a fresh start—what more could a couple of poor kids from the wrong side of town ask for? It was the perfect plan.

  Right up until we were in different units in basic, and never saw each other, were never allowed to communicate. But still, it didn't matter, because we had the plan. And then came graduation day, and no Azia. I asked around and learned she had some kind of health episode and couldn't finish basic.

  I pushed back the panic, signed out, and headed to check on her. On the bus on the way home, I figured it out. We would get married anyway, and she could go to college wherever I got stationed. Still perfect. Right up until I got home and she was nowhere to be found. I went to her house, but it sat empty, abandoned. Fear sucked at me while I asked everyone who lived in the neighborhood. They thought I was bat-shit crazy, but no one knew a fucking thing. I even went to the post office, but they had no forwarding address for her, or her mom. The people at the utilities office refused to even fucking talk to me, even when I explained. I tracked down the lowlife that owned the house, and he said they left in the middle of the night, owing rent, and he wanted to find them too.

  Every fucking where I looked, I ran into a dead end. The fear turned to anger. How the fuck could she walk away like that? We were going to get married, and she just fucking turned her back and disappeared. I was supposed to be home getting shit in order to allow me to concentrate on mission readiness. How the fuck could I do that when I couldn't even find the most important person in the world? The time to check in at my new duty station barreled down on me way too soon, and I had no choice but to leave empty handed. I had signed on the fucking line, and the government owned my ass now.

  With all that hurt and anger riding my shoulder, I focused entirely on excelling in my new life, just to prove I could do it, with or without her. I took every training possible, took on extra duties, and advanced quickly. Over time, I got close to a few of the men I worked with. You can't avoid that shit. Something about knowing a motherfucker will cover your six, e
ven at the cost of his own life, changes how you see that motherfucker. Some people say it's stronger than a blood bond. That meant nothing to me, since I had no blood bonds. But even those closest to me knew not to fuck with me about chicks. That was my breaking point, and they left it strictly alone, even without knowing the reason.

  The day the spooks grabbed Trick, Kracken, and me, and stuck us on a fucking plane to nowhere changed everything I thought I knew about myself. When they said we had to be dead to our families and friends, that didn't faze me in the slightest. But then they took away the sense of honor and duty that drove me to do better my whole life. Nothing about my military career could mean a damn thing to me anymore. No more duty. No training. No knowledge that I was doing the right thing for the right reasons. I just prayed like fuck they didn't take away my brothers.

  I got lucky. They let me keep them, if only at a distance. Over time, I even got a little close with some of the others. They called us the Unwanted Soldiers. We were mercenaries, basically criminals, killers for hire waiting to be pointed at a target by a shooter with the right bank account. We might rescue a kidnapped mining exec one week, blast the fuck out of some little rebel resistance the next, and then go and train some other damn rebels. We took whichever jobs we wanted, as often as we wanted.

  But sometimes, our spook masters were the shooters. Then we had no choice. We went where they said, did what they said, no questions asked. Some of the jobs were simple. Blow a dam. Make sure a pipeline didn't get built. Others were distasteful, like grab a target, and get information, no matter what needed to be done. The worst, though, were when we had to frame some group for an atrocity or war crime. Massacre a village and make it look like the resistance did it. They used us for anything the powers behind the government wanted to happen without any hint of US involvement. Dirty fucking work.

  Over time, I learned to deal with it, found my own sort of honor. I only accepted the private jobs with a greater good behind them. The spook jobs I had no choice in, but I took risks to minimize the harm to others. That worked until the day I took a call from a potential client King Rufus set me up with. The familiar voice on the line shook me to the soles of my feet.

  All the hurt and anger came surging back with a fucking vengeance. For years, part of me screamed for revenge. She turned her back on me, walked away without a second thought. And now, the opportunity dropped right into my fucking lap. Unable to think clearly, I fell back on my training, got the information, told her I would think about it, and hung up.

  Fuck, I needed to run this by Trick, but he was at the hospital. His wife was having his kid. As much as I hated to intrude, especially with work shit, the woman on the phone was terrified. She might not have much time, and what I needed hinged on her having a nice long life ahead so she could regret what she'd done to me. I should let it go, forget my anger, and pass it on to one of the others.

  Trick was one of the few people I could count on to tell me the truth. He would have my back, the same way I had his when he fell for the fiancé of a presidential candidate. Then, it didn't matter what our fucking bosses might say, I would have moved heaven and hell for my friend to have his happily ever after. Especially since I would never have one.

  Chapter One

  Azia

  My teacher's aide, Carrie, helped herd my Kindergarten class inside from the playground. Sweaty and out of breath, they took their time stopping at the fountains, then straggled into the classroom.

  Tiny Demetra tugged at my shirt as she entered the room. "Miss Mendez, you gots pretty flowers." She stood, arm outstretched, pointing to my desk, where an insanely large bouquet of roses sat.

  Nausea curled in my stomach as I rolled the storage rack filled with stacked plastic framed rest mats out of the closet. "I do have pretty flowers, Demetra. Do you know what color they are?"

  "Red!"

  I smiled at her enthusiasm. Red was her new favorite color. "Very good. Now, will you be Miss Carrie's helper and have everyone get their mats?" She bounced away, pleased with the duty, to direct her classmates in getting the awkward new rest mats out of the rack.

