“Thanks,” he said. “It’s been rough. For a lot of reasons.”
“Yeah.” Her voice was soft, sympathetic. “Doing what we do, it’s definitely not easy. On anyone.”
The ninety percent divorce rate in the special operations community bore that out, for sure. The odds had been against him and Lani from the moment he applied to pararescue and entered the pipeline.
Rhys closed his eyes. If he’d known back then that losing her would be the ultimate result of that decision, would he have still done it?
He didn’t want to think too closely about the answer to that.
Chapter Three
Midnight in Tucson, and the shit was already hitting the fan.
“I don’t drink.” Matt’s voice was hard, implacable. “What about that don’t you understand?”
The whole group was standing in the parking lot of their transient quarters. Even at that late hour, even in September, the desert night was dusty and hot.
It reminded Devon a lot of Afghanistan.
“There’s no shit smell,” she reminded herself. “No mortars. No enemy with guns waiting to kill me.”
Only a bunch of SEALs on the verge of coming to blows with each other.
“Look, I said I’d go to the strip club with you,” Matt was saying, “but I’m not gonna drink. I. Don’t. Drink.”
Apparently the tradition in this platoon was the new guy had to show up for his first official PT still shit-faced from the night before. If he puked, he got his ass kicked. If he didn’t puke, he got his ass kicked.
Either way, the FNG would find himself in a world of hurt, which seemed to be the point.
Devon rolled her eyes. Men.
The older, more experienced guys in the platoon stood back, arms folded across their chests, watching. It was the younger ones, the ones least removed from their own status as FNGs, who were giving Matt the hardest time.
They were getting nowhere with him, and finally, the dude Devon would always think of as Mötley caught sight of her. Smirking, he ambled over.
“How ’bout you? You got the balls to come with us?” His eyes were alight with challenge.
You wanna be one of the guys?
Devon’s gut clenched. Four years ago she would have said yes with no hesitation, and she would’ve drunk herself under the table to prove she could keep up with them, that she belonged.
But now...
“I don’t need to get drunk to prove I have balls,” she said coolly. The other dudes had arrayed themselves in a half circle around her. Devon’s fingers itched for her knife, but she forced herself to appear relaxed, in control. She pinned each of them with her gaze. “And back off.”
They did.
Devon could see the older SEALs watching her, assessing, and she locked her knees to hide their shaking.
First gauntlet thrown.
At last Grizz, the most senior guy in the platoon, nodded at her. “You and Soup get our shit unloaded. And you’d better be prepared to gut it out in PT tomorrow.”
Well, that she could do. She slumped in relief. “Hooyah.”
Not far away, the strip-club aficionados were working on Rhys. “C’mon, man. We’ll buy you some lap dances!”
“No,” he said flatly. “Hear that? No. Such a sweet, uncomplicated little word. You guys need to learn what it means pretty darn quick.”
Her eyes widening, Devon stifled a giggle. Next to her, Matt flat-out chuckled.
Mötley took a threatening step toward Rhys, but Rhys didn’t move. Arms crossed over his chest, he stared him down. Before either of them could say anything more, Smudge draped his arm around Mötley’s shoulders. “Word of advice, son,” he rumbled as he led him away. “Do not piss off the doc. Like, ever.”
One by one, the rest of the men wandered away, until it was just the three of them left.
“Hey, new guy.” Matt grinned. “Way to stand your ground.”
“You, too.” She tapped Matt’s knuckles with hers before they got to work unloading everyone’s bags from the van. With Rhys’s help, the work went quickly. It wasn’t much, anyway, just their personal stuff. Their tactical gear would arrive by C-130 later in the week. Still, by the time they’d found everyone’s rooms and delivered it, Devon was soaked in sweat.
She plucked at her damp T-shirt. “It’s hotter than hell, but I wouldn’t mind a run. All that sitting and driving.”
