In Her Sights (Away From Keyboard Book 2) Read online

  I hear her rummaging around in her bag, feel her grip shift on my arm. I wave my hand, trying to tell her she doesn’t need to call 911. Pursing my lips—or trying to—I breathe in for a count of five, then breathe out for an eight count. By the fourth repetition, the room stops spinning, and by the sixth, I risk opening my eyes.

  Cam watches me with her phone in her hand, thumb hovering over the screen.

  “O-kaaay,” I stammer, then nod. “Almost…over.”

  She raises a brow. “I’ll believe you when you can give me a complete sentence.”

  After another minute, the pressure banding around my forehead releases with a hiss only I can hear. I extract my arm from under her death grip and then reach for my coffee. The caffeine burns a path down my throat, and the shock of the steaming liquid banishes the lingering tension in my shoulders.

  “I’m good n-now.” My words are still a little slow, and scalding my tongue probably didn’t help matters, but I force a weak smile. “Nothing to worry about. Bad…cluster the past couple of…d-days. I spent so much time finalizing the app, I didn’t take my meds regularly.”

  “And you’re lecturing me about working myself to death?” Cam scoffs and leans back in her chair. “How frequent are the seizures? Don’t lie to me.”

  I glare at her, but I’m not her commanding officer anymore, and she doesn’t back down. “I have a bad patch every few weeks. Five or six in a day. My doctor says that’s not abnormal.”

  “Are you driving?”

  Now she’s pushing too hard. My voice takes on a rough edge. “No. I took a Lyft here. And I get plenty of warning. Knew this could happen. Leave it alone, Cam. I’m fine.”

  Her stare, along with the tense set of her shoulders, tells me she’s not going to stop, and I relent. Fighting with her takes too much of my energy, and my body is already demanding rest.

  “I’m never going to be…the way I was. The seizures are probably permanent. I’m always going to be prone to falls, and I have a blind spot,” I gesture to my left, “here. But I can code, I can run most days, ride a stationary bike and lift weights and take care of myself, which is a hell of a lot better than letting that fucking tumor kill me.”

  She flinches, then stares into her macchiato. “Why didn’t you tell me the seizures were that frequent?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to worry. You’ve got enough to deal with right now with ZoomWare and the new SpryLot contract. And West.” Desperate to smooth things between us, I reach across the table and touch her arm. “You got me through those first two weeks when I could barely speak, couldn’t walk, and thought I’d be that way forever. Hell, you and West practically moved in with me, and he was ssstill…recovering.”

  “My place was too small, and West’s house wasn’t wheelchair accessible.” Her matter-of-fact tone would normally make me laugh, but memories of those dark days still leave me in a cold sweat some nights.

  “I was so fucking depressed. You kept me from losing hope completely. I’ll never be able to repay you for that.”

  Cam tucks a curl behind her ear. “You don’t have to. But I thought we’d gotten past this whole keeping secrets from one another bullshit?”

  Two can play at this game. “You didn’t tell me how worried you were at dinner the other night.” Cam deflates. I might lose my words inside my fucked-up head from time to time, but I can still make a damn good argument when I have to. “Look, we spent years not talking. We’re used to dealing with shit on our own. Can we both admit we screwed up and move on?”

  “Deal.” She meets my gaze, and though worry dulls the golden streaks in her brown eyes, understanding wells there too.

  I rise, a little slower than usual, testing my equilibrium, but my legs are steady. “I’m going to find a ride home, watch the ‘Hawks, and be ’one’ with my recliner. Want to come over?”

  “I don’t think a football game would do much for my stress levels today,” she says. “And I want to be home—err, at West’s—when he gets back.”

  “I can be ‘one’ with his recliner. You don’t have to be alone.” I lay my hand on her shoulder, but she bats it away.

  “Alone is what I do best,” she whispers, but quickly adds, “If he doesn’t come home tonight, I’ll call you.”

  Guilt raises a lump in my throat. I did this to her. Ran out on her when she needed me most. “Pint, I’m so sorry. I wish I could go back and…be a better man.”

