Keeping a Warrior Read online

  Keeping a Warrior

  By Melanie Hansen

  Sometimes the only hope for the walking wounded is in each other’s arms.

  Devon Lowe is a survivor.

  A survivor of war. Of combat. And of a betrayal by men she considered her brothers-in-arms. But her trailblazing work as a Cultural Support Team member working alongside the navy SEALs is too important for her to back down now.

  Fresh off a painful breakup, air force pararescueman Rhys Halloran recognizes Devon’s trauma for what it is—something that’s left her isolated but far from irreparably damaged.

  With Devon’s trust still lying shattered back in Afghanistan, putting her faith in a man who’s nursing a broken heart isn’t easy. But she’s tired of people making her feel weak, and Rhys makes her feel anything but, sparking a heated attraction that was never part of the plan.

  With all eyes on Devon to prove herself in a brutal man’s world, having it all will mean putting her heart on the line like never before. But when it comes to Rhys, it’s an uphill battle she’s ready to fight.

  Publisher’s Note: Keeping a Warrior deals with topics some readers may find difficult, including past sexual assault.

  One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!

  This book is approximately 91,000 words

  To all the badass, trailblazing women out there.

  Get some!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Excerpt from Point of Contact by Melanie Hansen

  Author’s Note

  Also by Melanie Hansen

  About the Author

  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!”

  Like a switch had been flipped, the banter and horseplay stopped. Her heart starting to pound again, Devon trotted to the helo. She climbed inside and glanced around, not quite sure what to do or where to stand, completely out of sync with this tight-knit crew.

  The fear and uncertainty rushed back. They were like a well-oiled machine, and she was nothing but a cog out of place, making everything sputter...

  “Go ahead and clip in here, ma’am.” Before she could choke on the self-doubt tightening her chest, a man beckoned to her and pointed to a large metal ring attached to the wall of the bird. “And when we land, stick close to me. We’ll be working together.”

  Devon recognized him from the pre-mission brief, a tall good-looking redhead with bright green eyes and a friendly smile. He was the platoon’s corpsman, if she remembered right. Racking her brain for his name, she pushed her way through to his side, mumbling her gratitude for his help.

  He nodded. “Hook in, give it a tug, and you’re good to go.”

  The man watched carefully as Devon fumbled with the carabiner attached to her belt by a short lanyard. Nerves made her hands shake, and the gloves she wore weren’t helping matters.

  Not inspiring confidence here. Jesus, get it together.

  At last she got it hooked and gave the lanyard a firm tug, the carabiner settling in with a reassuring click. The man gave her a thumbs-up and turned away, and Devon gazed at his belt clip, w
ondering if in an emergency it’d really hold a big guy carrying a one-hundred-pound ruck on his back. Special operations helicopters didn’t have seats or seat belts, so the ring in the wall would, in theory, be the only thing keeping all of them inside during flight and evasive maneuvers.

  Resisting the urge to make the sign of the cross, Devon braced her feet as, with a shudder, the helicopter lifted off.

  Oh, God.

  Everything was blacked out. Devon couldn’t orient herself, was helpless to the motion of the helo, which dipped and rolled as it made its way over the city, the most dangerous part of the trip. Once out over open terrain, it would fly smooth—fast and low—but now it had to keep any enemy RPGs guessing. The first stirrings of air sickness rose into her throat.

  The residual smell of shit and exhaust, the claustrophobia of bodies crowding in on her on every side, the abrupt lurches and dips, soon overwhelmed her. Heaving an internal sob, Devon bent at the waist and vomited all over the floor, her boots and the boots of her nearest companions.

  When she finally straightened, she braced herself for looks of disgust, or worse, pity, but nobody was paying the least bit of attention. Well, except for the medic, who rolled his eyes at her and crinkled his nose. His expression seemed to say, “Look at the glamorous life of special ops, folks! Shitholes and vomit galore.”

  She gave him a tremulous smile, and he winked at her before his face went blank again. With a sigh, Devon leaned against the side of the helicopter, taking her cue from him and turning her thoughts inward toward the upcoming mission.

  This was her one and only chance to prove she belonged here, and by God, she wasn’t gonna fuck it up.

  * * *

  “Two minutes.”

  The green-eyed corpsman tapped Devon on the shoulder and flashed two fingers. She gulped against the knot of anxiety and excitement in her throat as the helicopter slowed and flared for landing.

  All around her men were unclipping, so Devon did the same, grabbing on to the ring with one gloved hand when the skids touched down with a bone-jarring jolt. In a flash the door was open and SEALs were streaming out.

  Then it was her turn. Devon leapt from the bird.

  Don’t trip. Don’t trip!

  The ground was flat but littered with rocks, and the night-vision goggles she wore turned everything an otherworldly green and played serious tricks with her depth perception.

  Safely away from the rotor blades, she took a knee and slung her weapon up to guard the perimeter, fighting to see anything through the swirling cloud of dust and rock. The engines screamed as the helicopter rose and clattered away, leaving behind sixteen men—and one woman—who were now completely on their own.

  They held their positions through several long minutes, until it became clear no one was lying in wait to attack them. At last three SEALs rose and let their weapons dangle while they pulled laminated cards from their pockets and started poring over them. The others peered out into the darkness, guns at the ready.

  “Ma’am.”

  The corpsman beckoned for her to stand. From the mission brief, she knew they now faced a six-mile hike into the target village...a hike through some of the most hostile terrain in the world.

