Chapter 4
Rav
Brooklyn McAllister unpacked her equipment on a rickety table in the corner of our briefing room.
Her fingers danced over calibration dials without looking.
She moved with a rhythm that spoke of countless repetitions.
It was the scientific equivalent of field-stripping my rifle.
I could do it blindfolded—and clearly she could do the same with her sensors and detectors.
Most men would have fixated on her long black hair, her bright green eyes, or the way her CADPAT couldn’t camouflage her hourglass shape.
But me? It was those hands. They knew things mine didn’t.
One day into my mission at Forward Operating Base Masum Ghar, and I was already breaking my first rule: never get curious about the civilians.
“Something interesting, soldier?” Her voice startled me. She’d noticed me watching from my position by the door.
Most people didn’t notice me unless I wanted them to.
“Just wondering if it all works outside a lab,” I said, covering my momentary lapse.
Instead of the defensive response I expected, she smiled—a brief, knowing curve of her lips that suggested she’d heard that particular doubt before.
“I used these tools in Syria last year,” she said, returning to her work without waiting for my reply. “They’re more reliable than most of the people I’ve let use them.”
There was something refreshing about her lack of need to prove herself. Most scientists who were dropped into military operations spent half their time justifying their presence and the other half complaining about conditions. Dr. McAllister seemed to occupy the space more naturally.
The room gradually filled with the rest of the team.
Eight SEALs and one British SAS operator, all of us assigned to shepherd a handful of scientists through hostile territory while they hunted for invisible killers.
Chemical weapons detection wasn’t JTF2’s usual mandate, but international operations made for strange bedfellows.
I remained by the wall. Percival, a SEAL I’d worked with before, caught my eye and lifted his chin in my direction. The rest of the team moved with the contained energy of men accustomed to waiting—for orders, for action, for something to happen.
Only Dr. McAllister remained otherwise occupied, lost in her preparations as though the crowded room of elite operators had faded into background noise.
“All right, listen up,” Cohn, the SEAL team leader, called out. “Mission briefing in five. Dr. McAllister, are you ready with your part?”
She looked up, those green eyes sharp with focus. “Ready.”
What hadn’t her file told me? The standard biography had been thorough enough—twenty-five years old, recruited directly from university to the Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons, deployed to Syria straight after, where she finished her PhD in molecular toxicology.
But it hadn’t captured her quiet competence, or the way she carried herself like someone ten years her senior.
During the tactical overview, I studied her more carefully. Athletic build beneath the standard-issue clothing. Dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Light olive skin that hadn’t yet taken on the dusty pallor that Afghanistan eventually gave everyone.
And those eyes—observant, intelligent, missing nothing.
When she took over to explain the detection protocols, her entire demeanor shifted. Her voice carried an authority that commanded attention without demanding it. She didn’t simplify the science beyond recognition, but she made it accessible, focusing on what the operators needed to know.
“Our proximity will matter,” she explained, holding up a handheld device. “If we’re within thirty feet of something we’re looking for, this will signal an alert. So don’t disable them, don’t remove them, and don’t assume they’re malfunctioning if they start beeping.”
“How fast does this stuff act if we’re exposed?” one of the younger SEALs asked.
“Depends on the agent,” she answered without hesitation. “Some are immediate—you’ll know within seconds. Others take hours to manifest symptoms.” She paused, meeting his eyes directly. “By then, it’s usually too late.”
A few chuckles flowed through the room. We may have been patient men, but lethal action was our oxygen. And too late was when the most exciting actions happened.
There was no bravado in her delivery, just the unvarnished reality of what we were facing.
I found myself shifting uncomfortably, realizing how little I actually understood about the threats we were hunting.
My training had covered basic nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons protocols, but nothing like the detailed understanding she clearly possessed.
“That’s why we follow decontamination protocols precisely,” she continued. “No exceptions, no shortcuts.”
“LaPierre will be Dr. McAllister’s dedicated security,” Cohn announced, bringing my attention back to the briefing.
As the sole Canadian member of the protection detail, I was responsible for the only Canadian civilian with us.
“The rest of you will rotate through the security detail for the other scientists based on mission requirements.”
Her eyes found mine across the room, a flicker of curiosity in them before she returned her attention to Cohn.
