In Her Sights (Away From Keyboard Book 2)

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Her eyes water, but she shakes her head as she glances back towards the bed. “Fuck.” She lunges for the nightstand as I try to haul her back. “Please! Just…I need…”

  The pain in her voice, even with the smoke clogging her throat, has me releasing her with a prayer. “N-not leaving…without…you.”

  Once she’s cradled an old letterbox under her arm, she swivels her legs over the sill, jumps, and lands six feet below, tucking and rolling to her feet with the grace of a dancer. I struggle to get my left leg out the window, my body sluggish, and I all but fall to the ground.

  Inara helps me up as a window explodes. We run, as best we can barefoot, barely clothed, and struggling to breathe. Her go bag weighs almost as much as she does. Sirens fill the air as we reach her car, parked on the street thirty feet away. “Royce,” she wheezes, “the smoke…de—” More glass shatters and Inara struggles to stop coughing. Flames lick up the west wall. A fire truck screeches to a halt, and in under a minute, water hits the roof.

  Wrapping my arms around her, I try to turn Inara so she can’t see the devastation, but though she’s shivering in just my shirt, she refuses to look away. I’m only in my Levi’s, but I don’t notice the chill with the heat of the fire.

  One of the firefighters approaches, his brow furrowed. “Were you inside?” At my nod, he gestures towards the fire truck. “Come with me. The EMTs are en route. Are you hurt?”

  Inara shakes her head and tries to speak, but her words dissolve into a fit of coughing. Though my throat constricts, I manage to force out a single phrase. “Not hurt.”

  The man, or boy really, leads us over to one of the trucks and urges us to sit on a small ledge while he withdraws blankets and two small oxygen tanks, complete with masks. “Put these on and breathe normally.”

  Inara stares at her burning home, not acknowledging him, but after I touch her arm, she snaps out of her trance and pulls the mask over her nose and mouth.

  Needing to keep her tucked against my good, right side, I fumble with my mask, my left hand clumsy from the stress and the late—or early—hour. After I start to choke again, the mask cradled in my palm, Inara sets the letterbox down and takes care of the elastic strap that holds the mask in place.

  The look we share etches into my soul, both of us understanding how close we came to dying. A tear carves a trail through the soot darkening her cheeks.

  “Smoke…detectors,” she says once we’re breathing a little easier. Her usually refined voice bears the strain of the ash and the fear. “Didn’t go off.”

  “When d-did you lassst check them?” Fuck. I run through the mental checklist the doc gave me. No tingling in my neck. No double vision. No headache or pressure behind my eyes. I should be okay. Inara stares up at me with fear darkening her gray eyes.

  I answer her unspoken question. “S’okay. Jussst tired. When?”

  Before she can reply, the ambulance arrives, and the EMTs hustle us off, wrap us in fresh blankets, check our vitals, and try to get us both to agree to go to the hospital.

  Inara stares at the burning shell of her home as the younger tech, a brawny guy named Sal, calls to her. “Ma'am? We need to take you both—”

  “No,” she rasps. “I can’t…leave.” She shakes off Sal’s hand, pushes off the gurney, and takes two steps onto her small front lawn. I try to follow, but my left leg buckles, and the other guy, Brad, helps ease me back down.

  “Sir, with your medical history, we’re taking you to Harborview to get checked out.”

  There’s no fucking way I’m leaving Inara tonight. “I’m fine. This amount of a-aphasia is n-normal for t-two a.m.” Forcing a deep breath, I push to my feet, sway a little, and ease myself out of the ambulance.

  “Smoke inhalation is a serious—”

  “No.” I glance back at Brad. “I’ll sssign whatever I have t-to.” The back of my neck tingles, and I dig out my pills, swallowing two dry. “We’re…fine. Thank you.”

  Staggering over to Inara, I touch her shoulder. “Baby, come here.” She doesn’t move when I wrap her up against me, but I can’t let go.

  The firefighters work until all that’s left of her home is a steaming, darkened shell. While the walls still stand, and they say the back half of the house and garage aren’t totally destroyed, the windows, most of the roof, and her bedroom lay in ruins.

  “Royce,” Inara whispers without taking her eyes off her home. “Everything’s…gone.”

