“C’mon,” she said, her pulse pounding with excitement. “It’s time to go to work.”
* * *
The ring of scared faces looking up at Devon made her heart ache.
Pausing several feet from the cluster of women and children, she took off her helmet and ruck and set them aside. Her weapon she kept slung along her back, mostly out of sight but still well within reach.
Next to her, Roshana was doing the same, to incredulous looks from the guys.
“Are you crazy?” J-Rob demanded from across the courtyard. “Put your helmets back on!”
Devon shook her head and gestured toward the group, who had immediately calmed at the sight of the two women. “That’s why we’re here, to de-escalate this sort of situation. We can’t do that if we look like the same scary men who’ve just invaded their homes.”
She knelt with Roshana in front of the eldest woman.
“My name’s Devon,” she said softly, to the lilting sound of Roshana’s translation next to her. “I’m here to keep you safe, to keep the men away. They won’t approach or touch you. You have my word.”
Devon waited until Roshana finished speaking, then pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves. “In order to keep us all safe, I’m going to pat you down, okay?”
She started with the children first, running her hands over their clothes, feeling for any contraband that might have been hidden on them. After she was done, she offered each child a piece of candy, the brightly colored treats eliciting shy smiles.
Turning her attention to the women, Devon explained each step of what she was doing and made the searches thorough, but as brief as possible. Then she sat back on her heels, hands resting lightly on her thighs.
“Can you tell me how many people live here with you?”
As the Marines and SEALs searched the thatched-roof stone houses for explosives and weapons, Devon and Roshana chatted with the women, listening for anything that might be of use.
The Afghan women’s eyes darted back and forth between the men and Devon, their tension palpable. Devon met Roshana’s steady gaze, unspoken words arcing between them: They know something.
Of course they did. In a rural, communal society such as this, the women were the heartbeat of their families, even if they were kept sheltered from the view of outsiders, especially the foreign men fighting in their country. In the conservative Pashtun culture, it was a grave offense for an unrelated man to even catch a glimpse of a woman’s face, much less question and interact with her.
And that’s why Devon was here, to bridge that cultural gap.
So do your damn job. Find out what they know.
Her mind racing, Devon studied the women, trying to read their body language. The youngest of them, probably still in her teens, was twisting her fist in the folds of her dress, lips pressed tightly together. Her child, a toddler boy, pulled at Devon’s sleeves, entranced by the patches Velcroed there.
Devon lifted him gently into her lap, and the little boy looked up at her with mischievous light green eyes, most likely a legacy of the ancient days when Alexander the Great had rampaged through the area. A twist of grief stabbed Devon at the thought. Afghanistan and its people had so rarely known peace.
Across the courtyard the SEALs were wrapping up the search and reporting that no contraband had been found.
“The intel is clear,” one of the Marines argued, his voice filled with agitation. “The insurgents who attacked my men were staging from this village! We need to search again.”
J-Rob refused. “I understand your position, Sergeant, but—”
“Do you understand my position?” the sergeant fired back. “Do you understand how many men I’ve lost over the past few months? This village is being used to traffic IED materials and weapons into the area, and you can’t tell me there’s no goddamn evidence. Search it again!”
Devon handed the baby back to his mother as the sergeant’s frustration and anger reached a fever pitch. J-Rob shook his head. “You know we can’t conjure shit out of thin air, Sergeant. We either received faulty intel, or they got wind we were coming and got the stuff out of here.” He gestured over at Rhys. “There’s no choice. Cut ’em loose.”
The young mother suddenly burst out with a torrent of words. Roshana stiffened and nudged Devon with her elbow before switching smoothly into a first-person translation.
“There are men living in the mountains who come into our village, demanding food and a place to sleep.”
Devon whipped out a pad of paper and began taking notes.
“They force our men to help them.”
She didn’t look at the woman, not wanting to break her train of thought, murmuring to Roshana, “Help them do what?”
“Help them carry boxes up to the cave.”
