The Sniper (Black Hawke Security #8)

CHAPTER ONE

JAYDEN

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My best friend, Liam, is a liar. Either that, or he’s blind and can’t read.

“I got a glimpse of your first assignment. Diplomat. Tiffany someone. Should be easy enough,” Liam had said while sipping his beer last week. The same week he proposed to my sister, Jessie.

She said yes.

No one was surprised. Jessie has been in love with Liam since the day she could walk. As it turns out, he felt the same way.

I don’t know if I believe in soul mates, but I guess there might be something to it.

Not that I’m romantic, but coming to grips with my sister and best friend being together took a little adjusting.

It’s been four months since I found out.

I’m fine with it now, but occasionally I let them sweat purely for the entertainment value.

So when Jessie moved in, I moved out of Liam’s LA home, while simultaneously leaving my boring as fuck corporate job.

Selling air-conditioning units was a far cry from being a sniper in the US Air Force.

I guess everyone who suspected I wouldn’t last was right.

The problem was, I needed that job. Not because of the money—although that too—but because stepping back into a military or paramilitary role wasn’t the right thing to do either.

So here I am, the newest member of Black Hawke Security.

Josh, a Navy SEAL, and Aidan, a US Marine—the two co-founders—had headhunted me for over twelve months after recruiting Liam. He leaped at the chance to work with them, and I understand why—they’re both legends—but I wasn’t ready.

Hell, I don’t think I am now.

The last few months as a Sniper were...let’s just say, becoming difficult.

One mission.

One millisecond.

One explosion.

It changed my life. And all I did was keep my eyes on the target and that’s the fucking problem. That single moment something shifted inside of me, and I can’t explain why.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen innocents killed because of war, but from that millisecond on, my entire perspective about everything changed.

You don’t get to have an opinion on anything when you wear the uniform and American flag on your arm. You do what you’re trained to do and don’t ask questions.

It’s how we succeed.

It’s how we stay alive.

I get it.

I relied on that mentality, just like every other soldier out there. But that doesn’t mean things are black and fucking white. They aren’t. Anyone who has been in combat knows that.

We all have questions.

We all have doubts.

We just don’t voice them.

And not everyone returns from engaging with the enemy having nightmares, anxiety attacks, and over-the-top reactions to things that most people wouldn’t notice.

PTSD.

I eventually figured it out.

My mistake, and I know this, is that I’ve been trying to deal with it on my own. I dunno, fuck, maybe I’m an idiot. Maybe I think the situation that occurred doesn’t warrant the acronym. Other guys have seen much, much worse.

Much fucking worse.

I don’t want to go in there like a goddamn pussy and cry about what I witnessed.

What I was involved with and responsible for.

I figured I could ride it out, it would go away eventually, and I could carry on with life. I thought I was doing that.

[Insert maniacal laughing.]

The brain is a clever little fucker. Just when you think you’re ‘fixed,’ it likes to remind you that you’re not. That it was on vacation in fucking Hawaii or somewhere, like that asshole toxic co-worker, and when they return, all the bullshit starts again.

A brown-eyed woman glancing at me in the mall can see me breaking out in a sweat so bad I have to race back to my car or to the restroom to do box breathing.

Yeah, Google is my therapist.

It works, though.

I’ve read all the things and know I should go see someone, but for now, I just want to see if I can push through it. I don’t understand how sitting on a sofa talking it through repeatedly with someone who spends their life inside an office is going to help.

I even tried to bargain with my brain. It went a little like this...

Okay, I get it, this is some fucked up shit. But it happens, and nothing I can do or say is going to change the world. Waking up in the middle of the night, sweating like a pig while our heart races a thousand miles an hour is bad, man. Real bad. We could have a heart attack or go over the edge.

Let’s just put it behind us and carry on.

I’ll stop selling air-conditioning units and do something more exciting if you...shut the fuck up.

I’m aware that wasn’t exactly the positive self-talk the experts recommend, but, Jesus, I just want to get back to my old self.

I figure working with former military peers is the first step.

Liam and I joined the Air Force at the same time. Six years in, I moved into the Counter Sniper (CS) team where I trained to protect US air bases, flight lines, provide reconnaissance where needed and also protect high-value assets.

These are the skills Josh said they want to tap into—the high-value assets part. Although my sniper gear will be packed away for now, because I’ll be up close and personal with the client in a bodyguard capacity.