  I skirted around the tables to reach my desk, and put the flowers away. My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the heavy vase, but the need to get the things out of sight allowed me to hang on to it. I couldn't have my kids seeing those cursed flowers, and asking questions, and I couldn't make a scene by taking them out of the classroom.

  The whole mess barely fit inside the cabinet where I kept personal belongings. The sickening scent of roses hit me full in the face as I pushed the blossoms none-too-gently inside the small space. But, at least for the time being, I could lock it all away.

  I didn't need to look to see who the roses were from, even if there had been a card. They always came from the same person, and I would really rather not think about the reason this time. Hopefully, by the end of the weekend, I would have a little help dealing with that particular issue.

  Carrie had the children well started toward settling for quiet time by gathering them on the carpet for a story. The rest of the afternoon would be peaceful and quiet, or as much as it could be in a room with twenty-five five-year-olds. Even though my hands still shook, I loaded the DVD into the machine and set it up, so when they reached their mats, those who didn't nap would have something to occupy them.

  The classroom intercom buzzed as I settled at my desk to catch up on paperwork, and I grabbed it hurriedly, hoping not to disturb the children too much. "Yes?"

  "Miss Mendez, there's a police officer at the front desk to see you."

  My heart pounded in reflex, and my eyes automatically went to the cabinet hiding the roses. "I'll be right up, thanks." Surely it wasn't that. Not yet. They always came a week early to give me plenty of time to agonize over it. That was part of the game for him.

  Carrie lifted a hand in acknowledgement when I gestured I needed to go, and went back to the story and the kids.

  The K-1 hallway seemed eerily quiet, raising a slight chill on my arms, but I ignored it and continued on to the front office. A pair of second graders waited politely on the stairs for me to pass, eager to earn rewards for good citizenship. I dutifully handed them each one of the little blue tickets the school used as incentives. The library bustled with quiet activity as students came and went from the attached computer labs, and others sat at the tables, lips moving as they sounded out words.

  Pausing, I took a breath for courage, and rounded the corner to reach the lobby and front office. The uniformed officer turned in my direction when old Mrs. Nealy gestured toward me, no doubt having already given him my life story. That old biddy had been at the front desk since the elementary school opened in the 1970s, and showed no signs of slowing down. She knew everyone in the school district, and all their business.

  The officer moved away from the counter. "Miss Mendez? I'm Officer Higgins. Is there a place we can talk privately?" No trace of a smile reached his face.

  The chill from earlier returned, racing over my skin. "Of course, just a moment." I took my own turn at the counter. "Mrs. Nealy, I'll be in the K-1 Speech Lab." Rather than wait for the curious look I knew would come, I turned and led the officer back the way I came. "I'm sorry, we really don't have many private spaces in the building, and the Teacher's Lounge is always busy this time of day."

  The various items on his belt jingled as he walked. "No problem, Miss Mendez. I'll only take a few minutes of your time." How did men always manage to have noisy things attached to their clothing?

  I tried to keep my pulse normal as I walked, even though my mind raced with possibilities. He asked for privacy, so it had to be serious. Anything trivial would just be discussed in the lobby. Dread settled in firmly as I unlocked the Speech Lab and led the way inside. Flipping the lights on, I gestured toward the low table. "Please, make yourself comfortable. What can I do for you, Officer Higgins?" Pulling one of the miniature chairs back, I sat, trying to breathe.

  Watching the tall man contort
himself into a seat intended for a six-year old provided a moment's distraction, until he took out a small notepad. "I needed to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, a Mr. Christopher Reis."

  "Chris? What about him?" The dread took a stronger hold in my stomach, and the grilled cheese sandwich I ate with my class at lunch considered coming back up.

  He shifted, clearly uncomfortable in the tiny chair, and tried to find a way to sit without putting his knees up under his chin. "It seems his parents stopped by for a visit this morning, and found his apartment broken into, and no sign of Mr. Reis. They reported the break-in, and attempted to contact him, but with no luck." He paused, as if asking a silent question. He stopped moving his legs around restlessly, and paid close attention to me.

  A compulsion to be helpful prompted me to speak. "Chris works here in town, and hasn't mentioned going anywhere."

  "We spoke with his work, and he didn't show up today, and didn't call in. His car is also still in the lot. When's the last time you saw Mr. Reis?"

  My heart thudded. "When I got home from work yesterday, about four. He was just coming in as well."

  "I see." He made a notation. "Did you see or hear anything unusual at all from yesterday afternoon, until this morning?" He waited, pen poised above his notepad.

  I searched my memory and came up blank. "No, nothing."

  "No one hanging around the building you didn't recognize? No workmen, anything like that?" He studied my face, as if looking for some sign of a lie. Maybe he faked all that trouble sitting in the little chair to distract me, because he showed no signs of unease now.

  My mouth felt terribly dry. "The last workmen I saw was about two weeks ago, when the sprinkler system had to be serviced. I'm sorry, I wish I could help."

  He nodded. "Did Mr. Reis have any new friends you're aware of? Or a girlfriend?"

  The thought made me want to smile a little. "You would have to know Chris. He's very shy, and not at all social. He goes to work and comes home, except on Friday, he goes to see a movie after work, and brings home takeout. On Saturday, he cleans his apartment. Sunday, he goes to church and visits his parents. I'm probably the closest friend he has." The growing dread sank its claws firmly into my mind. Please let him be okay!