  Cam pushes herself to standing and tries to hide her wince as she pulls me in for a fierce hug. “You’re a good man, Royce. Stop apologizing,” she says as she rests her head on my shoulder. “You came back.”

  I hold on for an extra moment. “So will he.”

  As I reach Broadcast’s door and zip up my jacket, I pause for a quick glance back at Cam’s table. She’s staring at her phone, and her eyes shine when she brushes her fingers across the screen. She may not like needing someone, but she needs West like she needs oxygen. He damn well better come back safe.

  3

  Inara

  Sometime between two and five in the morning—I lose all track of time when we’re on mission—we touch down at Boeing Field, pile into Ryker’s van, and pass the trip back to the warehouse in silence. Graham, whose last name is Peck, sports a swollen shoulder from getting himself caught in the belay line as we made our escape from the compound, and West holds a cold pack to his jaw.

  We’re all bone weary, and the scent of the target’s blood lingers in the small space. Poor guy was mostly dead when Ryker and West busted in, and he bled all over them. By the time they reached the exfil point, West’s shirt was soaked with piss and blood and God-knows-what-else. He burned the t-shirt before we left, but without the luxury of a shower, that fucking stench lingers.

  “You coming in?” I ask West when Ryker eases the van off the freeway. “I don’t think Cam would appreciate you slipping into bed next to her smelling like a sewer.”

  He scowls. “She definitely wouldn’t. I have to grab my stuff, but I’m going to her condo to clean up.”

  “She still hasn’t sold the place? I thought the two of you…” At West’s expression, I zip it. I hit a sore spot.

  “New Guy,” Ryker says as we trudge into the warehouse to retrieve our civvies, “you need to put in fifty hours on the climbing wall before I let you out there again.”

  Suitably chastised, Graham nods. “Give me two days, then I’ll be here every morning at six and every day after work.”

  “You see the doc tomorrow. Get that shoulder looked at and let him tell you when you’re ready. You’re no good to me if you tear a rotator cuff because you pushed yourself too hard, too fast.” Our fearless leader might be a son of a bitch, but he’s not stupid. Or sadistic. Just in a perpetually bad mood.

  “And you two,” he says as he gestures towards me and West, side-by-side as we punch in the combos to our respective lockers. “Intel-only on Monday night after training. Be here at seven. All goes well, we’ll be done by midnight.”

  “Yes, sir,” we say in unison, though neither of us bothers to salute. Ryker would probably give us hell for it. He doesn’t like being in charge, but he can’t handle it any other way. Whatever happened to him at Hell Mountain—the infamous system of caves the Taliban used as an interrogation “facility” when we were enlisted—shaped him into one of the most lethal men I know, which is saying something for an Army Ranger sharpshooter.

  “Good mission,” Ryker says quietly as I dig out my car keys and phone. “The second half of your pay will hit your accounts in the morning. See you back here for training in two days. You too, Peck. Just because you can’t climb doesn’t mean you can’t run sprints.”

  “Yessir!” Graham salutes, and Ryker grumbles something unintelligible as he strides towards the showers. I don’t know where the man lives, but more than once, I’ve wondered if he spends all of his time here.

  My little white coupe sits on the far side of West’s truck, and as I round his mint-condition old Fo
rd, I swear.

  “Just fucking great.” My left front tire has a neat gash in the side, and my driver’s window is shattered, glass littering the seat. A quick glance inside the car confirms that my radio’s gone and a cluster of wires protrudes from under the dash.

  West is sitting behind the wheel of the truck, the glow of his phone screen casting his face in an eerie light, and when I rap on the window, he leans over and rolls the damn thing down—manually. I haven’t seen a crank window in years. “Something wrong—” His brows draw down as he takes in the shattered window.

  Despite the late hour, he’s still lightning fast as he hops out of the cab and comes to stand next to me. “You leave something inside?”

  Seattle is famous for car prowls. Leave so much as a sweater in your backseat, and you’re asking for trouble. “Hell no. Not even the registration. I lock all that shit up inside when we go on mission.”