  As she approached him, he grinned at her and held out his closed fist. “You ready for this?”

  A few of the guys didn’t think she was. She’d heard the doubts—that she wouldn’t be able to keep up, that the team would have to divide their attention between situational awareness and looking out for her—and Devon bristled at the memory.

  Fuck that. She was trained, she was ready and no one would have to look out for shit.

  Firming her lips, Devon looked the corpsman right in the eye and returned the fist bump. “Hell, yeah, I’m ready,” she declared. “Let’s do this.”

  “I’m Tech Sergeant Halloran, by the way. Rhys.”

  Tech Sergeant? That wasn’t a Navy rank.

  “You’re Air Force?” Spec ops guys didn’t wear rank or insignia, so Devon had just assumed he was a SEAL. “A PJ?”

  Short for pararescue jumper. Although their official title was pararescuemen now, everyone still called them PJs.

  “Yep. Twenty-Fourth Special Tactics. An enabler just like you.” Rhys touched his fingers to his forehead in a casual salute. “Even more reason for us to stick together.”

  Before Devon could respond, J-Rob ordered the platoon to move out. He took point and set a steady, confident pace. Devon found herself in the middle of the pack. Through her NVGs, the terrain looked like moonscape, rugged and inhospitable. Fine dust with the consistency of talcum powder covered what seemed like every inch of her skin, sinking deep into her pores and coating her tongue. At this altitude the night was cooler, but exertion soon caused sweat to pool under her Kevlar helmet and drip down her face.

  When they paused to double-check their coordinates, Rhys dug in his pack and silently handed her an extra shemagh, a black-and-white-checked tactical scarf, which she took with a grateful smile and wound around her neck to sop up the worst of the sweat.

  After that one break they didn’t stop again. Mile after mile slipped away, the path steepening as they ascended into the foothills. The pack on her back grew heavier and heavier, until Devon’s lungs were on fire, her legs burning.

  Gritting her teeth, she dug deep and pushed through the pain.

  Can’t let the guys down. Can’t prove the doubters right. You’re in the middle of goddamn Afghanistan so suck it up before you get someone killed. Step by step. You can do it. One more step.

  When they finally halted on a narrow ridgeline, Devon was struggling not to puke again. She swayed on her feet and pulled in deep breaths through her nose, blowing them slowly—quietly—out her mouth.

  “Okay, we did make good time,” J-Rob murmured. “I wasn’t sure, you know, with—”

  She tried not to bristle at what he didn’t say: I wasn’t sure with the woman around. Then she straightened. Of course they’d be skeptical. These were men at the peak of physical fitness, who’d undergone years of brutal training in order to call themselves SEALs. She herself might be fit, she might be agile, but she was nowhere near their level of ability, no matter how much determination she had.

  Yet...she was an important part of this mission and all that mattered was that she’d kept up with them.

  J-Rob glanced at his watch. “It’s midnight,” he whispered. “We have about five hours of darkness left, people, so let’s get moving. Our battle-space owners are ten minutes out.”

  They wended their way down the trail to the tiny, remote village, which at the moment was peaceful and silent. A few sleepy-sounding goats bleated in the darkness as the SEALs arrayed themselves around the perimeter. Devon sank to her knee at the rear of the group, well out of the way, her weapon at the ready.

  The minutes crawled by, but at last she became aware of footsteps in the darkness. J-Rob held up a closed fist, meaning for everyone to hold their positions. Devon tensed, her gloved finger hovering over the safety on her gun. She wasn’t part of the assault team, but she’d been trained to fight if necessary.

  Relief surged when a group of men wearing the unmistakable uniforms of the United States Marines appeared out of the gloom. These were the battle-space owners, the unit responsible for the area of operations the village resided in. Accompanying them were some members of the Afghan National Army, and square in the middle of the pack, a small figure wearing an ill-fitting and mismatched set of body armor. A woman.

  The point man approached J-Rob, and after a short conversation, which included some pointing toward Devon, one of the Marines escorted the woman over to her.

  “I’m Roshana,” she whispered as she knelt on the ground next to Devon, her face slick with sweat. “Your interpreter.”

  Devon touched her arm. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Roshana sucked in a few gulps of water from her CamelBak straw. She appeared very young, but her jaw was set with a steely resolve that Devon
knew all too well. It mirrored the same emotions roiling in Devon’s gut, that feeling of being so far out of her element, yet determined not to fail—the look of a woman trying to make her mark on what had so long been a man’s world.

  After Roshana had finished her water and wiped her lips on the back of her hand, Devon leaned in close. “We got this, okay?”

  Roshana looked her square in the eye. “Hell, yeah, we do.”

  They shared a fist bump as one of the ANA guys cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted in Pashto toward the village.

  “He’s telling the men to come out,” Roshana translated. “That they won’t be harmed, but to come out and show their hands.”

  He shouted it twice, three times, before a few men emerged from their homes. Some Marines swiftly approached them, zip-tied their hands in front of them and had them sit with their backs up against a wall.

  The rest of the Marines and the SEALs not on perimeter duty flowed into the village and fanned out. Devon stayed on her knee, carefully watching her assigned sector, alert for the sight of any “squirters” who might be trying to escape into the mountains. Rhys was with the detained men, nitrile gloves on, as he helped to search and question them.

  The minutes crawled by, until finally Devon heard the call she’d been waiting for.

  “We need the CST over here!”

  Rising to her feet, Devon safed her M4, let it hang from her shoulder and reached down to assist Roshana to standing.