Both men said they were game, so they headed to their rooms to change. Devon pulled on a sports bra and a pair of brief nylon shorts before slipping a lipstick-sized penknife in between her breasts. When she got back downstairs, Rhys was already in the parking lot, stretching, and Devon froze midstride.
Damn.
Like her, he’d dressed in deference to the heat, which meant he was wearing nothing but a pair of neon-green running shorts. Clothed, he appeared fit and muscular, to be sure, but bare-chested, the dude was chiseled out of stone.
When he put his arms over his head to twist from side to side, Devon could see a colorful tattoo hugging his ribs. The bottom dipped below the waistband of his shorts and the top of it lay between his shoulder blades in an intricate swirling work of art.
And wow, what a canvas. Lucky artist.
He glanced up as she approached, his gaze traveling briefly over her, too. Devon automatically tensed, but his eyes didn’t linger, didn’t give her that creepy vibe—it was the assessing look one athlete gave another as they decided how far they could push the limits.
She relaxed.
Matt jogged up. “Took the liberty of mapping us a seven-mile route,” he said. “Mile-and-a-half warmup, four miles fast-paced, mile-and-a-half cool down. You guys up for that?”
“Bring it.”
When Matt said fast, he didn’t play. The heat was smothering, the temperature pushing ninety even at one in the morning. Even so, he set a punishing pace, and he didn’t slack off when she started to flag at a little over three miles into their four.
Digging deep, Devon pushed herself on, determined not to hold them back. Sheer exhilaration made her laugh out loud.
Next to her, Rhys smiled. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing,” she panted. “Just feels good. I love running with you guys.”
I love the challenge. She eyed both of them in turn, appreciating the sight of their hard bodies slick with sweat.
At last Matt went into the cool down, an easy jog that felt like floating on air. When they finally slowed to a walk, Devon laced her fingers behind her head. “Better than a strip club.”
“Hell, yeah.” Matt chuckled. “And alcohol. Give me exercise and the outdoors any day.”
They walked on in a companionable silence, until Rhys cleared his throat. “Can I tell you guys something?”
Devon and Matt glanced at each other, then at Rhys. “Sure.”
“I’ve, uh, never been to a strip club before.” Rhys seemed to brace himself, as if expecting scorn to rain down on him. In truth, Devon was a bit surprised; SEAL teams on the road trained hard and partied even harder.
Shrugging, she said, “I’ve been to a few. Cold beer, hot ladies.” She grinned. “I’m a good tipper.”
“I’ve been to some, too,” Matt said. “Back in my wild and wooly drinking days.”
“Alcohol and women, the downfall of men everywhere.” Devon was mostly joking, but Rhys nodded.
“Exactly! It felt disloyal to my girlfriend.” He grimaced. “But I’m single now, and let me tell you, I have no idea how to do the single-guy thing. I’ve been with Lani almost my whole life.”
“Childhood sweethearts, huh?” Matt’s voice was sympathetic. “That’s rough. Well, I wouldn’t do what any of these idiots do, that’s for sure.”
“Seriously,” Devon said. “Didn’t you say your friend once got into a fight with cops?”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Devon could’ve kicked herself. Not only did the memory seem to cause Matt pain, it was also a source of anguish for Rhys.
“That was an awesome night,” Matt said enthusiastically. “This cop was being a total douchebag, so Shane choked his ass out. Remember that, Rhys?”
Rhys gave a vigorous nod. “I do. It was epic!”
“Then the dude got a lucky punch in, busted Shane’s eyebrow open. There was blood everywhere, Jesus.”
Rhys laughed. “I know, right? And then how he was sitting there handcuffed telling the cop to go fuck himself in front of all the other cops? Badass.”
They both cackled.
Devon waited, but neither of them went on. “So what happened?” she said impatiently. “Did he go to jail?”
“Nah.” Matt shook his head. “It was a close thing, though. Shane and I were just BUD/S students then, not team guys, so it could’ve gone either way.”
“So you and Shane met in BUD/S?” Devon asked.
Matt’s eyes went distant as he retreated into the past. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Hard to believe that was almost three years ago.”