  “Shhh, baby. It’ll be okay.” Pressing a kiss to her temple, I worry I’m lying. I have to focus on every word, and my vision wavers until I blink hard and blow out a shaky breath.

  After the police have our names and numbers and the firemen roll up their hoses and prepare to head out, I take Inara by the shoulders. “Come home with me. I n-need a shower and sssleep. So d-do you. The rest—”

  The words are getting harder and slower, and Inara shakes herself out of her haze. “Oh, God. Royce. I’m so sorry.” Her voice wavers, and a hitch in her breath tells me she’s close to breaking. She wears an expression somewhere between fear and desperation as she digs in her go bag for a spare set of keys.

  “N-no,” I stammer. “Call a Lyft.” She isn’t in any shape to drive, and I can barely walk a straight line.

  “I can do this. I need to do this.” Hefting her go bag over her shoulder, she strides towards the car and pops the trunk. With a heaving sob, she braces her hands on the bumper, but before I reach her, she straightens and scrubs her hands over her face.

  When she turns, all the emotion has drained from her eyes. “Inara.”

  “No.” Holding up her hands, she backs towards the driver side door. “I’m okay. Let’s go.”

  She’s about as far from okay as she can get, but I know that look. I’ve seen it on Cam’s face before. Hell, I’ve seen it in my own eyes staring back at me in the mirror. Getting behind the wheel will keep her together long enough for me to get us into bed. Everything else will wait until morning. I hope.

  Inara

  I’m numb. With Royce curled around me, his soft breaths in my ear, I struggle not to tremble. We barely spoke once we drove away from the wreckage of my home—of my life. He tried to draw me out but struggled with every word. When he stumbled climbing the steps to his condo, I panicked, but he swore—slowly and with great effort—that he’d be fine after a few hours of sleep.

  The first weak rays of light seep around the blinds. I feel so…safe here…in his arms. Or, I should. But I have too many questions. Why didn’t my smoke detectors go off? How did the fire start? My landlord’s a jerk, but when the heater went out six months ago, he replaced it with a brand-new unit that required a full electrical inspection.

  Shifting slightly, I trace the faint outline of the bruise on my hip.

  Wrong place, wrong time.

  There’s more to this than bad luck.

  What if Ryker is onto something? And Sonia? She was driving my car. On a night I was supposed to be in town. Three attempts on my life in a matter of two weeks—in Seattle? I’m not on the battlefield. This is a safe city, relatively speaking, and I live—lived—in a safe neighborhood.

  The realization that I’m literally homeless causes a sob to well in my throat, and I shove my fist against my mouth to muffle the sound. I’ll be okay. I have insurance, savings from my work for Hidden Agenda. But, despite my lack of home decorating skills, I loved my little house in my quiet neighborhood. I can’t imagine the landlord is going to rebuild. He’ll sell to a developer who’ll put up those stupid pod-ments, the mega small apartments that pack ten units onto a lot that used to hold a single-family house.

  Royce tightens his arm around me, and I stare down at his hand curled over mine.

  “I love you, Inara.”

  Four words change my entire world. Force me to shift my focus. I didn’t show him the last painting. I couldn’t. Too raw after my confession, I held back. With my free hand, I trace his fingers. All I can see is him stumbling out of my bedroom window, fu
mbling for the oxygen mask, leaning on me as we lurched through his door.

  Yet, through it all, he was the one who held me together. Nudged me into the shower, washed my hair for me as I cried silent tears masked by the spray. We didn’t speak as we climbed into his bed, and Royce fell asleep within minutes. Me? My mind won’t stop racing.

  I shift slowly out from under his arm until I’m facing him. Dark smudges bruise his eyes. A layer of stubble dusts his chin, and a smear of soot lingers on his neck. The sheet pools around his narrow waist. A bullet scar—get shot once and you know exactly what they look like—on his bicep draws my gaze. Shrapnel scars decorate his forearms from the bombs that almost killed Cam.

  He grunts in his sleep, his lips twisting into a frown. Under his shuttered lids, his eyes move rapidly, and I lean over and cup his cheek. “Shhh. You’re okay, baby.” With a sigh, he relaxes. I have no focus where he’s concerned. All I see is a man I…love, who almost lost his life because of me.

