In Her Sights (Away From Keyboard Book 2)

  Copyright © 2018 by Patricia D. Eddy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Interior Formatting: The Novel Fixer

  Editing: Jayne Frost

  Proofreading: Darcy Jayne

  We’re all stories in the end. Make it a good one, eh?

  -Doctor Who

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Patricia D. Eddy

  About Me

  Prologue

  Royce

  Someone shut off the damn microwave.

  Or did I leave my car door open? My brain feels like goddamn swiss cheese, and I don’t know where the hell I am. All I know is that fucking beeping is going to drive me insane.

  And what’s with the smell? Disinfectant burns my nose, my throat’s on fire, and I’ve got a headache that won’t quit.

  Turn on the lights. Why can’t I see?

  Assess. Plan. Then act.

  Training takes over, and I force my heart rate to slow. The beeping slows too.

  I’m on my back. My eyes are closed. Conversations provide steady low-level background noise, but I can’t make out any of the words—they’re too far away.

  After a deep breath, panic sets in. Rough sheets stretch across my naked body. I try to move, but my limbs are heavy, unresponsive, and even my eyelids won’t obey. Pressure tightens around my right arm above the elbow to the point of pain, then releases with a hiss.

  Hospital. Tumor. Surgery.

  My fragmented memories start to coalesce. In the misty recesses of my consciousness, I hear my surgeon’s voice. “We won’t know anything for sure until we go in there.”

  My hand trembles as I try to make a fist, and a deep ache draws a grunt from my raw throat.

  “Royce?” Warm fingers brush my arm, and I force my eyes open.

  Cam’s worried face moves in and out of focus. I need to ask her…something…but I don’t remember what. I can’t even manage to say her name. As the frustration rises, her brows furrow deeper.

  “Relax, Rolls. You’re safe. I know you’re confused, but the doctor said that’s normal. Don’t try to talk or move yet, okay?” She laughs nervously. “Don’t answer that, either.”

  I track her movements as she lifts a large cup from a tray and then presses a straw against my lips. “Just a couple of sips.”

  The water’s lukewarm, but still feels like heaven, and when she sets the cup down again, I whisper a hoarse “thank you,” but all that comes out is a vague “oo” sound. What the hell?

  “No more talking,” she chides. “Rest. I’ll be here.”

  She holds my hand, and I can’t stay awake any longer. I drift off to sleep, thankful I’m not alone.

  When I next pull myself out of the darkness and turn my head, she’s standing at the edge of a curtain, her back to me, talking to someone.

  “They didn’t give you any hassle over the gunshot wound?”

  A deep voice chuckles. “Ryker sent me to his surgeon. Pretty sure a chunk of cash changed hands. I’m fine, angel. No teaching for another few weeks, but I can supervise the kids.”

  “I wish I could see the first class.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it tonight. I love you.” The man leans in and kisses her, and I remember his face. West. Cam’s boyfriend. She introduced us—I think. My head’s still fuzzy.

  She turns, and I meet her tired gaze.

  “Royce.” Shock and relief play over her features. Yet, underneath, her eyes are shadowed, her lips pale and pressed thin. “Your color’s better.”

  “Tumor?” The word escapes as “oo-or” and now I know I’m fucked. It’s nighttime. I went in at 7:00 a.m. The anesthetic should have worn off by now, yet I can barely move. “Aaam?”

  “Shh.” She rests her hands on my shoulders and locks her dark brown eyes on mine. “I know you’re scared. They got all of the tumor. Totally benign. But while you were on the table, you had a stroke.” Her eyes glisten as my breath catches in my throat. “You’re going to be fine. Once the swelling goes down, the doc says you’ll probably make a full recovery. They gave you this new drug…it’s supposed to be a miracle worker.”

  The keening in my ears…is mine. Oh fuck. I can’t talk, can’t move, and she’s staring at me like I’m about to die. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Ow…aaa?” How bad?

  Now her tears fall. “I can’t understand you, Rolls. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” Cam pulls a chair close to my bed, takes my hand, and as she forces a smile, my tears spill over.

  “‘Morning, Royce.” My doctor’s way too chipper, and I glare at him. Or try to. I can’t move my left side much at all, and I have no idea if that translates to my face as well. “So, good news first. No cancer, and we don’t expect the tumor to regrow. Once we get you rehabbed, you should be in for a long and productive life.”

  “Aaa…eeen?” And until then?

  “I’m sure the aphasia is frightening, but the worst should pass in a day or two. The clot affected your left side, which also controls a lot of your speech patterns. Can you make a fist with your left hand for me?” The doctor pulls back the blanket, and I watch my fingers twitch, but not curl. “Not bad for twenty-four hours post-stroke.”

  There’s that word again. Stroke. Until this tumor, I was so healthy I hadn’t had so much as a cold in five years. How the hell could I have had a stroke?

