Second Sight: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone Read online

  Contents

  A note from Patricia…

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Patricia D. Eddy

  Second Sight (Away From Keyboard, Book #4)

  Copyright © 2019 Patricia D. Eddy

  All Rights Reserved.

  Second Sight is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover designed by Deranged Doctor Designs

  Editing by The Novel Fixer

  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.

  A note from Patricia…

  If you love sexy vampires and demons, I’d love to send you the prequel to the upcoming Immortal Protectors series. FOR FREE! Sign up for my Unstoppable Newsletter on my website and tell me where to send your free book!

  http://patriciadeddy.com.

  Prologue

  Six Years Ago

  Dax

  A dim halo seeps around the heavy canvas our captors tack over the cell doors. After so long here, I can almost see in the dark. Small variations in the rock walls. The flutter of air moving a corner of the shroud. My toes—if I wiggle them. Not that I’ve tried recently. The infection will take my leg soon. Or my life.

  Let me fucking die already.

  Ry’s gone. Escaped. Hours ago. Killed at least four on his way out. We were supposed to go together. But I can’t walk. He set my broken femur two weeks ago. One of the few times they let us stay in the same cell. But what should have been a minor burn festered, and now my whole leg is swollen and hot to the touch. At least they don’t tie me up anymore.

  Booted footsteps shuffle down the hall. I’m not as good as Ry. I can’t always tell who’s coming. The canvas is ripped away, and I blink rapidly, the dim lights of the hall searing my eyes after so long in the dark.

  Rough hands close around my arms, someone throws a bag over my head, and I’m dragged from my cell. My leg screams in agony, the white-hot pain sending me barreling towards unconsciousness. Until they drop me.

  Breathe. In and out. Focus.

  “Get him up,” Kahlid—the guy in charge—says, and I’m hauled onto a table. Before I can try to fight, they’ve tied my wrists together, then lashed me down with ropes around my torso, my hips, and my ankles.

  Oh fuck. This is new.

  “Sergeant Dash. How are you today?” As Kahlid pulls off the hood, I spit at him, but he’s too far away.

  “Fuck you.”

  The punch to my jaw isn’t unexpected. Hell, that’s how the fucker says hello. I taste blood, the metallic flavor turning my stomach.

  His smile worries me. As does the glint in his eyes. “Would you like some water?”

  This is some sort of trick. Say yes, and they’ll waterboard me. I grind my teeth together, glaring at him, but in my current state, I doubt it’s very effective. After Kahlid nods, one of his lackeys grabs my jaw and digs in, forcing me to open my mouth. A pill lands at the back of my throat, followed by half a bottle of water, and unprepared, I swallow before I can stop myself.

  “Antibiotics only, Dash. Do not look so…frightened.” Starting to pace with his fingers laced behind his back, he continues. “Your friend Ryker killed several of my men last night.”

  “Good for him.” Another punch, more blood staining my lips. “You gonna keep that up? You want me to talk, it ain’t gonna happen if you break my jaw.”

  “I do not want to hurt you, Dash. I only want to know where your friend Ryker was going. He will not get far. We shot him many times. I am worried for him. Tell me his escape route, and I promise you, he will not be harmed when we find him. We will treat his wounds and send him to hospital.”

  “Yeah. And I’m Santa Claus.” I don’t have the energy to keep this up. My leg throbs with every beat of my heart, my split lip is swelling rapidly, and I’m nauseous from the water they forced down my throat.

  Kahlid leans over me, and shit. The bastard’s a good actor. He actually manages to look…concerned. “What I have to do, Dash…you will not heal from this.”

  Is he finally going to kill me? Fear snakes its cold, bony fingers around my heart, but I’m so far gone, so weak, in so much pain death would be a welcome relief. “That’s not…my…fucking…name. Whatever you’re…gonna do…just get it…over with.”

  Behind Kahlid, two of his lackeys pull on thick, rubber gloves, and my stomach churns. Not the blowtorch. Or a belt. Or even a metal rod. This…has to be something different. Kahlid grabs a fistful of my hair—it’s longer now. Hangs into my eyes. “Where is he? Tell me and I will not have to do this.”

  “Go…to…hell,” I grunt. “You’ll never…find him.”

  Kahlid slams my head down on the wooden table, and the edges of my vision darken. His crooked smile is the last thing I see as a harsh, caustic liquid splashes into my eyes, and I start to scream.

  The metal tray lands on the stone floor with a crash, and I jerk awake, my heart racing. The cell door slams shut, and a weak glow of light dims as the canvas flops back down. I don’t know how long it’s been since they blinded me. Kahlid told me I screamed for half a day. Then he broke the last two fingers on my left hand when I still wouldn’t talk. The one time they dragged me out of this cell since, my whole world was a muted sea of dull, washed out colors and agony every time I forced my swollen eyes open.

