Chapter 16
Brooke
The up-armored Toyota Land Cruiser’s tires kicked up dust as we bounced along a rutted road in Kandahar Province.
One month into our deployment, and I’d learned to brace myself against the vehicle’s jolting rhythm—thighs tensed, hands gripping the edge of my seat, the weight of my plate carrier and helmet a constant reminder of the dangers beyond our armored shell.
From my position in the rear left seat, directly behind Percival, I had a clear view of both him and Rav, who sat in the front passenger seat.
Beside me, Dr. Norris and Dr. Wilkins—the two American scientists on our team—quietly discussed sampling protocols for our target site, while the back cargo area held our equipment in secured Pelican cases.
“You’re quiet,” Rav said, his voice low and resonant in a way that seemed to travel directly into my brain. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t turn or break his focus, but I knew he was talking to me.
I glanced down at the small notebook on my lap, which I’d brought to review site intelligence. “Just preparing.”
“You’ve been preparing since 0400. Your equipment checks had equipment checks.”
A smile tugged at my lips, despite all the other men in the vehicle. “Says the man who field-stripped his rifle three times before breakfast.”
“Twice.” His mouth curved in that subtle way I’d begun to notice soon after we started working together. Not quite a smile, but a softening around the edges. “The third time was after breakfast.”
That earned a genuine laugh from me, drawing curious glances from my fellow scientists.
One month. Four weeks side by side with Rav LaPierre, and I’d memorized a dozen different expressions most people probably never noticed.
The microscopic shifts in his features revealed more than words ever could.
It was becoming a dangerous habit—this careful observation of a man I was supposed to maintain professional boundaries with.
The Land Cruiser crested a small rise, and a village appeared in the distance, mud-brick buildings clustered against the pale landscape, mountains rising behind them like sentinels.
“Reminds me of where my grandfather lived,” Rav said unexpectedly. “Outside Quebec City. Not the architecture, obviously, but something about how it sits against the hills.”
I leaned slightly forward, needing to know more about him. “You spent time there as a kid?”
“Every summer until I was twelve.” He kept his eyes on the landscape, scanning the horizon as he spoke. “Learned to fish, build things, be quiet.”
“The last one definitely stuck,” I teased, adjusting my helmet after we hit a particularly deep rut.
His eyes met mine over his shoulder, dark brown and unexpectedly warm. “Not all of us process our thoughts out loud, Dr. McAllister.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You mutter complex chemical formulations to yourself when you’re concentrating.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “I do not.”
“Oh, you most certainly do.” He was definitely smiling now, which made my pulse quicken. The man was unfairly attractive when he smiled—the kind of attractive that left me momentarily speechless. “It’s actually impressive.”
Percival interrupted our exchange. “Movement, nine o’clock.”
The atmosphere in the vehicle instantly shifted. Rav straightened in his seat, eyes locked on the left side of the road. He pressed his radio transmit button. “Lead, this is Two—possible fast mover, nine o’clock, five hundred feet and closing. Stand by.”
Through my window, I spotted a dust plume rising behind a Toyota Hilux approaching rapidly from the left, cutting across open terrain toward our convoy route.
“Lead copies, eyes on,” came the response over the radio.
Ahead of us, the turret gunners in the vehicle ahead pivoted toward the threat. Dr. Norris and Dr. Wilkins fell silent, their conversation forgotten as tension prickled the air.
“Three copies. Rear gunner tracking,” the rear MRAP confirmed.
My heart rate accelerated as I calculated distances and approach vectors. The pickup was moving too fast, its trajectory too deliberate. In Afghanistan, civilian vehicles approaching military convoys at speed rarely ended well for anyone.
Trying not to stare too intently, I looked back at Rav, searching for any hint of fear. His jaw was tight, eyes focused like a predator tracking prey. He glanced over his shoulder at me briefly, our eyes meeting in a moment of silent communication, somehow conveying both alertness and reassurance.
“Two—possible intercept in three hundred feet. Recommend weapons hold, eyes on driver,” Rav said.
The distance between our vehicles closed rapidly.
“Remember, this vehicle’s armored.” Rav shifted, reaching his arm back between the seats. His hand found my knee, the touch light but steady, grounding me. “But I want you to duck down anyway.”
Not good. Not good. Not good. The three of us in the back bent down, tucking our heads against our laps.
“Breathe,” Rav said quietly. Maybe it was to all of us, but the way his hand stayed on my knee, it felt like he was talking only to me. “Four count in, hold it, then four count out.”
Fuck. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until he said it. My exhale came out shaky, and I forced myself to inhale slowly, counting silently.
“Tell me about mustard gas, Brooke,” he said, his voice still low.
“What?” I glanced up, confused.
“Molecular structure. Effects. Detection methods.” His eyes remained fixed on the approaching vehicle, but he squeezed my knee gently. “Or what was the other one we’re looking for?”
“Lewisite. Chlorovinylarsine dichloride,” I began, the words flowing automatically. “Oily, colorless liquid that turns amber on exposure to air. Vapor pressure of 0.58 millimeters of mercury at twenty-five degrees Celsius.”
His thumb moved in small, reassuring circles against my knee as I continued reciting facts that were second nature to me. With each detail, my heart steadied. Periodic updates came from the men in all three vehicles.
Watching.
Waiting.
“Causes tissue damage, burning pain, and if inhaled, respiratory distress. It starts with arsenic trichloride, so prolonged or significant exposure can lead to arsenic poisoning.”
“You’re doing great, Brooke.”
I held another breath, like he’d told me to, then let it out slowly. “And it smells like geraniums.”
“Lead—stand down,” came the all-clear from the lead vehicle. “Local farmer, two pax, no weapons observed. They’re turning away.”
Rav patted my knee, and I looked up. “Not our problem today, Doc. I got you. You remember?”
The intensity in his eyes sent a rush of heat through me that had nothing to do with fear. He could have me if he wanted me. Goddammit, he was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
“Three copies. Convoy clear. Resuming pace,” the rear MRAP radioed.
Conversation gradually returned to the vehicle, Dr. Norris resuming his discussion of soil sampling techniques.
But my entire brain remained focused on Rav’s hand, still resting lightly on my knee. When he finally withdrew it to return to his observation pattern, some part of me felt empty. Like I’d lost a part of myself.
I exhaled slowly, and my heart rate gradually return to normal.
What wasn’t returning to normal was my heightened awareness of Rav—the breadth of his shoulders filling the front seat, the easy precision of his movements, and the way his CADPAT camo emphasized rather than concealed his physical strength.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, eyes meeting mine over his shoulder again.
I nodded, finding my voice. “Yes. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For…” I hesitated, not entirely sure what I meant. For the steadying touch? For the silent reassurance? For being someone whose mere presence made me feel safer? “For being good at your job.”
“Anytime.” He smiled, a tiny one almost hidden by his beard. Then he tipped his sunglasses down to wink at me and said, “Just make sure you always stay close.”