And you’ve been together ever since?
As much as Devon wanted to ask that, she didn’t. She couldn’t put him on the spot and force him to make something up, or out himself. Maybe he’d open up to her more as time went on.
At their quarters, the three of them gave each other high fives.
“We got that sluggish blood flowing,” Matt said to her. “Tomorrow, we’re gonna crush that PT and show those assholes what’s up. No doubt.”
Exhilaration surged through Devon at the vote of confidence. “Hey,” she called after him. “Thanks. It’s nice to have some friends.”
Matt touched his fingers to his forehead in a half salute. “Same, ma’am. See you in the morning.”
Although SEALs ignored rank out in the field, officers and enlisted alike calling each other by their first names, this small gesture of respect was a balm to Devon’s Army soul.
“Good night, Soup.”
Rhys lingered after Matt had gone and walked Devon to her room. Once she’d unlocked her door, he said a quiet good-night and headed off down the breezeway.
Don’t watch him walk away. Don’t watch him walk away.
She couldn’t help herself.
Oh, he was sublime, with those long legs and broad, muscular shoulders. What’d happened between him and his fiancée? It was obvious he was still a bit hung up on her.
“Well, it’s none of your business,” she said aloud.
Once inside with the door safely locked, Devon stretched out naked on top of her cool sheets. She switched off the light and lay there in the dark, listening to the sounds of an unfamiliar room and the occasional loud voice emanating from somewhere outside.
Tension crept over her, replacing the pleasant drowsiness and relaxation. Finally, with a small sob, she got up and double-checked the locks before pushing the small desk in front of the door to the adjoining room.
Slipping back into bed, she reached under her pillow to touch the reassuring coolness of her knife.
Old habits died hard.
* * *
“Form up on the grinder, lady and gents!”
Grizz’s voice echoed across the parking lot. Devon broke into a trot as she headed over to the small corner patch of asphalt that apparently would serve as a makeshift workout area, her heart pounding in both nervousness and anticipation.
This was the time she’d show the guys what she was made of.
Devon had read the reports, knew all about the surveys that said an overwhelming majority of special operators were opposed to opening those roles to women.
“Women are too weak.”
“We’ll have to lower our standards.”
“I weigh over three hundred pounds with my fully loaded ruck on. Am I supposed to bleed out because some female can’t drag me to safety?”
She didn’t have the answers to their concerns, especially the ones about unit cohesion, or the effect of integrated teams on the families at home.
“There’s already enough drama with the wives.”
What Devon did know was that right now all eyes were on her, and she wasn’t going to screw it up.
Taking her place coolly in the middle of the pack, Devon went into some warm-up stretches. There was a wolf whistle from behind as she bent over, which was clearly intended to rattle her. She ignored it.
“Knock it off and grow up,” came an irritable voice, which sounded a lot like Rhys’s. Devon smiled to herself, then turned her focus inward.
Grizz rode them hard: push-ups, burpees, sit-ups, flutter kicks. There was no equipment, so it was all body weight exercise, and soon Devon’s hands were scraped from the rough asphalt.
“There goes your manicure.”
Grizz stood over her as she went into yet another set of push-ups—chest down, push clear off the ground, clap, then chest down. She didn’t bother to answer. Her nails were well within regulation, not longer than her fingertips, and they weren’t a jarring color. She liked them, and if Grizz didn’t, too bad.
The workout dragged on. Devon didn’t complain. She didn’t cry. Even if she couldn’t do as many reps as the men did, she didn’t quit, either. By the end of the session, guys were coming up to high-five her.
“Good effort.”
“Way to stick it out.”
Devon wiped her sweaty face on her sleeve with a sense of triumph. All those endless CrossFit classes, miles on the treadmill and hours in the gym had been worth it.
Hooyah, motherfuckers. This is what a well-trained woman looks like. Put that in your survey and smoke it.
After PT, they dispersed to take showers, then gathered out front to head the short distance to their first training evolution. The mood was high-spirited, anticipatory. Even Devon was caught up in it.
