In Her Sights (Away From Keyboard Book 2) Page 2

  Despite my reservations, Cam and I spent so long not talking that I can’t refuse her. The one good thing about the tumor and stroke? They forced me to shove down the guilt that kept me away from my best friend for years.

  All of the misery, all of the pain I held onto after the bombs? They’re still there. But I bury them now. I have to. Or I’ll hurt her even more than I did when my mistakes led to the explosions that almost killed her back in Afghanistan.

  There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to have that day back again. Hell, if I’d seen the risks, listened to my team, she’d be whole, and I would never have taken that chemical weapons disposal post that probably led to the fucking tumor.

  But, no one gets a do-over in this life.

  Once the driver leaves me at my door, I drop the folder on my kitchen counter, then head out again. The liquor store’s only a half a mile walk. Might as well pick up that bottle of wine now.

  Precisely at 7:00 p.m., I knock on the bright red door of a small Craftsman on a quiet street in north Seattle. The headache brewing behind my eyes warns me this’ll have to be an early night, and I dip my hand into my pocket, relieved to find the small container with my anti-seizure meds.

  Cam throws open the door with a grin, but her smile falters when she meets my gaze. “Bad day?”

  I shrug. “Just a day. They’re all kinda the same right now.” As I amble through the door, I give her a quick, one-arm hug. “Don’t worry.”

  “As if I could stop.” Her quiet words aren’t meant for me, so I ignore the whisper and pang of guilt as I head to the kitchen to find West.

  “Hey, man. How’s it going?” West asks as he pulls a pan of lasagna from the oven. The retired SEAL looks completely out-of-place wearing a red apron in the cramped kitchen. Six-foot-two and a wall of solid, lean muscle, he belongs on the battlefield—or at his Krav Maga dojo—but no one wants Cam cooking. I can still taste the petrified chicken she tried to make me after I got out of the hospital. Pretty sure that one meal set me back a week.

  “Same shit, different day.” I kick myself as Cam limps into the kitchen, her cane a near-permanent fixture in her hand. After the bomb tore her to pieces, her injuries left her with chronic arthritis and joints that could give out any day.

  I kick myself for the bout of self-pity. I still have seizures. I trip more than most people, slur my words when I’m tired, and sometimes I lose them completely. My fine motor control is shot to hell and probably always will be. But my mind is still sharp. I can code, follow baseball, carry on a conversation—even if it’s sometimes a slow one. And I’ve got friends who care enough about me to invite me over for dinner to get me out of my damn condo. My ownership stake in Emerald City Security gives me enough residual income to weather the time off, and my brother, as annoying as the bastard can sometimes be, checks up on me every week.

  I snag the corkscrew from the small wet bar in the dining room. “Sorry. I’m good. Really. A little tired. You?”

  West doesn’t answer as I concentrate so I can line up the corkscrew. You don’t realize just how many things you do every day that require dexterity.

  After three tries, I’m about to give up and shove the bottle at Cam, but then the screw catches properly, and I blow out a breath. The cork releases with a satisfying pop, and I hand West the bottle, not trusting myself to pour.

  “Eh. Might have a job coming up.” He glances back towards the hall as the doorbell rings and Cam shuffles off to answer it. “Do me a favor? Don’t let her spend too much time alone while I’m gone?”

  “You do know her, right?” I raise a brow. Cam’s as independent as they come.

  With a wry chuckle, he pours me a glass of wine, but when I take it, he holds my gaze, concern churning in his eyes. “Yeah. But she fell yesterday. The rain brought a bunch of oil on the sidewalk. She won’t rest like she should, and after my last job… Fuck. She won’t tell me how worried she is. Keeps saying she’s fine. But I know better.”

  I nod. “I’ll do my best.”

  A new, feminine voice from the hall draws my attention, and I forget my own name when one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen breezes into the room after Cam.

  “Royce, this is Inara Ruzgani,” Cam says as she follows Inara over to the bar.

  I hold out my hand, transfixed, and Inara’s full lips curve into a smile. “A pleasure, Royce.” A subtle accent lends a polished shine to her words—something between British and Middle Eastern, and I think I could listen to her all day. As she grasps my hand firmly, I’m mesmerized by her pale gray eyes and dark curls that tumble down over slim shoulders.

