Page 4 of Keeping a Warrior

“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.”