Rhys jogged up to her, smiling. “Way to crush it, dude.”
“Thanks. I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am.”
“It shows.” He hesitated. “Do you, uh, work out with your boyfriend a lot?”
“My boyfriend?”
Rhys blushed, and the light came on. He was trying to find out her status.
Ah, he’s such a cutie.
“No boyfriend,” she said, smiling. “And I don’t want one, either. I’m a love-’em-and-leave-’em kinda gal. A lot of guys are threatened by what I do. In fact, one told me he couldn’t date a woman with a more ‘manly’ job than he had.”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“They also like to ask me if I’ve ever killed anyone. Like that’s dinner conversation.”
“Yeah, trying to talk about that kind of stuff with someone who can’t possibly understand...not recommended.” Rhys’s voice was bleak.
“That’s why I’ve never tried.”
Their eyes met.
“Well, if you ever want to talk about it—if you ever need to—come knock on my door, Devon.” He attempted to smile. “I’m the king of two a.m. grocery shopping trips.”
Devon couldn’t even count how many times painful memories had risen up and driven her out of bed in the middle of the night to wander the wide, brightly lit aisles of the twenty-four-hour grocery store on the corner.
She nodded. “Maybe I’ll see you there sometime.”
Before Rhys could answer, Mullet ran up and yelled exuberantly, “C’mon, guys! Let’s go crash some cars!”
Chapter Four
“Who’s ever driven in a convoy before?”
Every hand went up.
“Who’s ever driven in a balls-to-the-wall, oh-shit-I’m-being-shot-at-where-the-hell-is-it-coming-from type of convoy before?”
This time only a few hands went up, including the more senior SEALs in the group...and Devon’s.
To his credit, the tactical mobility instructor only blinked twice before going on, “Who’s taken a rally driving course before?”
A couple of the guys had, and once again, Devon.
“Well, all right.
Let’s pair off by experience and less experience. Go!”
Several dudes made a beeline for Devon, but Rhys was right there. He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned triumphantly at the losers. “Too slow.”
“Ah, fuck off, Chair Force.” Muttering, they slunk away to find other partners.
Each pair was assigned an instructor. Rhys and Devon’s was a tall man with weathered brown skin and a whitish-gray beard.
“I’m Les Camarillo, Special Forces ODA 555, the ‘Triple Nickel.’ Nice to meetcha.”
A Green Beret. Rhys was impressed. This course was gonna be no joke.
Les shook both their hands and then led them over to a battered old Pontiac Grand Am. “Let’s see what you can do, young lady.”
They all donned helmets. Devon climbed into the driver’s seat, Rhys in the passenger’s, Les in the back.
“Nice and easy around the first few curves, and then we’ll pick up the pace after you get a feel for the car.”
Despite its outward junkyard appearance, the car was well-maintained. There were four-point safety harnesses for every seat, and the interior was reinforced with roll bars. The engine roared as Devon shifted into first and accelerated down the road.
Rhys hung on to the doorframe, his elbow propped in the open window. Hot wind rushed in, the dust tickling his nostrils and stinging his eyes. Off to his right, rows and rows of derelict airplanes sat baking in the desert sun, an eerie sight that sent a shiver up Rhys’s spine.
Airplane boneyard off to the right; civilian airfield off to the left, and smack-dab in the middle of it all, the U.S. Special Operations Command Parachute Training Facility and Tactical Mobility Course.
“Gun it around that next curve!” Les shouted.
Devon downshifted and floored it. Suddenly they were confronted with a huge pool of water which stretched clear across the road. They hit it at eighty miles an hour and hydroplaned.
The car’s back end drifted up and to the left. Smoothly, calmly, Devon steered into the skid, righting the car’s nose and getting them back on track without missing a single beat.
“Yeah!” Rhys pumped his fist out the window and laughed in sheer exhilaration. “Get some!”
Keeping a Warrior Page 5