American Made (Against the Tides #2)

AMERICAN MADE

Katheryn Kiden

Fidem Publishing

Copyright © 2015 Katheryn Williams as Katheryn Kiden

Cover Designer: Fidem Publishing

Editor and Formatter: Ready, Set, Edit

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

To any person that ever has, or will, put their life on the line for this country. Wherever or however you may serve, there are no words to show the amount of appreciation you deserve. A simple ‘thank you’ is ridiculously insufficient for your brave sacrifices.

To any person who has ever felt like a teetering tower of Jenga blocks after losing someone. You are loved despite how hard it may be for you to see it.

One… Two… Three… Four…
I breathe in.

Four… Three… Two… One…
I breathe out.

It’s a system, a calculated way to keep my heartrate at a normal pace under immense pressure. A strategy to keep myself calm and it works for me. Thank fucking God it works for me. If it didn’t, my pulse would be racing, causing my hands to shake, and my mind to be unclear. 

Two extremely horrible qualities to have in a sniper.

 I’ve been in the same position on this hill for the past seven hours in the blistering sun. My hips ache from having a rock forced into them at a weird angle, but it was the only spot I could set up without being seen. 

“Fuck this hell,” Wyatt Grant, my spotter, swears from his spot beside me. “Fuck this fuckin’ sandbox and its fuckin’ heat.”

My eyes dart to him for a beat before staring back down through the crosshairs of my scope. I chuckle a little, trying not to lose focus.

“Why the hell are you even here, Grant?”

I feel him stare at me for a minute before speaking, but I don’t look back at him. With our luck this week, the second I take my eye off the building it’s trained on, my target will walk out.

He laughs. “Who else would keep your ass safe up here?” 

“Fucker, you’re on your back starin’ at the sky —have been for hours—so please inform me how you think you’re keeping my ass safe.”

“Did I say safe? I meant entertained.”

“Mhm,” I hum, doing a sweep through the dirty windows of the building one hundred and fifty yards from us. "That sounds better than safe, but it insinuates that you’re funny.”

He mumbles under his breath, bitching about me but I know he’s only joking.

Wyatt Grant is one of the few men over here this tour that trusted me to do my job and do it well, even though I am a woman, since day one. I used to have to prove myself to everyone. It’s a good thing though, since there are some situations that cause us to be together for hours, if not days, at a time. He keeps me entertained, and even if I joke about him not keeping me safe, I know there are times that he is the only reason I make it back to base.

“Grant, check this out,” I mutter, keeping the cracked door in my sights.

He rolls over, grabs his scope, and scans for what I’m looking at. After a minute of silence, he finally speaks. “It’s about fuckin’ time he showed his face. I was beginning to wonder if we were in the wrong spot. The fuckin’ building looks abandoned.”

I remember the man’s face because I need to in order for me to complete the mission, but I pushed his name from my mind the second I left the base. If I let myself dwell on the fact that these are actual people, with families and lives instead of terrorists, I don’t know if I would be able to do it. Everyone is different, but this is my way.

My thumb itches over the safety on the side of my rifle as Grant notifies the ground team. The door creeps open more and I flip the safety off.

One… Two… Three… Four…

Four… Three… Two… One…

The door finally opens all the way and the face we’ve been waiting to see emerges. 

“One shot, one kill,” Grant cites. 

“One shot, one kill,” I mutter back, adjusting my scope with the information he provides. 

I slide my finger along the trigger, using just enough pressure to fire off a round. My gun kicks and, as usual, it steals my breath as the sound surrounds me. It’s not that I’m not expecting it, it’s just something my body automatically does.

The man drops to the ground and everything below us begins to become chaotic. Shots rapid fire from both sides as I readjust my rifle while pulling the bolt back to reload. 

Three more shots is all I have to fire off before the ground team has the situation under control. Three more shots that steal my breath and even though it’s over in a few minutes, it feels like a lifetime.

I flip the safety back on and roll onto my back. Lifting my hips, I shift until my spine pops and I groan.

“God, that feels good.”

“Well, if it feels as good as it looks when you roll your hips like that…”

Laughing, I grab my hat and chuck it at Grant. “Pervert.”

“You love it,” he says, reaching his hand out to help me up. He’s right, I do love it. Not that I love being hit on, but he knows when I need to joke and never steps over the line.

I take his outstretched hand and stand up. Brushing the dirt off the front of me, I grab my bag off the ground and pull it back on. I shoulder my weapon, wait for Grant to grab his shit, and we make our way back down to the road and head back to the base.

After putting my gear away in my bunk I grab a bottle of water and make my way through camp. I need to eat, I know I do, but I know if anything hits my stomach right now it won’t be there for long. 

Perks of having a conscience.

Most people wonder why I became a sniper, or hell, why I even joined the military if I have a hard time with taking a life. My reasons are pretty clear. I grew up as an Army brat, moving from place to place every time my father got new orders. It was tiring, but it was routine, and I thrive on routine even if it is chaotic.

That isn’t why I enlisted and trained as a sniper, though. However, my father was a major factor in my decision making. Not because he told me I needed to, but because he told me I couldn’t. It wasn’t because he didn’t want me to enlist to protect me, it was because he didn’t think I was capable of bringing what it took to the table. 

Women in a war zone should be taking care of people after they get hurt.
 

Period.

After tragedy struck our lives when I was fifteen and my brother died, my parents shut me out. They shut each other out, and I was forced to live my life as if nothing had happened. As if he never existed to begin with. I soon found myself doing anything to defy my father simply because I knew it would draw a reaction from him. 

So while he might be adamant about the fact that I don’t belong behind a gun, I know differently. 

I don’t shoot to kill, I kill to protect. 

I use my skills behind a trigger to make sure that more people make it home to their families breathing instead of in a box. Every day that I go through the gates of this camp with my team still intact is one more day that I can tell myself that he is wrong about my capabilities.

The hardest thing about what I do is the fact that I know I control when the person on the other end of the barrel dies. The second I pull the trigger is the second they take their last breath. I play God with a gun, and I’m beginning to wonder when he is going to strike back.

But I don’t shoot to kill, I kill to protect.

The thought alone is how I survive. It’s the other reason I do what I do. I justify each confirmed kill by thinking about how many people walked away breathing because of it. By how many children get another day with their parents. By how many wives don’t have to stand there and be told that their husband is never coming home. I do what I do to protect people from being hurt.

My thoughts drift to my best friend, Ariana, as I continue to walk. I was there beside her when she got the news about her husband, Brett. I watched as she shut down in front of me when she realized what was going on. She continued to keep herself closed off from everyone, retreating further with each passing day. The day I showed up to tell her that I was being deployed again, she slammed the door in my face before I had the chance to tell her. 

Knowing that I never got a chance to tell her I loved her or say goodbye before I left kills me. 

“Hollis!” my last name is screamed from a sea of camouflage sitting in a mess of tables. I drop down into a chair and stretch my legs in an attempt to get comfortable and groan.