  “If you have someone at home to help you with day-to-day stuff, we can get you out of here in a week assuming the swelling continues to go down and the drugs we gave you do their job busting up any lingering clots.”

  Cam steps forward. “His brother should show up on Friday.” She meets my glare with a shrug. “I called him once you were out of surgery.”

  Helplessness leads to anger and more frustration. Then kick myself. She’s been here for two solid days. She needs to go home. Spend time with her new guy and run Emerald City Security since I won’t be doing so for the foreseeable future. Not when I can’t even speak.

  “Eee-haab?”

  Doctor Grimes nods. “With where the stroke was located, you’re probably going to have balance problems for a while. The tumor caused some scarring, and seizures are still a possibility. We’re keeping you on the anti-seizure meds.”

  I want to nod, but my head hurts too much, so I make a vague “uh-huh” sound and close my eyes. Maybe if I sleep some more, when I wake up, I’ll be able to talk. Or maybe I’ll just slip away forever.

  Inara

  In my tiny garage, I disassemble my rifle on the large sheets of cardboard that cover the floor. Tools of the trade—bore brushes, cleaning patches, solvent, and a set of small wrenches and screwdrivers are spread out around me in precise order, and I pick up one after another, repeating a routine I’ve performed a thousand times—if not more.

  Except this time, I’m crying as I work.

  For a
lmost two weeks, I’ve put this off, unable to face any memory of what happened in the jungle halfway across the world. But this rifle cost me too much money to ruin just because I can’t shove my emotions back into the tiny, secure little box they usually live in. I don’t run from danger. I don’t give in to fear. That’s never been an option.

  As I thrust one of the bore brushes down the barrel, I see his face. The blood. Hear him call my name. His last, desperate breaths.

  Gunshots echo in my ears. The AK47s the insurgents used, bullets ripping through metal, wood, flesh, and bone. West slumped against Ryker, begging us to tell Cam that he loved her.

  The ride through the jungle, my hand pressed to West’s side. The kid we’d rescued moaning in the front seat. Ryker’s barked questions about Coop—and my terse responses that weren’t answers so much as excuses.

  The barrel slips out of my hands and clatters to the cardboard. Solvent splatters my shoes. I kick a stack of cleaning patches, then step on them and skid as I try to right the bottle before the caustic liquid soaks into the garage floor.

  “Fuck.”

  I give up. As my ass hits the ground, I start to sob. But I can’t even wipe my face—not with my hands covered with solvent. Instead, I prop my elbows on my knees, cross my arms, and rest my forehead against my wrists. Maybe if I let it all out—all the emotion I’ve been carrying around since we left that compound—I’ll be able to move on.

  His final scream rings in my ears. Two words. “Help me.”

  Help me.

  Help me.

  Help me.

  Why did he go south rather than north? Why didn’t I see him sooner? Why wasn’t I fast enough?

  The questions keep coming, and I’m scared I’ll never have any answers.

  My phone rings, and I raise my head. Ryker. I can’t do it. Can’t talk to him. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. Definitely not today.

  “Inara, I was shocked to see your name on the books. What’s going on?” My shrink, an older former Special Forces officer, leans back in his chair as I sink onto the couch across from him.

  “Something happened on my last mission, and I can’t get it out of my head.”

  Dr. Jeffries knows better than to ask me for details. Instead, he raises a brow and waits for me to continue.

  “We lost a man. One of ours.” My voice doesn’t waver, but I shove my hands under my thighs so I don’t have to see them shake. “I had him—well, the soldier who killed him—in my sights, but I wasn’t fast enough.”

  “Did you make a mistake?” The doc leans forward now, narrows his eyes, and pierces me with a frosty green stare.

  “Yes…no…” I run a hand through my hair. “Maybe.”

  “It’s not like you not to know.” And bam. He’s gone right to the root of the problem. “What does your CO say?”

  “He says very little. Period.” After a few moments of awkward silence, I blow out a breath. “The whole mission was FUBAR. They’d moved the target, our logistics specialist had to scrap the exfil plan an hour before go time, and Coop…he didn’t follow orders.”

  Jeffries nods. “Then why are you carrying around the guilt?”

  “Because…” Shoving to my feet, I stalk over to the doc’s window. Lush, green trees surround his office, swaying gently in the breeze. As I stare at the branches, transfixed, I whisper, “I think I hesitated.” The words tumble out in a rush as if I’m racing to release all the pent-up fear I’ve carried around for the past few weeks. “West was dying. Shot in the stomach. That much blood…he didn’t have long. And Ry…he feels like he owes West his life. I’d never seen Ryker look scared before, but he did that day. And when I turned back to try to cover Coop, everything slowed down. Like I was moving through quicksand. I couldn’t get my breathing under control.”

  A hard tug on a wavy lock of hair helps me focus. “If I can’t put it away, turn off my emotions, disconnect, I can’t do my job.”

  “Maybe it’s time you found another one?”