  “Well, yours is the nicest car here.” West gestures to Graham’s beat-up old Smart Car and the team’s boring, dented van. “Ryker keeps his bike inside.”

  “Listen, I hate to ask, but…”

  “Hop in.”

  As we weave through the quiet Seattle streets, I glance over at the former SEAL next to me. “You text her yet?”

  “No. I need to wait until I’m cleaned up.”

  “She really worried?”

  He sighs. “Cam’s not used to this. Loving me.”

  “I don’t understand.” Not that I’ve loved anyone before. Sniper training teaches you to turn off all emotion. Follow orders, do what needs to be done. The psychological exercises the army put me through were a hell of a lot harder than any physical training. Start to see targets as people, you’re done for. Think about their families, kids…you might as well hang up your rifle.

  He’s quiet until we pass through the next traffic light. “She won’t move in with me. We spend every night together at my place. But half of her stuff’s still at the condo, and when I asked her when she was going to admit defeat and sell the place, she looked at me like I was about to take her puppy away.”

  “Did you ask her why?” Sometimes I’m too…direct…for my own good. This must be one of those times because West shoots me a look like I’ve just grown a second head.

  “I can read her, Inara. You look at guys through a scope from a thousand yards away. That’s your training. SEALs…we’re taught to read an enemy’s facial ticks, their body language. All the micro-expressions that tell you when someone’s lying or afraid or cocky. Cam’s terrified. I just don’t know why. Given what happened the last time I tried to push her, I’m not about to try again.”

  “She’s not going to break up with you.” I may not be as adept at reading people as West, but I can tell Cam’s head-over-heels for the guy. Even though I’ve only met her a couple of times. “How many texts did she send?”

  “One a day. And I know her. She wouldn’t let herself send any more. Even if she wanted to.” Running a hand through his short-cropped hair, he comes away with a sticky patch that glistens in the street lights. “Fucking target got blood in my hair.”

  “This is why I stay high on the hill. Away from the fight.” I hold out my arms, then find a piece of a leaf stuck to my bicep. “At least trees don’t bleed.”

  As West turns down my street, he shoots me a cursory glance. “You solid?”

  Am I? Our orders were to leave as many of the hostiles alive as possible. I took three shots. None fatal. Two shoulders. One leg. Each one landed precisely where I intended. But was that the difference? Despite Graham’s ineptitude rappelling, the job went off without a hitch. The only life on the line was the target’s. West never even drew his weapon. “I think so. Maybe I’ll sleep the rest of the night without seeing Coop’s face.”

  “You’d better get to it,” he says as he eases the truck to a stop in front of my house. “Less than three hours until sunrise.”

  A few minutes before noon, after I pick up a crappy rental sedan, I meet the tow truck at the warehouse. Once I’ve verified ownership, I watch with my lower lip trapped under my teeth as my baby’s loaded onto the tow’s bed. The repair shop promises a quick estimate and turnaround, but I still feel bereft as my cute little coupe disappears from view. Not only did the asshole smash the window and destroy my tires, he also cut the brake line and pulled all of my spark plugs.

  Chilled, an odd prickle racing down my spine, I duck back into the car and head to Shoreline Art Center.

  Sun streams into the studio, casting a warm glow over the cold, dark canvas. Years ago, after my tenth confirmed kill, the army shrink warned me I needed to find an outlet. Some way to deal with the darkness taking a life creates inside you.

  It doesn’t matter that I’m only doing my job—that the men I kill would kill me and my unit in a heartbeat. Watching the light leave a man’s eyes through my scope leaves a scar, every time.

  Though I started out barely able to draw stick people or sketch a lone tree in a desert of endless sand, I slowly learned. A couple of guys in my unit tutored me, and now…well, now my futile attempts to work out my anger and grief have shape and purpose. Color and shading.

  Swirling winds rip through trees stripped of all their leaves. A dark vortex where the sun or moon might be steals the light from the forest, and blood-red rain slicks the rocks.

