Page 1 of Keeping a Warrior

Prologue

M4 rifle. Ammo. Night-vision goggles. Check.

Her heart pounding almost sickeningly in her ears, Devon Lowe followed the group of men hurrying toward the Black Hawk.

Extra batteries. Water. Treats for the kids.

The night was pitch black, yet stiflingly hot. Devon’s tactical vest with its ceramic ballistic plates dug into her ribs, and sweat pooled in the small of her back. Shoving aside her discomfort, she continued down her mental checklist.

Map. Blood chit. Cash.

“Go ahead and get comfortable, boys,” the pilot called out as he circled the helicopter, clipboard in hand. “Gonna be about fifteen minutes till wheels up.”

Grumbling, the men dropped their rucks to the ground, several of them stuffing their lower lips with Copenhagen. Devon stood awkwardly at the edge of the group until someone made an impatient gesture.

“Drop the pack and get comfy, Lowe. When they say fifteen minutes, they mean at least thirty.”

Get comfy. Yeah, right.

All around her, though, the men were doing just that, lying back on the tarmac using their rucks as pillows.

Devon stared at them. How the hell did they turn it off like that?

Adrenaline mixed with excitement was surging through her in wave after shivery wave, so Devon settled for pacing back and forth, finally stopping to tilt her head toward the night sky and suck in a deep, hopefully calming breath.

Which she promptly gagged on.

“Welcome to Kandahar, where the smell of shit is so strong, you’ll never get it out of your pores.”

At the sound of the deep, amused voice, Devon whirled around. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and gratefully took the stick of gum the man was holding out to her. Instead of chewing it, though, she pressed it to her nose, beyond relieved when her stomach stopped its roiling. “Thanks. Where is it coming from?”

“Where isn’t it coming from?” The man propped his hands on his lean hips. “After so many years of war, there’s no sewage system left around here. It’s all just running in the streets now.”

A burst of raucous laughter from one of the guys at their feet nearby. “Yeah, J-Rob, remember when you fell in that literal shithole?”

“He was just patrolling along,” someone else called out, “when whoomp, he disappeared into the shit.”

The dude, J-Rob, shook his head. “We were out on patrol, and I stepped into a sewage pit. Couldn’t yell, couldn’t do anything that would draw attention to us, so I just kept my mouth closed, held my weapon over my head and hoped for the best.” He grinned at her. “These assholes didn’t wanna let me on the helo after, but I begged.”

Devon didn’t even know what to say, trying to picture the gorgeous man in front of her covered in sewage.

“That helo still reeks,” the guy on the ground said. “And so do you, J.”

“Shut up, Hank.” J-Rob turned and kicked him in the thigh, hard, as the man grabbed his foot, trying to trip him. A short scuffle ensued.

Snorting, one of the other dudes waved his hand at them. “And here we have SEALs, the quiet professionals. Impressed yet?”

Devon laughed along with the group, the cold knot in her stomach loosening a little. Since her arrival on the compound a few days ago, the platoon had been polite, but distant. She’d been expecting it, so she hadn’t pushed. This was new to all of them.

“Blazing a trail is never easy, Lowe.”

Of course it wasn’t. Besides, she didn’t want easy. Like every single one of these men had before her, Devon wanted to earn her acceptance, but she couldn’t deny this first small crack in the ice was going a long way toward calming her first-op jitters.

Tightening her fingers on her weapon, Devon set her jaw in determination. A hell of a lot was riding on her being a success, and a ton of people were watching, including the supporters cheering her on and the skeptics waiting for failure.

So don’t fail.

“Load up!”