Jessica R. Patch - Recovered Secrets

“Grace, are you okay? Since the memory flash you’ve been kinda off. You know you can share anything with me, right? I’m here for you. We’re...we’re friends.” That last sentence seemed hard for him to say. They were friends, though. She couldn’t remember ever having any but surely friends cared enough to look out for one another. Hollis was protecting her, but who was protecting him? Not Grace. But down deep came an intense desire...so incredible—to protect him. To guard him. She wasn’t even sure she had the ability, but the emotion was so wildly strong that surely she must have the power to back it up.

“I need you to know, Hollis—”

Pop!

A bullet whizzed past and Grace winced as a sudden sting seared her skin. Her jacket ripped open near the shoulder. She’d been shot.

Hollis threw her to the ground. “Get under the truck,” he hollered and they slid their way underneath. “How bad are you hit?”

“A graze. I think.” If it was the same shooter from earlier this morning, he had excellent aim. Either he missed this time or was sending a deadly warning that if she didn’t cough up the doctor, next time he wouldn’t miss. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t know how to make these people understand that the information they want is sealed up tight in my brain!”

“We’ll worry about that later. Right now, shimmy out the other side. Stay down, but get inside the cab. I’ll wait until you’re in before heading for the driver’s side.”

“No! Hollis, they may shoot you on sight. They have no reason to keep you alive, and they may believe that killing you might make me talk.” It wouldn’t. The very thought of them hurting Hollis sent a rage she didn’t remember ever feeling through her system. It was cold. Dark. And frightening—because for a split second it crossed her mind to make them pay if they hurt him. Deep in her marrow, a whisper said she could do exactly that.

“Don’t worry about me, Grace. I’m a big boy and this ain’t my first rodeo.”

“I know, but—”

“Get in the truck. We can argue later.” His voice had the same scolding tone he’d laid on the boys, but she caught a measure of fear behind it—not for him but for her. She scooted until she was free from under the truck, then rolled over and carefully ducked while opening the door.

A bullet slammed into the hitch. Were the shooters toying with them? “Hollis, you need to come out this side and slide in. I’ll drive.”

Hollis paused then followed suit. Grace stayed low but scooted over.

Another shot fired. Her arm burned like crazy, and blood had seeped through her shirt and jacket.

Hollis jumped in, and Grace hit the gas, the truck throwing up gravel and fishtailing through the parking lot. She kept the pedal to the metal until they neared the SAR facility. Hollis had remained quiet, his jaw clenched. Once they jumped out, he rounded on her with fire in his eyes. “Grace! I can’t believe you!”

Grace stepped back stunned. “Me? You’re angry with me?”

“You don’t change orders in the middle of a mission. It gets your team killed.” His voice had risen an octave or two.

“Yet I’m the only one wounded.” She shoved her shoulder around so he’d get a good look. Why was she so angry? “I was trying to save your sorry tail from getting your head blown off. That was a Barrett M82A1, thank you very much! And you’re mad because you could have—”

“What did you say?” he asked, eyes wide. The anger dissipated.

“I said, I saved your sorry tail?” What had she said? She was fired up and for no good reason—Hollis was right. She hadn’t experienced this kind of fury before, and it terrified her that it could be buried deep within her.

“No. You said I could have had my head blown off by a Barrett M82A1. That’s a sniper rifle, Grace. A very specific rifle. How do you know that?”

Grace gasped. She had said that. How did she know? “I recognized the sound. It makes a high-pitched pop.” Was she an arms dealer or something? She nearly fainted.

“Grace, could you have been in the military?”

It was a nicer thought than where she was going. “Maybe? Are there female snipers in the military?”

Hollis stared blankly, then blinked. “Only a handful, but yes.”

Grace Thackery. Quilter, bed sheet changer, dining server and possibly a US military sniper. “Now what?” she whispered, unsure she wanted her memories back. If she’d been a sniper, maybe she’d been on a mission to rescue the doctor. In Mississippi?

Hollis touched her shoulder. “First we mend this graze. And then, Grace Thackery, Mad Max...we put a rifle in your hands and see if your brain remembers if it loves the feel of it in your hands or not.”

“Well, Grace...ready or not,” Hollis said and pointed to the disassembled rifle lying in its box on the outdoor table. “Let’s see if you’ve done this before.”

She hoped she hadn’t. Not once. Not ever.

Last night it had rained too much for them to attempt any shooting practice and she simply couldn’t bring herself to try and assemble the rifle. But it was Tuesday midmorning and the rain had let up—the heavy clouds were a warning it would make its return, and she had no more excuses. Only a couple of guests had been around to witness the scene yesterday, and Tish handled it with grace and a free night’s stay. Plus maple pecan muffins. That alone was worth staying at the Muddy River Inn.

Hollis had insisted on he and Grace staying in adjoining rooms at the inn to be on the safer side. It was clear that no matter what she said to try and push him from this situation and the danger, he wasn’t going to back down. A sliver of her felt guilty, but mostly, she felt grateful and protected.

Grace stared at the rifle and her fingers twitched. She didn’t remember holding one. Right now, nothing came to mind. She reached out, hesitated. “I feel stupid.”

“I say that at least once a week. Maybe today’s your day of the week.”

“I don’t know how to do this, Hollis. I’m blank.” Except the innate feeling to pick it up and give it a go.

“Touch it. See what happens.”

She nodded and licked her lips. The best-case scenario, she couldn’t remember because this wasn’t something she’d done before—or often enough—for muscle memory to take over. Worst-case? She did know which meant...she’d killed people before. “I don’t want to.”

“Even if it might give us a lead? Give us more insight to who you might be? And why three men—so far—have come hunting you? The sniper might be one of—or with—the two men who jumped you when your tire blew. But it could have been someone entirely new sent to take out Peter, and now you...or to warn you. I don’t know. But that’s too many men who want to hurt you, and they have the advantage. I hate that one man wants you dead. So...maybe just...do it for me.”

There wasn’t anything Grace wouldn’t do for Hollister Montgomery.

She nodded and touched the long black case. She picked it up and placed it on the ground. Not the table.

Grace skimmed her fingers across a long piece with...pods. Lower receiver. She extended the bipod on the lower receiver and laid it on the ground. Oh boy.

She grasped the charging handle and pulled against the tension, withdrawing the midlock pin from its holder. A shaky breath let loose and she glanced at Hollis, but he stood with a grim expression, arms folded. He nodded for her to continue.

She slowly allowed the bolt carrier to come forward until there was no longer any spring tension and it rested in the lower receiver. Carefully, she picked up the upper receiver, making sure the barrel extension and feed ramp were correctly aligned.