  Tears burn the corners of my eyes—or perhaps that’s just more soot. Why did I let him bring me here? What if…. Icy fear spreads through my veins, and I have to get out, get clear, get somewhere I can think. I slip out of bed, then lift my go bag an inch at a time, holding my breath and hoping I won’t wake him. This is a conversation I can’t have right now.

  Once I make it to his living room, I pull out a change of clothes. Black pants, black sports bra, black long-sleeved shirt. My entire wardrobe is in this bag. Three identical sets of clothes—designed for combat and stealth, not everyday. I fold Royce’s well-worn Counting Crows shirt with care, intending to leave it behind, but as I look back at his closed bedroom door, then bring the shirt to my nose to inhale his scent, I change my mind and tuck the t-shirt into my bag.

  My fingers shake as I lace up my boots. Three attempts on my life. Ryker’s godson. I don’t believe in coincidences. Not after all I’ve seen. I find a pad of paper on Royce’s kitchen counter and try not to cry as I leave him a note.

  The drunk driver. Sonia’s accident. The fire. If they’re related, every minute I spend here puts you in danger. If someone’s after me—fuck. There’s no if. I have to figure this out, and I can’t do that worrying that you’re going to be caught in the crossfire. I’m going dark until I get some answers. I’ll check in when I can.

  The urge to write “I love you” bubbles up inside, but assuming I survive this, I’d never forgive myself if this was how I told him, so I end the note with the incredibly stupid Yours, Inara xoxo and then risk tiptoeing back into his bedroom to lay the note on the bed in the space I so recently occupied.

  I can’t stop my tears from falling as I slip out the townhouse door, and dammit, if I hadn’t locked the knob on my way out, I might have gone right back in.

  The front desk clerk gives me the side eye as I hand over three worn hundred-dollar bills. “I hate credit cards,” I offer in explanation. Tacoma still has a few cheap hotels that aren’t flea-infested—or so I hope—and three nights should give me enough time to gain some perspective.

  My brief stop at the warehouse for my signal jammer confirmed that no one bugged my car, but I left my new baby at a Park and Ride near Green Lake and took three buses down to Tacoma to be sure.

  “Room 227. Up the stairs and to the right,” the clerk says as she passes me a keycard. “Enjoy your stay, Ms. Campbell.”

  Isabel Campbell smiles back at me from the fake driver’s license. She’s got a passport, too. Credit cards, even a speeding ticket for authenticity. But the less of a trail I leave right now, the better. For once, I give thanks for Ryker’s insane demands. Fully stocked go-bags, complete with three different identities, two thousand in cash, clothes, weapons, and ammunition.

  Adjusting my sunglasses, I head up the exterior staircase to the second floor, the lump in my throat growing with each step. Once inside the room, I paw through my bag to find one of three fully-charged burner phones. My personal phone probably melted into a big glass lump on the remains of my bedroom floor. With shaking fingers, I use the burner to call my voicemail.

  “Inara, please. Come back. You’re not alone. I love you.”

  With ten words, Royce shatters my heart into pieces, and I listen to the message another four times before I cry myself to sleep.

  17

  Inara

  My alarm wakes me two hours later. Pretty sure my eyelids are made of sandpaper. Shower. I need a shower. And a gallon of water. First, though, I have to find out how bad things really are.

  Ryker answers my call, and I immediately say, “Toast with jam.”

  “Fuck.” He hangs up, but less than a minute later, the phone in my hand vibrates with a blocked number. I don’t speak until Ryker utters the confirmation code, “Pancakes and bacon.”

  “We’re in trouble.”

  “How bad?” Ryker doesn’t do small talk, and right now, I appreciate that about him.

  “Somewhere between ‘we’re up shit creek’ and ‘we’re totally fucked.’” As he listens, I recount the full details of the supposed ‘drunk driver,’ Sonia’s accident, and the fire that destroyed my home last night and almost took me and Royce with it.

  “Where’s your guy?” Clattering keystrokes carry over the line. At least one of us has access to a computer.

  “At his place. I…left him a note.” Shame keeps my tone low, and I fall back on the bed, staring up at the stained ceiling. I really don’t want to know what those discolorations are from. “I couldn’t stand the idea of putting him in danger.”