Which brings me back to Liam’s blindness.

Tiffany is not a diplomat; she’s some sort of Hollywood celebrity.

Jesus Christ.

I guess I asked for an easy gig, and now I’m getting it. It’s safe to say if Josh could see inside my fucked-up brain he’d kick me out the door.

I’m surprised Liam didn’t intervene. I’m sure he knows. When I returned from that mission, I wasn’t the same.

He asked.

I palmed him off, reminding him I couldn’t share the mission details.

“Bullshit. Do you need to talk to someone?” Liam asked.

“Yeah, your momma.”

“Fuck off, Jayden.” He shook his head at me.

It was a low blow, especially given how close our families are, but I wanted him off my back.

What people don’t understand about PTSD is that it wears you down. The constant nagging inside, the lack of peace, the noise, the inability to silence anything.

Some days I feel like I’m losing my mind.

My resilience is zapped, my temper short, and honestly, some days I’m fucking worried about myself.

While I was still enlisted, I didn’t want to be that guy who went off the deep end or fucked up and hurt someone, so when Liam started talking about leaving the Air Force, I didn’t talk him out of it like he thought I would. Instead, I nudged him along.

We’d grown up together, joined the military together, and as it turned out, we left together.

Liam’s desire to move into the private sector solved my problem without having to voice anything.

Like a gift from God.

The rest is history. Liam joined the BHS team—a highly regarded and connected private security firm based in Los Angeles—and I got myself a sales job.

One I hated and failed at miserably.

My boss didn’t put up a single argument when I handed in my notice, and that says everything you need to know about that.

But it’s a risk leaving and stepping into a paramilitary role. Sales might not be my dream job, but it never triggered me, and I made good money. Hell, I’ve even bought my own home.

If I fail, and this bites me in the ass, I’ll default on my mortgage, lose my home and disappoint my family.

Dad was so damn proud when I sent him a photo of me standing in front of the SOLD sign of my three-bedroom home.

“Proud of you son. I knew you’d do it.”

All my life he’d said to me find a good woman, get yourself a solid home and the rest will fall into place, Jayden.

I was too young to understand what he meant when he first started making those comments.

Owning a home is important. A man needs his castle, Jay.

These days a lot of people can’t afford homes, so you want to set yourself up early.

I didn’t. I joined the Air Force, slept with a lot of women, and traveled the world. It felt like an adventure, one I enjoyed.

Liam lost his dad when he was young. At twenty-five, some of the insurance money was paid out to him, and when he moved to Cali to join BHS, the first thing he did was buy a home.

That, coupled with Dad’s growing criticism of what I was doing with my life, began to eat at me. I was almost thirty and didn’t own a home.

It had been drummed into me that owning a home meant you were successful in life. That I needed one if I wanted to provide for a woman and children.

Not that I was ready to settle down and do that...yet. But a house, yeah, I saw that as a thing a man should own.

Two banks rejected my application for a mortgage. When I signed the employment contract with BHS, which included a very generous salary—much bigger than my sales role—I returned to my bank, and a week later I had my loan.

Two weeks later, I bought my house.

The happiness lasted a few days, but as my start date crept closer, I realized what was on the line.

Everything.

I had to keep this job.

Last week, for the Fourth of July, Liam, Jessie, and I went home to Fort Worth—where Liam proposed—but Monday rolled around fast, and now here I am, sitting in front of Josh while he briefs me on my first assignment.

The one Liam saw.

With his blind eyes.

Tiffany Stallone is the daughter of one of the most famous actors on the planet. Steven Stallone. An action hero I grew up watching on the big screen.

Fucking diplomat.

Fucking Liam.

“Is she an actress, too?”

I rub the back of my head, reminding myself this is better than flying over Islamabad, or wherever, bombing the hell out of innocents. Because while that’s not the directive, it happens.

“This is Los Angeles, Jayden. A lot of our clients are celebrities, musicians, actors, and usually extremely wealthy.” Josh leans back in his chair. “Hence hiring our guys and girls.”

“Well, it’s better than being stuck on the mountainside with desert dust in my ass crack.”

Josh snorts.

“She’s not a celebrity.” Josh leans forward again and taps a pen on the file in front of him. “Tiffany is an influencer.” Then he looks me in the eye. “If you ask me if it’s TikTok or Instagram, I will fire you right now.”

I chuckle.