  Crawling slowly, only able to use one arm and one leg without passing out from the pain, I feel along the filthy stone floor until I find the edge of the tray.

  Fuck. I hope Ry made it.

  I scoop up a bit of the rice slurry with my uninjured hand, then let it fall through my fingers. I can’t. They’ve taken everything. Dax Holloway doesn’t exist anymore. Hell killed him. I don’t know when it happened. Every beating. Every scar. Every time they threw me in that goddamned hole. Left me there until I was out of my mind with hunger.

  I can’t walk. Can’t make a fist with my dominant hand. Can’t…see. Why keep fighting? Months ago, I was ready to give up. Starved myself for what I think was a week. Until they force fed me, then whipped Ry until his back was bloody. But he’s gone. Safe. Or dead.

  Forcing myself to sit up, I grab the tray and fling it against the bars. That’ll earn me ano
ther beating. More broken bones. I don’t give a shit. “You want me to talk? How’s this? You’re all a bunch of sadistic fucks. You can carve me into a thousand pieces, and I’ll still never tell you what you want to know!”

  I collapse, my head hitting the dirty floor. Shouts echo down the winding stone hall, and I try to scramble back, knowing they’ll come for me. I don’t care what they do, but I won’t make it easy for them.

  Despite all the months I’ve been here, I still can’t understand much Pashto. But Kahlid’s men sound panicked. Heavy footsteps race down the hall past my cell, and then…

  Gunfire.

  Not AKs. Not Taliban guns. Colt M4s. SEALs. Special Forces. Rangers.

  “Go, go, go!” someone shouts, a hint of a Southern twang coloring their words.

  “Four hostiles down,” another voice responds. “Clear.”

  Wrapping my good hand around the bars, I try to pull myself up. “American,” I call weakly. “Here.”

  “Get that goddamn door open. Now.” Light flares, bright enough to penetrate my swollen lids, as the canvas is ripped away, and a dark shadow looms as someone breaks the lock. “Holloway?”

  “Yes.” I reach out a tentative hand and find a tactical vest as the man kneels next to me. “Who—?”

  “West Sampson. SEAL Team Eight on a joint op with ODA. Can you—”

  “Where is he?” Ryker roars from down the hall.

  Oh God. He made it.

  “Third cell,” West calls. “I’m bringing him out.”

  Only a few feet away now, Ryker growls, “No one touches him but me. Dax?”

  I jerk my head towards his voice, opening my eyes, desperate to see him. Except…I can’t. Not after what those fuckers did to me. The pale reddish glow from the hall brightens as the heat of a flashlight paints my face.

  “Fuck. Dax, what the hell…? Your eyes.”

  “Questions later,” West says. “This place is coming down as soon as we’re clear. Get him up and move.”

  “Where’s Kahlid?” Ryker asks as he hauls me over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, his arm hooking under one knee as he grips my wrist tightly. Unable to see or tell up from down, I can’t orient myself, and nausea crawls up from my stomach when he starts hustling down the hall.

  Shouts, another three shots. “Blue Team Alpha approaching egress point. Need a location on Target Zulu,” West says.

  We start to climb. I’m…safe. I’m going home. The tears gathering in my burned and blistered eyes send shooting pain through my skull, but I don’t care.

  “Roger that. Kahlid’s down. They’ve got him at the mouth of the cave. He’ll be dead in five minutes.”

  “Then we’ve got time.” Ryker’s voice lowers, turns grave. “He’s ours, Sampson. Give us sixty seconds alone with him, then we’re gone.”

  West doesn’t respond—at least not that I can hear. The first whiff of fresh, free air smells like heaven, and then West orders everyone to fall back. Somewhere below me, I hear raspy, rattling breathing.

  “I told you I’d kill you,” Ryker says as he bends and sets me on my feet. Keeping an arm around my waist so I don’t collapse, he presses a pistol into my hand.

  “I can’t see, Ry,” I whisper. “You have to—”

  He shifts me. “Put your other arm around my shoulders and hang on. I’ll aim for you. We fire together.”

  With a nod, I clutch the back of his tactical vest so I don’t fall, and he supports my left arm with his. To my right, he cocks his pistol.

  “Fifteen months, asshole. Every day, I pictured this moment. When your last sight would be the two men who took down Hell. Say your prayers, fucker.” After a beat, Ryker snorts. “On second thought…don’t.”

  We fire together, and as the gun falls from my shaking hand, Ryker says, “We’re going home, brother.”

  Home. As Ryker half-carries me down the mountain and a series of explosions shakes the ground under our feet, I start to sob. We might be going home, but I’ll never see Boston again.

  1

  Dax

  “Call from: Ryker. Call from: Ryker,” my phone’s calm, female British voice announces. Well, shit. The jerk actually kept his promise.

