Page 2 of Keeping a Warrior

Like a switch had been flipped, the banter and horseplay stopped. Her heart starting to pound again, Devon trotted to the helo. She climbed inside and glanced around, not quite sure what to do or where to stand, completely out of sync with this tight-knit crew.

The fear and uncertainty rushed back. They were like a well-oiled machine, and she was nothing but a cog out of place, making everything sputter...

“Go ahead and clip in here, ma’am.” Before she could choke on the self-doubt tightening her chest, a man beckoned to her and pointed to a large metal ring attached to the wall of the bird. “And when we land, stick close to me. We’ll be working together.”

Devon recognized him from the pre-mission brief, a tall good-looking redhead with bright green eyes and a friendly smile. He was the platoon’s corpsman, if she remembered right. Racking her brain for his name, she pushed her way through to his side, mumbling her gratitude for his help.

He nodded. “Hook in, give it a tug, and you’re good to go.”

The man watched carefully as Devon fumbled with the carabiner attached to her belt by a short lanyard. Nerves made her hands shake, and the gloves she wore weren’t helping matters.

Not inspiring confidence here. Jesus, get it together.

At last she got it hooked and gave the lanyard a firm tug, the carabiner settling in with a reassuring click. The man gave her a thumbs-up and turned away, and Devon gazed at his belt clip, wondering if in an emergency it’d really hold a big guy carrying a one-hundred-pound ruck on his back. Special operations helicopters didn’t have seats or seat belts, so the ring in the wall would, in theory, be the only thing keeping all of them inside during flight and evasive maneuvers.

Resisting the urge to make the sign of the cross, Devon braced her feet as, with a shudder, the helicopter lifted off.

Oh, God.

Everything was blacked out. Devon couldn’t orient herself, was helpless to the motion of the helo, which dipped and rolled as it made its way over the city, the most dangerous part of the trip. Once out over open terrain, it would fly smooth—fast and low—but now it had to keep any enemy RPGs guessing. The first stirrings of air sickness rose into her throat.

The residual smell of shit and exhaust, the claustrophobia of bodies crowding in on her on every side, the abrupt lurches and dips, soon overwhelmed her. Heaving an internal sob, Devon bent at the waist and vomited all over the floor, her boots and the boots of her nearest companions.

When she finally straightened, she braced herself for looks of disgust, or worse, pity, but nobody was paying the least bit of attention. Well, except for the medic, who rolled his eyes at her and crinkled his nose. His expression seemed to say, “Look at the glamorous life of special ops, folks! Shitholes and vomit galore.”

She gave him a tremulous smile, and he winked at her before his face went blank again. With a sigh, Devon leaned against the side of the helicopter, taking her cue from him and turning her thoughts inward toward the upcoming mission.

This was her one and only chance to prove she belonged here, and by God, she wasn’t gonna fuck it up.

“Two minutes.”

The green-eyed corpsman tapped Devon on the shoulder and flashed two fingers. She gulped against the knot of anxiety and excitement in her throat as the helicopter slowed and flared for landing.

All around her men were unclipping, so Devon did the same, grabbing on to the ring with one gloved hand when the skids touched down with a bone-jarring jolt. In a flash the door was open and SEALs were streaming out.

Then it was her turn. Devon leapt from the bird.

Don’t trip. Don’t trip!

The ground was flat but littered with rocks, and the night-vision goggles she wore turned everything an otherworldly green and played serious tricks with her depth perception.

Safely away from the rotor blades, she took a knee and slung her weapon up to guard the perimeter, fighting to see anything through the swirling cloud of dust and rock. The engines screamed as the helicopter rose and clattered away, leaving behind sixteen men—and one woman—who were now completely on their own.

They held their positions through several long minutes, until it became clear no one was lying in wait to attack them. At last three SEALs rose and let their weapons dangle while they pulled laminated cards from their pockets and started poring over them. The others peered out into the darkness, guns at the ready.

“Ma’am.”

The corpsman beckoned for her to stand. From the mission brief, she knew they now faced a six-mile hike into the target village...a hike through some of the most hostile terrain in the world.

As she approached him, he grinned at her and held out his closed fist. “You ready for this?”

A few of the guys didn’t think she was. She’d heard the doubts—that she wouldn’t be able to keep up, that the team would have to divide their attention between situational awareness and looking out for her—and Devon bristled at the memory.

Fuck that. She was trained, she was ready and no one would have to look out for shit.

Firming her lips, Devon looked the corpsman right in the eye and returned the fist bump. “Hell, yeah, I’m ready,” she declared. “Let’s do this.”

“I’m Tech Sergeant Halloran, by the way. Rhys.”