Page 89 of Keeping a Warrior

He disappeared, followed in quick succession by the others. Not twenty seconds later, it was Devon’s turn. Praying, she grasped the thick rope and leapt out of the helo. Rotor wash buffeted her, the dust kicked up by the hovering bird swirling in front of her NVGs like the worst sort of blizzard.

The ground she was hurtling toward was totally obscured by the brownout. She was going to slam into it, and one or both legs would snap like matchsticks. Panic welled up in Devon’s throat as she searched desperately for a landmark, something—anything—to orient herself.

There! A glimpse of the hard-packed, rocky earth. Devon tightened her core and bent her knees, the ground rising up to meet her in a furious rush.

She made a perfect landing. Her gloves still smoking from the friction of the rope, Devon slung her M4 up to pull security. The assaulters were already swarming the target village, and Devon had barely caught her breath when she heard the call echoing in her bone phone.

“CST!”

“On my way!”

Rhys beckoned to her from in front of a stone house with a goat pen. “Women and children are in here. Call if you need me.”

He jogged away as Devon strode into the small house. It was modest, with a low ceiling and a dirt floor. A group of women and girls clutching babies sat on a mound of rugs and stared at her with wide, terrified eyes.

She paused in the middle of taking off her helmet. There was something off here. The women were sitting very still, as if afraid of disturbing something. Devon’s hair stood on end, and her skin prickled.

Her instincts screaming to act natural, Devon said in Pashto, “No men will approach you. You’re safe.” Instead of calming the women, their looks turned pleading, and they still didn’t say a word.

Devon’s eyes darted around the small house. It was one room, simply furnished with some crude furniture and throw rugs. No place for anyone to hide, unless...

All the blood drained from her face when the truth hit her. The mound of rugs the women were sitting on. She caught the attention of one of the little girls and used her fingers to mime someone walking before stroking her chin to indicate a long beard. Then she pointed at the rugs.

Is there a man under there?

Slowly, the little girl nodded. She brought one hand up and pointed her index finger at Devon, the thumb cocked up. A gun. A man with a gun.

Devon was alone with an armed man and surrounded by women and babies.

In a split second her mind raced through several scenarios. Have the women dive away while she shot through the rug? No. The Rules of Engagement wouldn’t permit her to shoot without verification that he was a threat. The women’s word wasn’t enough.

Call to him to come out? If he did have a gun, he’d come out firing, and at the very least some of the innocent people in the house would be killed. The man knew the Rangers and SEALs had come for him. He’d be desperate, with nothing to lose.

Fear raced through her as time slowed down. She didn’t want to die here, and she didn’t want any of these women and children to die here. Her first act had to be to get these people out of harm’s way.

She put her finger to her lips in the universal sign for shhh. In her halting Pashto, she said, striving to keep her voice calm and friendly, “I must search you. Please send the children to me.”

One little girl got up from the rug and ran to her. Instead of searching her, Devon shoved her toward the door. Another child. Then another. Throughout, Devon kept chattering in a mix of English and Pashto to cover up any noise.

“After I search, you sit back down,” she kept saying in a desperate attempt to make the hidden man think everything was normal, that she didn’t suspect. One by one she got the children out, the older ones carrying the babies. Then a couple of the younger women.

How long will he keep buying this?

With only two women remaining, Devon eased her pistol out of the holster and thumbed off the safety. On mission their guns were all carried in condition one, meaning there was a round already in the chamber; no need to noisily rack the slide.

She got into a shooting stance, gun trained on the rug. Despite the adrenaline burning in her veins, her aim was steady. She put her finger on the trigger, then nodded for the next woman to get up. As she did, the rug bucked when the man underneath surged to his feet. Screaming, the remaining women dove for the floor.

An AK-47 chattered, the first shots whipping past Devon with loud snaps.

Respiratory pause. Center mass. Shoot.

With no hesitation, Devon squeezed the trigger in rapid succession. As the bullets slammed into him, the man didn’t flail around like in the movies, he just dropped like a stone, legs still tangled in the rug.

In two long strides, Devon reached his side and kicked the gun away, then backed up against the wall and raised her hands, knowing what would happen next.

“Stay down!” she yelled to the women. “Don’t move!”

The room exploded with SEALs. They swarmed in, weapons up, taking in the situation at a glance. Devon stayed still while Matt, his gun trained on the man, nudged him over with his foot. He flopped on his back, boneless, arms akimbo.