Page 5 of Keeping a Warrior

“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.