  “Fuck. I can’t show this to anyone. They’ll think I’m insane.” I drop my brush, turn, and stalk over to the window. One of the other art students who frequents the space shoots me an exasperated look. “Sorry,” I mouth.

  I shouldn’t have come. Not as tired as I am. But the job always sends me here. Half the flight home, my fingers itched to pick up a brush. I scavenged a pen and a couple of napkins from the tiny Turkish airport before we took off so I could doodle while the guys slept.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scroll through the contacts until I find Royce’s name. Something about his quiet humor drew me in, and I even tried sketching him on my last napkin, but all I managed to capture were his eyes. And the pain in them.

  Would you be interested in grabbing a drink this week? I know this cool little spot in Pioneer Square.

  I try not to watch the screen, even going so far as to shove the phone back into my pocket and start cleaning my brushes. But six of them clatter into the sink, spattering paint over the porcelain when he responds, and I jerk.

  Tomorrow night?

  Flames lick up my neck to my cheeks as I thumb out a reply.

  How about six at Libations? I’m an early riser. I turn into a pumpkin by ten.

  Great. That’s attractive. Tell a guy you’re no fun before you even go on your first date. But Royce’s message flashes across my screen, and I swallow hard.

  I like pumpkin.

  Holy shit. No one’s flirted with me in ages—at least no one I’ve wanted to flirt back with. I finish cleaning up and stow my canvases with a smile and a bit more spring in my step than I should have after only three hours sleep.

  Maybe I am solid. Maybe…all the darkness I carry inside won’t destroy me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have some honest-to-goodness fun.

  Royce

  The townhouse stairs feel ten feet tall after my workout, but I can’t bring myself to use the ramp anymore. I grab the handrail and practically drag myself up to my living room. Why did I think it was such a great idea to up the weights today?

  Because your muscle tone is shit.

  I hate what I see in the mirror these days. Though I was never built like West, I lost a good thirty pounds between the tumor’s side effects and the stroke. I’m still in damn good shape for a guy on the north side of forty, but I used to be able to bench two-fifty and today, I only managed four reps at one-seventy before my arms gave out.

  As I chug my water bottle, my phone buzzes.

  We’re way past Thanksgiving. You won’t find a lot of pumpkin around these days.

  After an hour in the weight room, my fingers don’t want to respond, so my reply takes m
e more than five full minutes with all the backspacing and autocorrect mistakes.

  Then it’s a good thing Cam and West tricked us into meeting. Everything go okay on your trip?

  My phone rings as I bite into an apple, and I manage a muffled “hello.”

  “I really hate texting when I’m tired,” Inara says. “We got in sometime between ‘holy fuck it’s late’ last night and ‘no sane person should be up yet’ this morning.”

  “And you’re awake why?” On my way to my bedroom, I stumble over my own feet and crash into the wall. “Shit.”

  “Royce? You okay?”

  “Yeah, apparently I forgot how to walk. Again.” Though I’m inwardly chuckling at my black humor, Inara makes some vaguely uncomfortable noises before I realize my gaffe. “You can laugh. I do.”

  “Um…” The tremulous uncertainty in her voice shocks me, and I panic.

  “Oh fuck. West didn’t tell you about my…ssstroke?”

  Silence stretches over the line, and my heart sinks. No matter how many times the doctors and therapists tell me I’m not broken, I know I am. And who’d want to get involved with that?

  “Listen,” I say, desperate to make things easy on her, “I’m…something came up tomorrow. Another time, maybe.”

  “No, wait.” She draws in a sharp breath. “That was incredibly rude of me.” Her voice softens. “The first time Cam and West had me over for dinner, they told me Cam’s boss had just had surgery. I figured appendicitis or rotator cuff or maybe a hernia.”

  “A hernia?” I chuckle. “Nope. Unlike most people, I know how to lift with my legs.”

  Inara’s voice softens. “Royce, I’m sorry. If…whatever plans you just invented as an excuse to let me off the hook can be canceled, I’d still like to have drinks with you tomorrow.”