  The doc’s voice takes on a harsh tone, and even though I know he’s baiting me, I whirl around.

  “I’m the best damn sharpshooter on the west coast. Hell, probably in the entire country. I’m not going to let one fucked-up mission take that away from me.”

  “Easy, Inara.” Jeffries stands, and I force myself to unclench my fists, take a deep breath, and return to the couch. Once he’s taken his seat again, he rests his elbows on his knees and meets my gaze. “What I’m about to say…right now, I’m not your doctor. I’m a fellow soldier. And a survivor of PTSD.”

  He lets his words sink in for a moment before he continues. “There is a very good reason there are only a handful of elite snipers in the world who’ve survived more than five years of civilian life. The dead take a toll on you. We’re taught to compartmentalize, cut off our emotions, put them in a box and lock them away. But human beings aren’t designed that way. The more emotions you shove into that box, the harder it is to keep closed.”

  Deep down, I know he’s right. But I don’t break. I hadn’t cried since high school—until a few days ago. But now…Coop’s death didn’t just open the box. It fucking destroyed it.

  “What are you feeling right now?”

  The question hangs in the air between us, and I open and close my mouth twice before I have an answer for him.

  “Out of control.”

  “Then you have two choices. Find a stronger lock for that box of yours…or let everything out and deal with the aftermath. But if you choose the latter, just know…you might never be able to fire a shot again.”

  1

  Royce

  Tara, the petite speech therapist I’ve seen every Thursday for the past three months, offers me her hand. “Keep up with your exercises, Royce. I mean it. Don’t settle for this ninety percent bullshit. If you do, I’m going to hunt you down and sing Pirates of Penzance songs outside your bedroom window every night for a week.”

  I chuckle as her tiny fingers squeeze mine. “I want my life back.” My words are a little slow, but Tara’s never given up on me. Even at our first meeting when I spent a full five minutes cursing at her—which amused the hell out of her since I couldn’t manage the “ck” sound at the time.

  The light behind her eyes dims slightly. “Royce, you know the life you have now isn’t going to be the one you lost on the operating table. You’ll never be the same guy, hon. Doesn’t mean you can’t be better, though.”

  Better. I’d like to feel better. To feel something other than off balance, slow, broken.

  Tara nudges my arm with her shoulder. “Hey. Earth to Royce. I want to see you back here in a month, okay? We’re going to have a little tongue twister contest.”

  “You’ll sssstill beat me. But I’ll do my bessst.” Dammit. I still have some problems with the “st” sound. My clumsy fingers grasp the folder she hands me, and with a final nod, I head out to the waiting Lyft.

  Three months after major brain surgery and a stroke and I have most of my mobility back. My doctor even gave me the all clear to go back to work. I know I’m a lucky son-of-a-bitch, but as the driver merges onto the freeway towards home, I don’t feel that way.

  Right about now, Cam’s meeting with her latest client—one of the top coffee companies in the world. If she does as good of a job with them as she has with all of the other clients she’s handled these past months, every Siren Coffee House in the city will be running our—her—security software by the end of the year.

  I should be there. Coding. Negotiating. Leading the team of ten programmers at Emerald City Security. They’d welcome me back, too. Even Cam. She keeps telling me she hates that I’m not there. But from all accounts, she’s kicking ass. I’d be a liability. When I’m under pressure or tired, I stumble over certain sounds and words, and my balance and fine motor skills won’t ever be normal again.

  As traffic grinds to a halt, I slam my fist down on my thigh.

  “Your left side will probably always be a little weak
er than the right. Most patients with your level of damage can’t manage precision tasks like picking up an eyeglass screw or drawing perfectly straight lines.”

  Manny, my physical therapist—the last of a long string, as I went through them like water the first month—sat me down and gave me “the talk” when Cam’s boyfriend, West, convinced him to work with me.

  “You had a stroke, Royce. You didn’t do anything to cause it, so stop blaming yourself and figure out how to live your life without the parts of your brain that died on the operating table.”

  At that point, I couldn’t take two steps on my own. Now, I run or walk most mornings, hit the weight room three afternoons a week, and never miss a yoga class. In my free time—and I’ve got a whole lot of it right now—I read every fucking thing I can about miraculous recoveries and alternative therapies.

  My phone rings, and Cam’s name flashes on the screen. “Hey.”

  “What’re you doing tonight?” she asks.

  I love her no-bullshit-no-pleasantries personality. Though I think she does this so I won’t have to talk more than the minimum if I don’t want to. “The usual.”

  “Spending the night in front of your computer, coding apps like a madman, and avoiding the world, then. Not tonight. West’s place. Seven o’clock. Bring wine.”

  “Cam—”

  “Gotta go. Siren’s CEO is on his way. You. Wine. Seven.”

  The call ends, and I swear as traffic opens up and the driver speeds towards my exit. Cam does this every couple of weeks. While I admit, getting out of my house—and my head—is good for me, I often end the nights missing my old life even more.