Page 96 of Keeping a Warrior

A horrifying realization turned Devon’s blood to ice.

“My little soccer players!” she screamed. Before anyone could stop her, she was up and running toward the checkpoint.

“Devon!” Matt thundered after her, but she evaded his grasp, only to run smack into a warm, immovable wall.

Rhys’s voice cut through the roaring in her ears as he held her tightly. “You can’t go out there, love,” he said, his voice throbbing with anguish. “We have to wait for the EOD guys.”

Explosive ordnance disposal. The kids must have triggered an old Soviet landmine, long-forgotten. Or else they’d stepped on a new one, freshly buried in honor of the American presence...

“No,” she moaned, sagging in Rhys’s arms. “Please, no.”

Suddenly a wave of screaming villagers poured through the gates of the base, a white-faced Marine running ahead of them.

“They were hit,” he gasped. “A bunch of kids were hit!”

Immediately Rhys let go of her and ran toward the villagers, followed by the medic attached to Hank’s team.

Distraught parents held bloodied children, some crying, some frighteningly still. Devon started walking toward them as if in a dream, horror turning her insides to ice.

No, no, no.

The happy, vibrant kids of earlier now lay pale and broken in their parents’ arms. Rhys was trying to set up a triage while Sayed argued fiercely with a father who was attempting to push past him.

Shoving all her emotion down and locking it away, Devon knelt down at Rhys’s side. “What can I do?”

Shane and Aaron ran up with Rhys’s medical ruck and other bags of equipment.

Rhys grabbed a pair of gloves and tossed some to the other medic. “Tell me what they’re saying.” He pointed to Sayed.

Devon focused on the men’s conversation, her brain sluggish from shock and adrenaline, the Pashto words not making sense at first. When they did, Devon clapped her hand over her mouth as the remaining blood drained from her face, leaving her dizzy.

“What?” Rhys reached out to grip her shoulder. “What is it?”

“He wants you to treat the boys before the girls,” she whispered. “Boys first.”

Rhys’s jaw clenched. “Fuck that shit. They’re treated in order of severity.”

“Sayed’s telling him that, but he’s insisting. Boys ahead of girls.”

Rhys ignored the man’s protestations and started making the rounds, assessing each child and issuing orders in a terse voice to anyone offering to help.

Still numb, Devon darted around the chaotic scene, translating, explaining, comforting as best she could. She knelt down next to a woman clutching a bloodied pile of rags.

“Salaam aleikum,” she said gently, touching the woman’s shoulder. “Do you need help?”

The woman let her arms fall limp, and Devon couldn’t help the cry that welled up in her throat. The “pile of rags” was a tiny girl, one who’d darted around in Devon’s wake during the soccer game earlier that day, her eyes bright with mischief.

She was quiet now, those beautiful eyes closed forever. Through her tears, Devon could see her lower right leg was missing, bone protruding from the mangled flesh. There hadn’t been any attempt made at a tourniquet, and the blood was soaked into her mother’s lap.

Because she’s female, and considered not worth saving. Had she even tried to find help?

“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “So sorry.”

Allah be with them all.

In the aftermath, five children were dead, and four more were picked up by helicopter and flown to the Combat Support Hospital in Kandahar. When the sound of rotor blades at last faded away, Devon went in search of Rhys.

She found him sitting on the ground in a sea of bloody and discarded medical supplies, knees drawn up and arms linked loosely around them. He didn’t move or respond when she called his name, and hesitantly, she approached and knelt down behind him to wrap her arms around his shoulders.