  “How do you know Cam? Shit. I mean, it’s good to meet you t-too.” My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. This is why I don’t date. Nerves make my speech problems worse.

  “I work with West. The…uh…side projects we sometimes take on? We’ve had dinner a couple of times. With Ryker, our boss.” Her fingers slide from my grip, and I’m shocked to feel the loss of her touch.

  “Oh. Of course.” I turn, hoping her piercing gaze isn’t because of my crappy way with words, and pick up the fourth glass of merlot. “Wine?”

  “Thanks. I probably shouldn’t—long drive tomorrow. But everyone tells me I should live dangerously once in a while. Off the battlefield, anyway.” Her light laughter is infectious, and I hold up my glass.

  “To living dangerously?”

  We toast, and I’m drawn to her hands. No polish on her short nails, callouses on her palm. Tan lines from fingerless gloves.

  West and Cam have conveniently disappeared, and from the strained look on Inara’s face, she’s noticed as well.

  “Vacation?” I ask to distract her. “Tomorrow. Your drive.”

  Her eyes dim, but before I can pull my foot from my mouth—not that I know why I’m suddenly eating shoe leather—Cam returns from the kitchen with West a few steps behind, carrying the lasagna. “Let’s eat,” he says.

  Inara skirts the edge of the table. As she passes West, she whispers something in his ear, and he slants a gaze at her. “Neither of you were going to do anything on your own,” he mutters.

  “You didn’t,” I hiss at Cam as she pulls out the chair next to me. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?” She bats her eyelashes innocently, but Cam’s never been able to pull off that look, and I give her my best glare—the one I used as her CO—and she rolls her eyes. “Fine. We thought the two of you would get along. So sue us.”

  She’s about to sink into her chair when she halts and pushes herself back up. “I forgot the Parmesan.”

  “I’ll get it, angel,” West says, but she follows him from the room anyway.

  “Well, that’s not suspicious,” I say with an apologetic look at Inara. “I didn’t know.”

  She relaxes a little, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly. “Fair to say neither of us would have shown up if we had?”

  “Yep.” I rub a hand over the side of my head. Though my hair mostly covers the scar now, I can still feel the ridges where the doctors cracked open my skull. Dammit. I never took my meds, and the back of my neck starts to tingle slightly, a sign that this evening could end up FUBAR in a heartbeat if I don’t take action.

  I rush to withdraw the plastic container from my pocket, and as I fumble for the lid, the whole thing hits the floor. “Fuck.”

  Inara’s out of her seat before I register that the lid popped open and three pills rolled halfway across the dining room. We meet on our knees next to my chair, where she drops the escapees back into my palm. Our fingers touch, and as we rise, almost jumping back to our seats, she watches me. Her gaze never leaves mine as I take one of the pills and wash it down with a sip of wine.

  “Everything all right?” she asks.

  “Situation normal.” Even more than six years after leaving the military, some of the old terms slip in, but if she works with West, there’s no doubt she served.

  “Good. Even if we didn’t plan this…date…we’re here,
and that lasagna smells amazing. Might as well make the best of it.”

  Hiding her smile behind her glass as she takes another sip of wine, I wonder if there’s any way she’ll give me her number before the night’s through.

  Once Cam and West return, a single bowl of shaved Parmesan between them, we dive into the meal, and soon awkwardness turns to laughter and the comfort of friends and someone new sitting beside me. So what if this was a setup? At least I’m not spending one more night alone, only my laptop for company, focusing on the life I lost.

  From the look in those alluring gray eyes, Inara feels the same, and I wonder. What did she lose? And will I get the chance to find out?

  Inara

  A gentle breeze ruffles my hair, but I don’t move beyond slow, controlled breaths. Six hundred yards down range, a straw-filled dummy stands sentry. He’s mocking me. I can hear him, though I never bothered to give him a mouth when I made him.

  “You hesitated.”

  “He’s dead because of you.”

  “Why weren’t you faster?”

