In Her Sights (Away From Keyboard Book 2) Page 3

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Only my shrink knows I watched Coop die.

  West leans forward to give me a hard stare. “This is the life we chose. Every time we answer Ryker’s call, there’s a chance we won’t come back. That danger used to be such a rush. Now…fuck. The whole way here, all I saw was Cam’s face as I left. I’m damn good at my job. So are you. We can help people. And,” he shakes his head, “if we don’t do this, Ryker’s just going to find someone else. I can’t do that to him. I don’t think you can either.”

  “No. He doesn’t trust easily.”

  West snorts. “Understatement of the year.” After a pause, he continues. “Inara, you didn’t kill Coop. The People’s Army did. You saved my life, we rescued the target and brought him home. Put it away. Or…tell us you can’t and let us help you.”

  I don’t have a good response—or any response. Thankfully, West doesn’t expect one. He pushes to his feet to head back to the little kitchenette for a refill, pausing for a single beat to squeeze my shoulder.

  One hundred and six enemies have died in my sights, and though I can recall each one, I don’t dwell on those kills. But one choice, one brief moment of hesitation, and I don’t know if I’ll ever trust myself again.

  2

  Inara

  The ramshackle hut outside a no-name town in Uzbekistan smells of stale coffee and rotting wood. West sits in the corner, his head braced against the join in the walls, knees drawn up, likely fast asleep.

  In this job, you catch a few minutes of shuteye whenever you can, and I should join him, but I’m too keyed up.

  Ryker left an hour ago to meet with our contact, and the new guy—Graham Something-or-other—patrols outside. I see his shadow pass by the loose slats next to the door every few minutes. Too soon to form a solid opinion on him yet, but he seems sharp and willing to take orders. Unlike Coop. I hate myself a little for the thought, but the man refused to listen to West. And Ryker hired West for his operational expertise. If Coop had followed orders…maybe he wouldn’t have been on the south side of the compound in the first place. Then, I would have been able to see him without turning around—and maybe I could have saved him.

  “I can hear you thinking.” West’s rough voice startles me out of my memories. “We’ve got—” he opens one eye and peers at his watch, “—three hours until go-time. Shouldn’t you be meditating or something?”

  “Or something.” I pull a small mat from my bag and toss the piece of black foam down on the floor against the wall a few feet from West. With a sigh, I center myself, bring my hands to prayer in front of me, and then let my arms fall gracefully to my sides. Slowly rolling down, I feel each vertebra slide into place until I’m folded in half. Hands braced on either side of my head, I kick up into an inversion—a headstand—and engage my core to keep myself steady.

  Yoga is supposed to be relaxing. Ha. Not the way I yoga. I treat it like a competitive sport half the time, but inversions do calm me. All that blood rushing to my head leaves my toes tingling, and I start my mental inventory. Arches, ankles, calves, knees, thighs, glutes… Each muscle group relaxes as I mentally traverse my entire body.

  “Two minutes,” West says. The man’s one of the most observant examples of his gender I’ve ever seen. I forgot to set my stopwatch when I started my sun salutation, and he knows I never spend more than two minutes upside down unless the mission mandates it.

  “Thanks.” I let my left leg touch down, then my right, and roll up to standing.

  “I let you off easy back at the shop. Now I’m worried.” West meets my gaze, and his blue eyes reflect the harsh light of the single overhead bulb. “When it counts, are you going to be able to pull your shit together?”

  “Yes.” No hesitation, no denial, no hedging. “Once we get through this op, I’ll be steady again.”

  “That’s not good enough.” He holds up his hand when I open my mouth to protest. “By all accounts, there are twelve hostiles between us and the target. If I can’t count on you to keep me from getting shot—again—then I’m putting Ryker on sniper duty. And he’s nowhere as good with a rifle as you are.”

  He’s right, and I run a hand through my messy locks. “You can count on me,” I say quietly. “I can put it away.”

  “Kinda hard to ‘put it away’ if you don’t talk about it. I hoped you’d open up after we got back. But…all our training sessions and you never said a word. What happened? I was too busy trying not to die to ask.” In a smooth move, West unfolds his body, then grabs the thermos off the rough-hewn table in the center of the room. He offers me the first sip, and the coffee settles my stomach.