  Ryker snorts. “Because leaving your burnt-out shell of a house together at two in the morning, exhausted, and driving to his place wouldn’t let anyone tail you, right? And whoever this fucker is, there’s no way he could have followed you from West’s last night? Or seen you with him any of the other times you went out?”

  Shit.

  He doesn’t even take a breath. “I’ll head over there as soon as we’re done. Give me his address.”

  I sigh and rattle off the house number and street. “I really hurt him, Ry.”

  “He’s a soldier, isn’t he?” Ryker’s voice softens just a little, and I don’t know that I can take his sympathy. Not now. “He’ll understand. Eventually.”

  I swipe at my traitorous eyes. “Yes—to both. But he’s also overprotective as hell and I…love him.”

  “Well, shit. He knows what we do, right?” After a breath, he makes a frustrated, guttural sound. “Don’t answer that. Next time I recruit, I’m making it a requirement. No dating. Are you safe right now?”

  Right back into tactical mode. This, I can handle. “Yes. Used one of my aliases, paid cash. I don’t have anything but my go-bag. Everything else…burned.”

  Put it away, Inara. Don’t think about anything but the mission. Stay alive.

  “I’ll get—what’s his name?”

  “Royce,” I whisper.

  “Once I’ve got him locked up tight, we need to meet. As far as I know, West and Cam haven’t been targeted, so we’re probably looking at someone related to one of our past missions, but I’ll suggest Cam stay with Royce until we know what we’re dealing with. Come to the warehouse. Be there by 17:00. We’ll figure this out. The whole team.”

  “I don’t want to put you, West, and Graham in danger. Outside of Ty…”

  “Graham’s so new, whoever’s after us probably doesn't know he exists yet. West is a SEAL. You think you’re going to cut him out of this? Good luck with that.” Ryker snorts, and I hear the beeping of an electronic combination lock. “As for me…no one finds me. I find them. Be there, Inara. No heroics. We’re a team.”

  “But…”

  “No buts.” Ryker pauses, and I think I can hear him rubbing his chin with his palm. “If I know you, you’re holed up in some cheap-ass motel somewhere. What happens if you make a mistake? What happens if whoever’s after us figures out where you are? You’re alone and among civilians. Be there or I’m going to hunt you down myself.”

  As the line goes
dead, I toss the phone back in my bag and sink down to the floor. He’s right. I know he’s right. So why do I feel like I just signed everyone’s death warrants?

  Because I don’t have perspective.

  The more emotions you shove into that box, the harder it is to keep it closed.

  My shrink’s words haunt me now. Because there’s no box in the world big enough to hold my love for Royce. Or the fear that I could lose him.

  Royce

  “Inara, please don’t shut me out. At least text me. Let me know you’re not trying to figure this out all alone.”

  When I read her note this morning, I called West and Cam first thing. But Cam had a big meeting with the CEO of Siren Coffee and West…I wrack my brain. Something to do with his new kids' program at the dojo. If Inara’s in trouble, she’d at least call Ryker—wouldn’t she?

  I slam my hand down on the counter as I realize I don’t know. Despite how close we’ve become over the past few weeks, I can’t be sure. The rich scent of coffee fills my kitchen, though I can still smell smoke from the fire. Once I caffeinate, I’ll head to West’s dojo. He’ll know how to get in touch with Ryker.

  As the last few drops of a dark Guatemalan blend fill the pot, I fiddle with the transmitter in my hand. Durable little thing. Came through the fire with flying colors—as evidenced by the map I pulled up on my phone a few minutes ago. I need to find a way to make them wearable.

  Coffee in hand, I sink down at my counter, staring at the pad of paper and pen. I can still smell her. Even with the overwhelming scent of smoke, a bit of Inara lingers. Lilies and orange blossoms.

  I call her one more time, though I don’t expect her to answer. “Inara, baby. I just...I love you.”

  The knock rattles my door half off the hinges, and I jump, my coffee sloshing over the rim of my mug as I end the call.

  Before I flip the lock, I ease open the drawer to my little entry table and set my pistol inside. If someone’s after Inara, I’m not going to take any chances. Checking the peephole, I frown. I don’t recognize the man outside. Short brown hair under a black baseball cap, loose cargo pants, and a black sweater that doesn’t do much to hide his bulk. With my hand on the gun, I take a step back.