  “Fuck you,” I whisper as I focus on my heartbeat. Two fast. For years, I’ve trained to be able to control every part of my body. Breath. Heart rate. The tiny muscles in my fingers. Even how often I need to blink. My mind…well, usually that’s the easiest. Turn off all emotion. Focus on the target. Do your job.

  Nine years as a sharpshooter with the Rangers. Only the second woman ever certified, with more confirmed kills than I can count. Kidding. I know exactly how many I’ve killed. I’ve seen every single one of their faces. None of them ever haunted me. Until now.

  One hundred and six.

  My heart rate drops below fifty beats per minute, and I analyze the wind as a small dirt devil rises halfway between me and Mr. Strawman. Nine miles per hour, south-southwest, if I’m not mistaken.

  “Shit.” My watch tells me I hit the speed on the nose, but not the direction. Solidly southwest.

  Up your game, babe. You’re better than this.

  I shift the barrel less than a millimeter. The smallest correction here is magnified a hundred times or more at distance. My rhythmic breathing becomes my mantra, my body relaxes into a pattern I’ve repeated thousands of times.

  Until Coop’s face flashes behind my eyelids on my final blink and the bullet sails wide as my finger jerks.

  “Fuck!” My hand falls to the ground—only four inches as I’m stretched out on my stomach with rocks digging into my ribs—and I try to force the memory away. Three months. That’s way too long to still be dealing with this shit. Except, with West’s injuries, we’ve mostly sidelined ourselves. A couple of intel-only missions, low risk. No one in my sights. So that whole “if you fall off the horse, get right back on it again” thing isn’t working so well for me.

  Ignoring my training, even as I think I hear my old CO barking in my ear, I return my hand to the gun, despite my pounding heart, and fire again.

  Mr. Strawman’s hand jerks. Not a kill shot. Not even close. Four more shots in rapid succession all land off target, the final one sailing into the dirt two feet behind him.

  With a groan, I roll onto my back to stare up at the cloudless sky. My cheeks tingle in the breeze, and suddenly, I’m chilled. Unsurprising. I’m not in control. My heart rate is in the high eighties, and the fingers of my right hand tremble.

  “You might never be able to fire a shot again.”

  Doc’s words haunt me. I’m stronger than this.

  Breathe. Believe. Act.

  My personal mantra. The one I adopted in basic training. The one that got me through sniper training. My first kill. And all the ones after that. Now, the words feel hollow.

  “Do better.”

  I turn my head, catching Ryker’s hard stare. The man moves like a cat. With a dark cap pulled low over his bald head, a black sweater, black pants, and black boots, he stands out amid the green and brown grasses blowing in the wind. He used to be handsome—I heard he had a modeling offer before he joined the army. Close to seven feet tall and all muscle, after his time in Hell, nearly every inch of him is covered in scars or tats or both.

  “You do better, asshole. And what the hell are you doing out here anyway? I could have shot you, you know.”

  “Not with that aim. Or whatever’s going on in that head of yours. You didn’t even hear my truck.” Ryker drops to one knee, his face only a few inches from mine. “Caught a job. Exfil. Probably bloody. Get yourself back in the game and meet us at the warehouse tomorrow morning, oh-eight-hundred.”

  “We’re a man down.” I’m not proud of my petulant tone, but running an extraction with only three is suicide.

  “Not anymore. I hired a new guy. Be there, Inara. And pack your shit away before you walk through the door. You didn’t kill Coop. I gave the orders. He disobeyed them. If anyone’s going to carry this burden, it’s me. You saved West’s life. And mine.” His dark eyes narrow. “Roll over, get yourself under control, and take that mother-fucking scarecrow down.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say to the air as Ryker strides towards his truck.

  Orders I understand. Following my commanding officer’s wishes, I do exactly as he says, and when the shot lands directly between Mr. Strawman’s eyes, a single tear of relief tumbles down my cheek before I lock the emotions away and try again.