  Passing the life-giving nectar back to him, I start my stretching routine. “I couldn’t see him. Coop.” Clasping my hands behind my back, I open up my chest, then lean forward and let my arms hang over my head. My taut muscles let out a sigh of relief. “You and Ryker went after the target, and Coop headed for the guard tower—just like you told him to.”

  West nods, his eyes unfocusing as if he sees the jungle camp’s layout in his mind. “Should have been two guys there with AKs.”

  “There were.” Curling up, I reach for the ceiling as I lift to my toes. “I saw one of them go down, then heard a gunshot. Not Coop’s M-80—one of the AKs. I tried to find the second guard in my sights, but he wasn’t at his post. That’s when Ryker came on comms—said the three of you were running hot.”

  “The kid fought us. Thought we were more of the general’s men. Poor guy could barely stand, but he had a mouth on him.” West shakes his head, then rubs the back of his neck. “One of the advantages of the SEALs. We could expose our navy patches, and the targets would trust us.” He rubs his right arm, mimicking ripping off a piece of Velcro.

  I nod, remembering how I used to do the same thing. “As I started taking out the guys swarming you, I heard one of the guerrillas shout ‘Over here.’” Closing my eyes, I try not to find myself back in the jungle, try to keep my memories in that little box I can see but not hear, watch but not touch. “Once you went down, time sped up, y’know? Like I didn’t have a second to take a steady breath, let alone draw down on someone. I was operating on instinct. See a guy, shoot a guy.”

  “Training takes over.” He nods, then checks the pistol strapped to his thigh. Training, indeed.

  “Ryker taped you up, tried to get you moving, and I had to take out the two hostiles on the hill above you. After that, I looked around for Coop, but he wasn’t where I’d last seen him. I figured he’d headed for the exfil point. But…” My voice cracks, and I reach for the thermos again, hoping the coffee will steady me. “As I picked up my rifle, I heard something. This…desperate sound. I dropped back down, tried to sight in on this little hut opposite you and Ryker. That’s when I saw him. He was pinned down but managed to shoot one of them in the head. Then, he tried to run for the corner of the building.”

  Stuck in the memories now, I turn when the Coop in my mind does. “He headed for the exfil point, and I scanned ahead to make sure no one was going to get in his way. That’s when I saw the assholes on the hill above you, ready to mow you down. Three shots. Three kills. By the time I tried to find Coop again, they had a bead on him. And…I wasn’t fast enough. There was so much blood. And his eyes.” I shudder, remembering how the light had left them, the whites burned into my memory.

  “The soldiers dragged his body away, laughing. That’s when I hauled ass to get to you and Ryker.”

  “Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” West shifts from foot to foot, like he can’t decide if he wants to hug me, slap me on the back, or turn away. I don’t blame him. He’s been where I am—or so Ryker told me before he asked West to join the team.

  He offers me the thermos again, all the camaraderie I can handle at the moment, but the simple gesture is enough. “Ryker doesn’t know the last bit. About seeing Coop die. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Understood.” I drain the thermos, and West swears under his breath. “I wish
the fucker would hurry. We’re out of coffee.”

  I laugh, then punch him in the arm. “He’d better. Or you’re going to start going through withdrawals. What the fuck were you thinking only bringing enough coffee for one thermos?”

  “That this was supposed to be a quick in-and-out?”

  I chuckle. It’s always supposed to be a quick in-and-out. Most of the time, it is. This op? Doubtful.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time. And whatever you say, I’ll believe you.” West takes me by the shoulders, and his icy blue eyes bore into me. “Can you put it away for this mission?”

  “Yes.” I nod, taking a slow, deep breath. Telling him…helped. At least enough for me to get through the next few hours. After that…who knows?

  The rumbling of an old Jeep shakes the thin walls of the hut no more than twenty minutes later, heralding our fearless leader’s return.

  Ryker strides into the hut with Graham at his heels. “All right. I paid off the local cops, and they’re going to keep their patrols well away from the little village where our target’s being held until daybreak. No promises after that. We’ve got fifteen hours to hike five miles, scout around, come up with a plan, and get the rich bastard out of there. Huddle up.” With a sideways glance, he hands the op to West. “Do your thing, Sampson.”