The briefing continued, with two male scientists presenting their specialties.
Neither of them was as interesting as she was.
Part of it was her curves, but mostly it was her delivery.
Three months in close proximity to Dr. McAllister, responsible for her safety in one of the most hostile environments on Earth, would be a fascinating assignment.
It was a far cry from the hostage rescue I’d been working last year, but it would do.
When the briefing concluded, the room emptied quickly. Everyone dispersed to prepare gear, check weapons, or grab food. I stayed, watching Dr. McAllister methodically repack her equipment.
She acknowledged me without looking up. “Something on your mind?”
I pushed off from the wall and approached her table. “I was wondering what you’re not telling them.”
That got her attention. She straightened, her green eyes meeting mine with unexpected intensity. “Excuse me?”
“About the chemical agents,” I said. “You gave them the sanitized version.”
She pursed her full lips, letting her eyes drag over my body.
Either she was checking me out—which I wouldn’t have complained about—or she was evaluating me.
Probably the latter. “The sanitized version is easier to sleep with. The reality…” She shook her head.
“I could show you the reports from Syria if you’re genuinely interested.
Photos of the fallout from what we’re told has been smuggled into Kandahar province. Medical data. It’s not light reading.”
Something in her tone—a weariness that was out of place in someone so young—caught me off guard. Whatever she’d seen had left marks that weren’t visible.
“I’d like to know what I’m up against,” I said. “Makes it easier to do my job properly.”
She had sharp cheekbones, but as she let out a slow breath, they softened. Her jaw unclenched. She’d actually been on edge the entire time we’d been there. “Most security details I’ve worked with prefer not to hear the details. They find it… distracting.”
“I’m not most security details.”
“No.” She gave me a tight-lipped smile. “You certainly aren’t.”
A sudden gust of wind blew in through the door, sending dust motes swirling through the shafts of afternoon light. The constant hum of generators and distant aircraft created a steady backdrop to our conversation.
“How long have you been with JTF2?” she asked, surprising me with the directness of the question.
“Four years. Navy before that.”
She nodded, as if confirming something to herself. “And this is your first chemical weapons operation?”
“Obvious, eh?”
The tiny smile grew. “You’re asking the right questions. Most don’t.”
She finished packing her equipment, movements efficient and precise. Then, she extended her hand across the table. “I think we’ll work well together, LaPierre.”
“Rav,” I corrected, surprising myself. I rarely offered my first name to people I’d just met, especially on ops. “If we’re going to be stuck with each other for three months, might as well use it.”
“Brooke, then.” Her grip was firm, telling me her confidence wasn’t an act. “Nice to officially meet you, Rav.”
Something about the way she said my name resonated in unexpected places. I held her hand perhaps a moment longer than necessary, struck by the peculiar sense that something significant had just happened.
“Hungry?” I asked, releasing her hand. “The chow hall should be serving something marginally edible about now.”
“Starving, actually.” She shouldered her pack. “Lead the way.”
As we walked across the dusty compound, I absorbed everything about her—as my professional duty.
The way she matched my stride without effort.
The subtle scent of flowers beneath the universal stench of the nearby burn pit and sewage.
The way she barely acknowledged the wind and dust swirling loose bits of hair that had escaped her ponytail.
“So,” she said as we approached the DFAC, “what trouble did you get into that caused them to assign you to scientist detail? Seems like a waste of your training.”
“Maybe they thought I’d learn something.”
“From a trio of lab rats?” Her tone was light, but some part of it felt forced. Perhaps she was irritated there were only three of them, which I’d heard was because the OPCW didn’t think the risk here was real.
“From someone who knows things I don’t,” I countered. “That’s usually worth paying attention to.”
She studied me for a moment, then nodded, apparently satisfied with my answer. The metal door of the DFAC creaked as I pulled it open, releasing a wave of noise and the competing smells of institutional coffee and overcooked food.
“Fair warning,” I said as we entered. “The coffee’s terrible.”
“After three deployments, I’ve developed a stomach lined with lead.” She grinned, looking every bit like she belonged in the middle of Afghanistan with us.
But it was her smile that nearly knocked me off my feet. Three months suddenly seemed both too long and not nearly enough time.