  An eerie green glow paints the eastern sky as I pull my little coupe into a parking spot outside the warehouse Ryker calls home base. My phone’s already turned off, my go-bag packed, and my freshly chopped hair hidden under a black cap. My braid was a liability anyway, and after our last mission, I found two centipede-like bugs trapped inside the tight twists. I’m not usually squeamish, but discovering you’ve been sleeping with bugs in your hair is enough to make anyone panic over the slightest itch for weeks afterward.

  The music’s blasting as I slip through the door, and in the corner, West climbs the salmon ladder, shirtless, sweat glistening on his cut lats. The man almost died three months ago, and he’s pushed himself harder than anyone I’ve ever seen to come back. He signed on to fund some new program at his dojo, and I think he needs the cash.

  “Showoff,” I call up to him. “Save some of that energy for the job.”

  West jerks, his momentum forcing the metal bar up another rung. “Ryker called.” After a grunt and another two rungs, he reaches for a rope hanging a foot in front of him, then lowers himself hand-over-hand to the ground. “Departure time is now 13:00. Something about fucked-up paperwork at Boeing Field grounding the plane. Got time for a little sparring…if you’re up for it.”

  I shake my head as I fill my old blue mug with the caffeinated nectar of the gods. At least with West here first, I know the coffee’s good. “Long drive last night. And I don’t want to kick your ass and hear about it the whole way to wherever we’re going next.”

  He arches a brow as he hugs a towel to his chest. With a jerk of his head towards the whiteboard next to the boxing ring, he reminds me that lately, he’s won every single fight. Dammit. I used to be able to best everyone—even Ryker.

  “You have an unfair advantage.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re Mr. Krav Maga Iron Fist Daredevil. Teach me rather than show off one of these days.”

  West stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “I’m going to forget you said that and go shower. If I were you, I’d shitcan that attitude before Ryker shows up.”

  Fuck. When one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet calls you out for being an asshole, you’re in trouble. I lift the mug, inhaling the rich aroma, and then take a slow sip as West stalks towards the showers.

  The coffee goes down easily, and some of the exhaustion pressing down on me fades with the first zing of caffeine. I sink onto the couch and cross my legs under me so I can rest my hands on my knees. If Ryker’s stuck at the airport, I can take some meditation time, try and calm my scattered thoughts and my sharp tongue before I get myself in more trouble.

  Deep, centering breaths war w
ith the caffeine, but though the sight of Coop bleeding out flashes across the inside of my lids, I banish the gruesome scene and replace it with a tranquil waterfall in Costa Rica. My Zen space. I let the birdsong and the crashing water carry me away.

  Breathe. Believe. Act. My mantra plays on a loop as I picture myself floating in the pond at the base of the falls, the cool water a perfect foil to my sun-warmed skin. Breathe. Believe. Act. My heartbeat slows, the jitters fade away, and a gentle smile curves my lips. Breathe. Believe. Act.

  Grounded once more, I step out of the water, and with a final deep breath, open my eyes.

  West sits in the armchair to my left. Droplets of water still cling to his dark brown hair, and his black t-shirt stretches over sculpted muscles. A coffee mug rests on his thigh, his fingers curved loosely around the handle. “Talk.”

  “I’m sorry.” I reach for my mug, preparing to rise for a refill, but finding coffee nearly up to the rim, my cheeks heat and I nod my thanks. “My filter’s broken. Along with a few other things. Ever since Colombia…”

  “I didn’t know him.” West runs a hand through his damp hair. “But for a long time after that last mission with my team…every time I looked in the mirror, I saw what’s in your eyes right now. Hell, the intel-gathering trip we had last month? I barely slept those three nights.” Rubbing his side, he winces. “You ever been shot before?”

  “No. I do the shooting. Did get stabbed once.” I locked the pain away, the memories of the knife sliding deep into the fleshy part of my thigh, the blood, the pain, the panic as I realized the asshole had nicked my femoral artery. I won’t go back there now.

  He saves me the shame of having to avert my gaze by staring down at his boots. “I can still feel it. Scared the fuck out of me. I’m a goddamned SEAL. Our training teaches us how to ignore everything but the mission. No pain. No fear. No regrets. But you see your life flash before your eyes, and all of a sudden, putting it all away becomes a hell of a lot harder.”