  As West spreads a map out over the small table, I glance down at my hands, relieved they’re finally steady.

  Royce

  An uneven piece of sidewalk catches my left foot as I rush towards Broadcast Coffee. Unable to steady myself, I crash into one of their outdoor tables—thank God the damn things are bolted to the concrete and it’s too cold for anyone to sit outside today.

  Yesterday brought a series of mini-seizures, and today, I feel like I’m made of glass. But West asked me to make sure Cam wasn’t alone while he was “out of town,” so I dragged my weary body out to meet her.

  Concern tightens her lips when I walk—or stumble—inside. She doesn’t get up from her seat, which means she’s still hurting. “Okay there, Rolls?”

  Once we got over the stupid bullshit that kept us—mostly me—from opening up, we reverted to our army days. The banter, ribbing, and stupid nicknames are all back. The closeness we shared…well, we’re still working on that. Guilt is a powerful emotion, and every time I look at her, I have to remind myself that she doesn’t blame me. Even if she should.

  “Just had to show that sidewalk who’s in charge, Pint.” I scowl, enough of a response for her, and she digs in her bag for her wallet as I sink heavily into the chair.

  “My treat. What’s your poison?”

  Fighting her for the bill never ends well, so I glance up at Broadcast’s menu board. “Large electric shock.”

  Her brows arch. Sixteen ounces of coffee and two shots of espresso is hardcore caffeine, but I’m desperate for the jolt. I knead my temple with a knuckle, trying to soothe the ache I’ve had since yesterday morning. “Didn’t sleep much last night,” I say with a shrug. “One of those days.”

  She doesn’t comment, but as she plants her cane and pushes to her feet, her free hand comes to rest on my arm for a quick squeeze. That’s all the sympathy I can take, and I’m grateful when she heads for the counter.

  She’ll pepper me with questions about my health for the next hour if I don’t distract her, so I pull out my iPad and launch the tracking app I’ve spent the past six weeks coding.

  With no current responsibilities at Emerald City Security, I’ve returned to my first love. Apps. One thing you learn after a stroke? Priorities. I enjoyed being the boss. Building the company up from nothing. But by the time the tumor forced me to quit—or take a long leave of absence—I was a glorified paper pusher.

  I’m not sure I can go back. I’m still technically the owner—on paper. Cam’s running the place and doing a damn good job of it. She’s a fucking awesome negotiator, and she’s brought in four new contracts and three new developers since I left.

  She returns empty handed, her voice taking on a flat tone. “The baristas here know me. I’m not trusted with coffee mugs. Jax will bring the drinks over when they’re done.”

  “I can—”

  “Don’t.” Her voice cracks, and she blinks hard before focusing on my iPad. “You got something to show me?”

  Distraction. I get it. We’re too damn similar sometimes. “Loc8tion’s viable.” I smile, despite the headache and the tight band that’s trying to crush my skull. “I’ve used the app for three days now. It works with my phone, my iPad, and my watch.” I angle my wrist towards her, tap the tiny screen, and launch Loc8tion. “Since I’m not moving, the app knows I’ve reached some sort of dess-destination.” Sure enough, Broadcast’s address flashes on the screen. “I can scroll through my location history for the past forty-eight hours.”

  “User-configurable? The time window?” Now her voice carries a hint of excitement.

  “Yep. Up to four days. Any more and I need a better compression algorithm for data sssstorage. But one day, maybe up to a week.” I spin the watch crown and pick West’s address from my history. “Tap the screen, and I can see the date and time I arrived and when I left. Press and hold and the app will show me how to get there.”

  The maps app pops up and tells me to head south on Roosevelt Way. I can’t help the small smile that curves my lips—even though I can tell I’m a little lopsided today. “Now switch users on the iPad.”

  She does so, and her mouth forms a little o. “Locate Royce?”

  “Yep. As long as I’ve got my phone or watch on me, the app can tell you where I am.”

  “This is great, Royce. Really.” She taps the screen, and when the app tells her I’m ten feet away and spits out Broadcast’s address, my watch buzzes.