“What cave?”
Devon scribbled furiously as the woman described what her husband had told her—a cave up high on the mountainside a few miles away, accessible only by mule.
“They build bombs there, and use them against the Americans.”
The woman paused. Devon glanced up to meet her eyes, which were now burning with hatred, and her fingers tightened on her pencil.
“One day my husband didn’t come home. His brother told me—” The woman swallowed hard. “He said the Taliban shot him and threw him over a cliff after he tripped and dropped one of the boxes.”
Devon tried not to let her horror show. “Can your brother-in-law tell us exactly where the cave is?”
“I will tell you.” The woman’s voice was firm. “And he is my husband now. It is his duty to marry his brother’s widow.” She went on to describe the route to the cave as Devon took careful notes, verifying what she wrote against Roshana’s translation.
Across the way the men were starting to get restless.
“CST, time to go. We have to get off this mountainside before daylight.”
Devon closed her notebook and slipped it into the pocket of her cargo pants. “Thank you,” she said to the young woman, who just looked back at her stonily, her eyes telegraphing the fact she hadn’t done what she did to help the Americans, but to get revenge on the Taliban for the loss of her child’s father.
If nothing else, Devon could certainly respect that.
With one last goodbye to the children, she donned her ruck and cinched on her helmet. It was hard to turn her back and leave them, but she wasn’t here to dole out hugs and blankets; she was here to tap into a rich source of information that was culturally off-limits to the men.
Excitement welled in her chest. And she had. Fuck, yeah, she had.
Knowing the debrief would have to wait until they were all safely back at the Marine outpost, Devon gave her full attention to getting out of there. Once free of the village confines, J-Rob set a punishing pace, a race against the approaching dawn.
The trail was rocky, and steep. Roshana stumbled along next to her, hampered by her ill-fitting boots.
Above them the sky grew inexorably lighter. A mounting sense of dread settled low in Devon’s belly—this was prime ambush territory. Still, they pushed on, fording small rivulets of water and trying to avoid the jutting tree roots and jagged rocks.
Branches and other vegetation whipped against their helmets as they charged through the forest. Suddenly, with a cry, Roshana went down.
“My ankle,” she gasped, tears of pain running down her cheeks.
“Can you walk?” Devon hauled her to her feet, in the next instant grabbing on to her elbow when she tried to take a step and her leg faltered, almost sending her crashing back to the ground.
“These stupid boots.” Roshana tried again to walk, with the same result. “I can’t.”
Without missing a beat, Devon stripped off her ruck, threaded her arms through it and nestled it against her chest. She then presented her back to Roshana and bent her knees. “Climb on. I got you.”
With a half sob, half laugh, Roshana clambered on, her arms around Devon’s neck, knees hugging her hips. “I
can’t remember the last time I got a piggyback ride.”
“Let’s go,” J-Rob hissed. “We need to move.”
Devon brushed off Rhys’s attempts to take Roshana from her. “I got this. If we’re ambushed, we need your gun in the fight.”
“She’s right, Doc,” J-Rob called back impatiently, his weapon up to his shoulder as he scanned the ridge above them. “Move out.”
They set off again. Devon’s legs trembled under the added weight, but determination drove her on, one torturous step at a time.
Not gonna be the one to hold ’em back. Not gonna be the one to get us killed.
Every minute that passed Devon expected to run straight into a hail of gunfire. Sweat stung her eyes and burned into the tiny cuts on her face where she’d been whipped by passing branches. Her lips were caked with dust, her tongue dry and sticking to the roof of her mouth.
Gritting her teeth, she forged on, unable to hold back a choked sob of relief when the small combat outpost finally came into view. The gates were swung open, and the ragged column of Marines and SEALs—plus one exhausted member of the U.S. Army’s newly formed Cultural Support Team—rushed inside.
“C’mon. Let’s get you taped up.” Lifting Roshana off Devon’s back, Rhys bore her off toward what was presumably the medical hooch, while Devon sagged first to her knees, then to all fours. As she gasped for air, a pair of filthy boots halted right in front of her.