  So why can’t I pick up the damn phone? Pushing to my feet, I stalk over to the window and press my hands to the glass. Sun warms my palms, brightens the perpetual thick haze surrounding me, and I try to remember what the Boston skyline looked like. But…with every passing day, my memories fade.

  I can call up colors. The blue of the sky. Of denim. Of my mother’s eyes. Of those stupid Slushies Mark, my childhood best friend, and I used to save up for once a month. Red’s easier. Blood. Lots and lots of blood. Red is the last color I remember. But the skyline? For all I know, it doesn’t look anything like it did the last time I saw it—more than eight years ago. Before my last tour. Before Hell. Before a Taliban asshole decided pouring drain cleaner into my eyes was fitting retribution for Ry killing four of his men.

  The phone falls silent, and I blow out a relieved breath. Except…now I’m the asshole.

  Ten days ago, Ryker McCabe walked into my office. After more than six years, I’d written him off. My best friend. The only other person in the world who knows what fifteen months in Hell will do to a person.

  And now…he wants to reconnect. I don’t know how to do this. After he rescued me, he abandoned me at the hospital. Blind, in constant agony, malnourished, with dysentery, broken bones, and a fever of over 103, I didn’t know how to function.

  I asked about him every day. Hell, probably four or five times a day. Called him when I could finally hold a phone—and get a number for him. Message after message went unanswered.

  And I had to heal alone. Had to learn how to brush my hair without being able to see it. How to shave. How to fucking walk. Even harder…how to sleep in a bed. Not panic every time a door opened. Or someone touched me. How to be…human again.

  And then he strides back in here six years later thinking one conversation can fix everything. If Wren hadn’t needed help, if Ry hadn’t been so fucking stubborn, if I’d just refused to talk to him that day, I wouldn’t feel like shit now.

  But he stepped up for Wren when I failed. One of my best employees. A brilliant hacker. A friend. And I refused to help when she needed it most. Ry protected her. Then the fucker went and fell in love with her. Almost died for her.

  “Maybe…” I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. Raising my head, I can almost make out the dark blur in front of me as a person. Almost. “Maybe you could give me a call sometime. To…uh…catch up.”

  “I’ll call. You’re…family, Dax. And family keeps their promises.”

  Family. We were family. Brothers in every way that counted. Now…I don’t know what we are. Or what I want us to be. When he and Wren almost died, when no one could reach them that last terrible night in Russia, a wound I thought I’d buried years ago started to bleed. And it hasn’t stopped since.

  Talking to him brought up all the shit I buried after Hell. The terror of waking up blind that first, terrible day. Spending weeks in the hospital in Germany unable to walk. The fights with Lucy. The distance. The rough scratch of the pen as I signed my name on the divorce papers.

  But I survived. All of it. Learned how to navigate my apartment. Then my neighborhood. Found a boxing gym with a patient trainer who helped me learn how to use what little vision I have left to see my opponent’s tells. Met Ford there not long after, and we started Second Sight.

  In four years, we turned this two-man operation into a thriving private investigation and security firm that’s saved or helped hundreds. Including, just a couple of weeks ago, a kidnapped teen whose father was about to sell her to a human trafficking ring. We do good work, and the seven men and women who’ve joined us are the best in the business.

  But I haven’t slept more than three hours a night since Ryker showed up, even less now that he and Wren are across the country in Seattle, and when I’m huddled on my floor, shakin
g from the nightmares, everything I’ve accomplished? Doesn’t mean shit. I thought…I thought I’d beaten my demons. And one visit from Ry brought them all back again.

  Three raps on my door draw me out of my memories. Every member of my team has their own signal. Wren used to knock twice. Trevor uses that stupid “Shave and a Haircut” pattern. Vasquez? Five times.

  “You coming?” Ford asks. “The car’s downstairs.”

  “Go without me.” The words escape almost on a grunt. “You don’t need me there.”

  “The hell I don’t. You’re the owner of the company, dipshit.” He grabs my arm, spinning me around and shoving me against the glass. “You have the best instincts of anyone I’ve ever met, Dax. Better than me. Hell, better than Trevor, and he trained with the CIA.”

  “No one wants to hire a blind man to oversee their security, Ford. I only go because you drag me along.”

  My phone buzzes on the desk, and I shake him off. “Voice message from Ryker.”

  Ford turns and takes two steps towards the door. “I don’t know what crawled up your ass after the shit with Wren and Ryker, but I’m getting sick of it. The car’s leaving in five minutes. With or without you.”

  His clipped footsteps fade as he heads to the elevator, and I fumble for my desk chair. My team doesn’t deserve a boss who can’t get his shit together.

  After I tuck my Bluetooth into my ear, I grab my jacket off the back of the door, unfold my cane, and head for the elevator. The client’s expecting both of us, and my pity party could jeopardize the contract. But somehow, I have to get my head on straight.