Chapter 1 — The Yank in the Dust
Afghanistan, 2013
Róisín Kavanagh was twenty-three years old, running on three hours of sleep, two cups of coffee and pure spite. It was, in her opinion, the ideal operational state.
“You’re glaring at the horizon again,” Mac observed.
Roe didn’t look up from cleaning her rifle. “I’m considering my options.”
“Aye? What options?”
She finally lifted her head. “Whether to commit murder before or after breakfast.”
Mac snorted into his mug. Around them Camp Bastion dragged itself awake in diesel fumes, dust, radio chatter and the hard clatter of kit. The Afghan morning was already hot enough to make the metal bite. Across the vehicle park a convoy had arrived overnight. Americans. Which explained the noise.
The first thing Roe noticed was the volume. The second was one particular soldier leaning against a vehicle. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark blond hair. Blue eyes. Sun-browned skin. A grin that immediately irritated her.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
Mac followed her gaze. “Oh. That’s unfortunate.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s looking at you.”
The American was indeed looking at her. When their eyes met, he smiled. Roe stared back until the smile faltered.
“Christ, Kavanagh,” Mac said. “You looked at him like you’d found a dead rat in your breakfast.”
“Maybe I did.”
The American pushed away from the vehicle and came towards them with the relaxed confidence of a man too comfortable in his own skin. Men that comfortable usually turned out to be idiots or officers. Sometimes both.
“Morning,” he said. Definitely American. Possibly Texas. He sounded like sunshine and bad decisions. “Caleb Walker.”
He offered his hand. Roe looked at it, then at him, then took another sip of coffee. His hand remained suspended awkwardly in mid-air. Mac nearly choked.
Caleb slowly lowered it. “Friendly bunch.”
“We’re British.”
“That explains a lot.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
“Then stop talking.”
His grin widened, which was deeply concerning. “Captain Harris said I’m attached to your team.”
Of course he was. Because God hated her.
The briefing lasted an hour. Roe sat beside Mac near the back while Caleb sat with the American contingent. Twice she caught him looking. Twice she glared until he looked away. The third time he smiled. Roe hated that smile, mostly because she was beginning to suspect she didn’t.
The day’s patrol left two hours later. Unfortunately, Roe discovered she was sharing a vehicle with Caleb. The interior was already hot enough to cook food. Mac sat opposite. Caleb ended up next to Roe, far too close. She could feel the heat coming off him.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
That surprised a laugh out of her. Tiny. Brief. Gone immediately. Caleb looked ridiculously pleased with himself. Mac saw everything; the smug look on his face promised future embarrassment.
The convoy rolled out into harsh mountains, endless sand and settlements clinging stubbornly to existence. Caleb talked too much. Smiled too much. And despite her best efforts, Roe found herself checking where he was whenever he moved out of sight. Not because she was interested. Not because she liked him. Because she was responsible for everyone on the patrol.
That was all.
Unfortunately, Róisín Kavanagh had never been particularly good at lying to herself. Somewhere deep down she already knew the handsome American was going to become a problem. The really annoying part was that she suspected she was going to let him.