A strong hand reached down. Devon grasped it and was yanked to her feet, where she focused her blurred gaze on a pair of golden-brown eyes that were warm with admiration.
Damn, he’s gorgeous.
J-Rob grinned at her, revealing white teeth and a set of deep dimples. “Total badass,” he rasped. “Get some.”
“Hooyah.”
As he moved away, Devon impulsively called after him, “Hey, what’s your name?”
He turned back. “Jon.”
“Well, thanks for your support, Jon.”
“No need to thank me. It was all you out there.” He paused. “Welcome to the team, CST.”
Despite her utter exhaustion and legs that felt like rubber, Devon had to suppress the urge to dance a jig. The grueling selection process, the months of training, all the doubts and the soul-searching, had led to this moment.
A Navy SEAL had just welcomed a woman to his team.
Chapter One
Four years later
“Have a great day, ma’am.”
The young master-at-arms handed Devon’s ID card back to her and snapped off a salute. She returned it crisply before navigating through the gate and onto the base. As she drove, she breathed in the briny scent of the ocean that drifted through her open windows.
Ah, San Diego.
Despite the beauty and warmth of the day, Devon was cold. She gripped the steering wheel with icy fingers, a combination of nervousness and dread roiling through her. Not for the first time, she was tempted to turn the rental car around and head back to the airport.
A few years in prison for desertion might be worth it.
With a ragged sigh, she pulled into a parking space in front of a gleaming glass and dun-colored building. She sat for a moment gazing up at it, tracing her eyes along the huge letters that hung over the entrance: AO2 (SEAL) Marc A. Lee Training Center. Her new home.
Summoning every ounce of willpower she had, Devon got out of the car. She adjusted her cover smartly over her hair, which was pulled back in a smooth bun, and tugged the bottom of her uniform blouse into place so it lay perfectly along her hips. Her trousers were freshly creased, her black shoes polished to a high gloss.
You’re ready. One foot in front of the other, girl.
At the entrance to the building, she stopped short of opening the glass door and closed her eyes.
You can do this. It’ll be different this time.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
With a start, Devon stepped hastily out of the way. “I’m so sorry.”
“No worries, ma’am.” The man behind her saluted as she turned around. “May I be of assistance?” He was about her height, dark hair and eyes, lean and hard in his white Navy “crackerjack” uniform.
Devon’s eyes lit on the Trident pinned over his left breast. “I’m, uh, looking for the Team Three quarterdeck.”
The man nodded. “That’s actually where I’m headed, too, ma’am, if you’d like to follow me.”
“I would. Thank you.”
Once inside, they removed their covers and made their way across the lobby toward the reception desk, the heels of their shoes clicking loudly on the linoleum. A young man in blue service utilities stood as they approached.
The SEAL hung back to let her go first.
“Warrant Officer One Devon A. Lowe here to see Lieutenant Bradley.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m here to see Lieutenant Bradley, as well. AO2 Matthew G. Knytych.”
The guy at the counter consulted a clipboard, then picked up the phone and muttered into it. Devon and the SEAL waited silently through several long minutes, until at last a man wearing the collar device of a Navy lieutenant pushed through a set of double doors and beckoned to them.
“Whenever you enter and exit my quarterdeck, new guy,” he barked to Knytych, “you give me twenty.” The lieutenant pointed to a pull-up bar mounted in the doorway. Without a word, Knytych set his Dixie cup cover down on the counter, leapt up to grab the bar and hammered out a perfect set.
When he dropped lightly back to his feet, the lieutenant started to wave them in.
Before anyone could move, Devon tossed her cover onto the desk, wiped her sweaty palms on her pants and jumped for the bar, praying the seams in her tailored uniform wouldn’t split. Slowly, deliberately, she did pull-up after pull-up until she’d reached twenty-one.
One extra for a fuck-you.
