soldiers on these top-secret assignments. This mission has taken a very dangerous turn and, as your commanding officer, it’s my job to keep you safe.”
She lifted her head high. “Are you sure you want to keep me safe because I’m infantry and not because I’m a woman?”
He ran his hands through his hair. She knew it was a sign of frustration.
“Your mission brief was to terminate a target. Period. We didn’t expect it to turn into guerrilla warfare. This is not your war, Hanson. This kind of dirty war is best left to the experts.”
She decided she would read between the lines. “Best left to the men, you mean?”
His eyes locked on hers and he stared at her with such strength that she felt her toes curling.
“Don’t start making assumptions about what I mean,” he said defensively. “Your job is to take orders, not challenge them.”
Her anger started to slowly simmer beneath her skin. She felt as if he were dismissing her, preventing her from playing her part in protecting those around her. She rose from the table and started to walk toward the door.
“I should know my place, huh?” she muttered under her breath.
Suddenly, he was there, in front of her, standing so close that his huge frame dwarfed her own. He was breathing hard. She saw his nostrils flare as his chest rose and fell.
“I am your commanding officer and insolence like that will not be tolerated,” he said in a low, deep growl. “It is my job to guard your safety. Am I making myself understood?”
She said nothing.
“Sergeant,” he said. “You will address me and answer my question.”
She brought her heels together, snapped her hand into a salute and fixed her eyes on the wall.
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t move while she maintained her salute. He was waiting for her gaze to shift to his, but it was resolutely trained on a spot on the wall—on a picture of a woodland scene. She imagined herself in the picture, taking aim on a tree far in the distance. She saw her father in her mind, encouraging her to trust in her skill and take the shot. For her seventh birthday, he’d bought her a small air rifle. She adored that rifle and, from that moment on, she spent hours practicing hitting tin cans off the wall in the meadow. Her dad nicknamed her “crack-shot Cara” and began to enter her into shooting competitions when she turned ten. She had a cabinet full of trophies at the family hunting cabin on the banks of Bear Lake in Utah. Her chest hurt as she thought of how she’d let him down. She should have prevented it. She replayed the accident over and over in her mind, but the outcome was always the same. A bullet always took him from her. That would not happen to Dean.
Finally, he spoke. “At ease, Sergeant.”
She stood at ease for a few seconds before turning on her heel and marching out the door. She left the kitchen and marched down the hallway, never missing a step until she reached her bedroom door and went inside. She then heard Dean leave the cabin, slamming the back door behind him. She sank to the floor and put her head in her hands. Keeping this man safe from harm was the biggest challenge she had faced yet.
* * *
Dean shone the flashlight into the outhouse, sending insects scuttling from its bright glare. He pulled his hooded sweatshirt up over his head, shielding himself against the rain that had begun to fall. He kicked at the grass as he walked, angry with himself for allowing his temper to flare. Cara didn’t deserve to be treated like that. It wasn’t her fault. The truth was, he just couldn’t answer her question so it was easier to evade it, instead.
He couldn’t stop the emotions that were stirring within him. His overwhelming desire was to protect this petite, beautiful soldier and deliver her back to base unharmed. He knew it was irrational. She was a fully trained, combat-ready member of the Fifth Infantry Regiment—the fierce “Bobcats.” She didn’t need his protection any more than Gomez did. She was strong and feisty, standing straight and confident before him, never flinching under his stare. She challenged everything he thought he knew about women.
He walked to the front of the cabin, to the yellow glow of light that was streaming from her bedroom. He imagined her inside, cleaning her rifle, carefully slotting each piece into place, before raising it to her cheek and lining up a target. She was the most determined and committed soldier he’d ever encountered, clearly driven by a need to prove herself. He should be commending her, not stifling her. Maybe she had a point; maybe he did treat her differently because she was a woman. He resolved to suppress this instinct to safeguard her. At least until she was back to fighting strength.
He turned his back to her window and stopped dead. The gate to the yard was wide-open. He knew he had checked it earlier that afternoon and it was firmly shut. He pulled his M9 pistol from his holster, flattening his back against the rough wood of the exterior wall and inching his way to the front door. It was a dark and rainy night, moonlight was scant and the movement of the trees in the wind could provide ample cover for any would-be assailant. He moved slowly and steadily around the cabin, his senses alert. The gate banged on its post, sending a thud echoing through the dark silence.
As he reached the front door, a noise caught his attention. He squinted into the darkness and saw a dark shape crouching in front of the rusty old truck parked to the side of the cabin. He’d acquired the vehicle in a hurry the previous day, knowing that the army jeep would be too easy a target to follow. One thing was certain: no sane person would try to steal this old jalopy.
The shape was moving. He suspected that, whoever he was, he was tampering with the engine, maybe even planting a bomb. As he assessed the outline of the figure, he realized that this was one huge guy, and he would never match his strength. He’d need Gomez’s help for this.
He slipped quietly into the cabin. He found Gomez standing in the hallway with a look of concern on his face.
“I heard a noise,” said Gomez. “I think there’s someone outside.”
“Get your gun,” Dean ordered, “and follow me.”
The door of Cara’s bedroom opened, and she stepped out into the hallway.
“Is there a threat?” she asked. He noticed that she had assembled her rifle and was holding it to her side.
“Go back inside, Hanson,” Dean replied. “You’re not strong enough yet. Let me and Gomez deal with this.”
“But, sir...” she protested.
“No buts, Hanson,” he barked. “Go back inside, lock your door and wait for us to come back.”
She opened her mouth to speak and promptly closed it again. Turning her back, she went into her room and closed the door. He heard the lock click in place.
Gomez returned, holding his gun.
Dean’s hand reached for the door handle. “Stay close, follow my lead and shoot only if absolutely necessary.”
Gomez gave a quick nod of the head and raised his weapon. The door creaked open, and a gust of cold air blew through the cabin, creating a ghostly, high-pitched whine. Dean’s heart was pumping fast as he put one foot out onto the wooden decking outside.
Whatever