  Admin user is trying to locate you.

  “I’ve already talked to the VA hospital administrator. She committed to tesssting it out when I’m ready, and if she likes the app, she’ll recommend it to her TBI patients. Memory issues are big for anyone with a traumatic brain injury. I’ve got proposals out to a couple of the larger Alzheimer's organizations in the city as well.” My chest swells with pride, and the ache in my temple lessens slightly.

  “How can I help?” Cam slides my iPad across the table as the barista brings our drinks.

  The frazzled young woman with an eyebrow piercing and full-sleeve tattoos smiles. “Sorry, hon. We’re slammed. I brought you a couple of scones for the wait. Where’s your other half? I haven’t seen him in a couple of days.”

  Cam presses her lips together for a moment before she answers. “He’s out of town on business.”

  “Well, tell him we got a new Columbian blend the other day that I think he’ll love.” With a quick wink, the barista nods at me, then heads back to the bar.

  “Hey.” I lean forward. Cam’s gaze shifts to her hands clasped around her macchiato, and a muscle in her jaw ticks for a moment before she looks up in response. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” The word escapes with a hard edge, and she sighs. “Didn’t sleep much myself last night. Or the night before that. Or the night before that…”

  Of course. West is out doing his superhero thing. Last time he left her, he took a bullet to the stomach and almost died. “Have you heard from him?”

  A raven curl tumbles free from her messy bun as she shakes her head. “No phones. Ryker insists they be totally off the grid.” She glances down at her watch. “He should be back tomorrow—or really late tonight—if nothing went wrong.”

  Her cheeks pale, and as she takes a sip of her macchiato, the cup trembles slightly.

  “He’s a SEAL, Pint. He knows what he’s doing. Plus, it’s a three-man—err, person—team, right? Ryker and Inara are with him?” Saying her name brings up a mental image of Inara’s smile and the light in her eyes as I asked for her phone number the other night.

  “They’ve got a fourth now. A new guy to replace the one they lost on the last mission. I don’t know him. Hell, West and Inara don’t kn
ow him either. And I just…shit.” Steamed milk sloshes over the rim of the cup as her hand spasms. The bombs left her with some pretty severe nerve damage that flares when she’s stressed out.

  I swipe a napkin over the mess without a word, letting her take a deep breath and steady herself.

  “He needs to do this. Both to keep the Horizons program running at the dojo and to banish some of his demons. I just hate that I can’t talk to him…that I might not know if he gets hurt again. Or worse.” She drags her hand over her mouth as if she can’t believe what she’s saying.

  “We’re new, Royce. Four months? And I’m stupid in love with him. Hell, I’ve basically moved in with him. We spent Christmas with his family. And last week, I saw him pull my grandmother’s ring out of my jewelry box and slide it halfway down his pinky finger. Like he was trying to figure out my size.”

  I chuckle, but that’s obviously not the right response because Cam cuts me down with her glare. “You’re upset because he loves you back? Because he might want to marry you?”

  “Well, when you say it like that…” She crosses her arms. “I never wanted…this. A relationship. Everyone I’ve ever depended on in my life deserted me. I didn’t want to need someone ever again as much as I need him.”

  Her words, tinged with an odd mix of sadness and frustration, resonate. “Yeah. You did.” The vision in my left eye darkens. Shit. “Just a sssec.” I fumble for my pill box, then wash two of my anti-seizure pills down with a swig of coffee.

  “You were so fucking lonely, you worked yourself half to d-death. I don’t care how many people you talked to on VetNet,” I continue when she tries to make excuses. “Chatting on a message board isn’t the same thing as having a partner. Someone who’s always got your b-back. Wesssst ssssshowed…”

  Fuck.

  My tongue suddenly feels three sizes too big for my mouth, and I can’t see anything out of my left eye.

  “How bad?” Cam squeezes my forearm, and I close my eyes so my screwed-up depth perception doesn’t make me any dizzier than I already am. I hold up two fingers—a signal that this isn’t a major attack but won’t let me speak either—and she digs her short nails into my skin. “Focus on the pressure and take deep breaths.”