All three men’s faces were slack with surprise. Devon let go of the bar.
“I don’t want any special treatment, Lieutenant,” she said coolly. “I’m a new guy, too.”
Bradley’s eyes held hers for a moment, and then his lips quirked. “Noted, Ms. Lowe.” He stood to the side to let them enter. “Welcome to Delta platoon.”
* * *
“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!”
Rhys Halloran was in some serious pain. Gripping his throbbing foot in one hand, he hopped up and down, teeth clenched.
Christ, that goddamn dresser was going to be the death of him yet.
Collapsing down on the side of the bed, he let out a piteous groan, then froze. Had he woken...?
Sure enough, sheets rustled behind him and a sleepy voice asked, “What time is it?”
Rhys struggled to bring the glowing red numbers of his bedside clock into focus. “Um, six thirty.” He groaned again. “God, how can a pinkie toe hurt so bad?”
“Stubbed it again, huh?” The mattress dipped and a cool hand brushed his back. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” he grumbled. “You bought the damn thing.” Despite the pain in his foot, the light touch galvanized Rhys into action. “Shit, we need to get moving. You want to shower first or should I?”
“You go ahead. I’ll make the coffee.”
Lurching to his feet, he hobbled to the bathroom, making sure to glare at the offending dresser as he passed it. Such a stupid, heavy thing that he hadn’t even wanted.
The least Lani could’ve done was taken it with her when she moved out.
Well, why should she? Apparently she can come over and visit it anytime she wants.
In the shower, Rhys slumped against the tile wall and let the self-recrimination rain down on him along with the water. This was the third time in as many weeks. Why couldn’t he just say no?
Because you miss her. And for some reason we’re-not-together-anymore sex is a lot better than the regular kind.
Rhys scrubbed his hair roughly with the shampoo as he mulled that over. It was true. There was something about it, a “we’re not supposed to be doing
this” vibe that really appealed to him. He sighed.
Hooking up with your ex really defeats the purpose of her being an “ex,” though, doesn’t it, idiot? We’re supposed to be taking a break from each other.
Easier said than done, as they were both finding out.
When Rhys finally emerged, feeling somewhat human again, the rumpled bed was empty. Pulling on a pair of cargo pants and a gray Air Force T-shirt, he padded to the kitchen.
The scene that greeted him there was achingly familiar, just like any other Saturday morning. The mouthwatering smell of freshly ground French roast coffee. The sight of a cheerful yellow M&M’s mug and his favorite Yoda mug waiting next to the carton of sweet Italian cream.
Except the woman now sitting at the table had handed him his ring back, packed a bag and hurried out of his life a little over a month ago. It’d been a mutual decision—in theory.
“Lani—”
“Guess we gotta quit meeting like this, huh?” Lani’s voice was quiet, rueful. “Should we blame it on the wine?” She waved her hand toward the empty bottle in the sink, bound for the recycle bin.
“Ah, babe.” Rhys leaned down to kiss the top of her head before pouring them each a steaming mug—a dollop of cream for him, an avalanche for her. What could they blame it on? Habit? Familiarity? Sheer stubbornness?
Rhys snorted to himself. How about all three?
After all, they’d been together almost their entire lives. Nearly every memory Rhys had included Lani in some form or another. She’d been his childhood playmate, his best friend. His family.
He studied her as she sipped her coffee, her eyes glued to the phone on the table in front of her, the awkwardness between them hanging almost tangibly in the air.
We don’t have anything in common anymore, do we? And I’m not sure we ever did.
As if reading his thoughts, Lani heaved an unhappy sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come over.”
Rhys knew why she had. The anniversary of her brother Tyler’s death was approaching, a time of year that brought Lani’s soul-deep pain roaring to the surface and catapulting her back to that day when a fourteen-year-old girl’s life had changed forever. A girl who’d suddenly needed Rhys more than he’d been equipped to cope with, but because he loved her, he’d tried. For ten years now, he’d tried.
Keeping a Warrior Page 2
