Pitbull snorted. “Thanks for jinxing us, dirtbag.”
“You guys can hang around talking about your women you’ll rarely see. I’m going for a run.” T-Mac walked out of the chow hall to the laughter of his friends.
“Gotta get him a girl,” Buck said.
As T-Mac rounded the corner of one of the stacks of shipping containers that had been outfitted to become sleeping quarters, a hard object landed at his feet.
He jumped back, his heart racing, his first thought Grenade! Then a hair missile barreled toward him, all four legs moving like a blur.
T-Mac braced himself for impact.
The black-faced, sable German shepherd skidded to a stop, pushing up a cloud of dust in the process. He grabbed the object in his teeth and raced back the way he’d come.
“Agar, heel!” a female voice commanded.
The animal stopped immediately at the female soldier’s side, dropped the hard rubber object on the ground and stared up at the woman as if eagerly awaiting the next command.
“Good dog.” She patted him on the head and then glanced up. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were there until after I’d thrown his KONG.” Her hand continued to stroke the dog’s head.
T-Mac stared at the woman, who was wearing camouflage pants, boots and a desert-tan T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a bun that had long since lost its shape. Coppery red strands danced in the breeze. She returned his stare with a direct green-eyed gaze. “If you’re afraid of Agar, I’ll hold him while you pass.” She cocked an auburn eyebrow.
“What?” T-Mac shook his head. “I’m not afraid of the dog. Just startled.”
“Then don’t let us keep you.” She snapped the lead on the dog’s collar and straightened.
Curiosity made T-Mac ask, “You’re new at Camp Lemonnier?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been here a week, if you consider that new.”
He laughed. “I do. And I just got back to camp, or I’m sure I’d have seen you.” There weren’t too many good-looking redheaded females in the world, much less in Djibouti. “Hi, I’m Petty Officer Trace McGuire. My friends call me T-Mac.” He took a step forward, slowly so as not to alert the dog, and held out his hand.
She clasped it in a firm grip. “Specialist Kinsley Anderson.” She glanced down at the dog. “And this is Sergeant Agar.”
T-Mac dropped to one knee in front of the German shepherd and held out his hand.
Agar placed a paw in his palm.
With a chuckle, T-Mac shook the dog’s paw and then stood. “He’s very well trained. What’s his mission?”
“Bomb sniffing.”
“Bomb sniffing?” T-Mac glanced again at the woman. He hadn’t really thought about females on the front line. But with the army graduating females from Ranger School, it was a natural progression.
“Well, I hope you don’t have to put that skill to use anytime soon.”
Her eyes narrowed and she lifted her chin. “We came here to do a job. I’m not afraid.”
Having seen his share of action and lost members of his team to gunfire and explosions, T-Mac didn’t wish any of it on anyone. But a person had to live through the horrors of war to truly understand how terrible it was. He couldn’t begin to explain it to the shiny new specialist who’d probably never been shot at or stood next to a man who’d been blown away by an IED.
And he had no business chatting up a female soldier when fraternization was strictly forbidden on deployment. Especially since it could lead to nothing and he and his team would be shipping out in four sleeps and a wakeup. “Well, it was nice to meet you.”
“Same,” she said, then grabbed the KONG and took off with Agar in the opposite direction.
As T-Mac continued on toward his quarters, he couldn’t help sighing. He’d never considered dating a redhead, but something about Specialist Anderson made him reconsider. Perhaps it was the way her coppery hair seemed out of control, or the light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Or maybe it was the way she absently, or automatically, stroked the dog’s head, showing it affection without having to think about it. Either way, she was off-limits and he was leaving. Once again he reminded himself, Don’t get involved.
KINSLEY HURRIED PAST the navy guy. She’d spent the past two hours working with Agar, keeping his skills fresh and helping him burn off energy. Now it was her turn.
Though she’d been in the country for a week, she and Agar had been tasked only with inspecting vehicles entering Camp Lemonnier. Thankfully, they hadn’t found any carrying explosives. Training sessions were a must, or Agar might forget what he was looking for and Kinsley might not pick up on the behavior Agar displayed when he sensed he’d found something.
Meanwhile, her male counterpart had gone out on missions with the Special Operations Forces into more hostile environments, working ahead of the teams to clear their routes of IEDs.
Kinsley had signed on as a dog handler because she loved dogs and because she wanted to make a difference for her country and her brothers in arms.
Her heart contracted as she thought about one in particular. Cody, her best friend from high school, had been killed in Iraq when he’d stepped on a mine.
Kinsley wanted to keep other young military men and women from the same fate.
On her first deployment, she’d hoped to land in Afghanistan or Iraq. Instead she’d landed in Djibouti, a fairly stable environment but also a jumping-off point to other more volatile areas. She hoped that her being female wouldn’t keep them from mobilizing her to support missions outside the safety of the camp’s borders.
Kinsley reached her quarters, filled a bowl full of water for Agar and stripped out of her uniform pants and boots. While Agar greedily slurped the entire contents of the bowl, Kinsley slipped on her army-issue PT shorts and running shoes and switched her desert-tan T-shirt for her army PT shirt. After strapping her flourescent belt around her waist and pulling her hair back into a ponytail, she planted a black army ball cap on her head and stepped out the door, leash in hand.
She moved smartly, walking past the rows of shipping-container quarters and other buildings, working her way through the complex toward the open field designated for PT.
She passed the motor pool and offices set aside for contractors who were providing additional support and building projects for the camp.
A silver-haired man stood at the corner of one of the buildings, smoking a cigarette. He wore khaki slacks and a polo shirt, incongruous with the multitude of uniforms from all branches of the military.
As she approached, he smiled. “Good afternoon,” he said.
Not wanting to be rude, Kinsley slowed, though she’d rather speed by without engaging. “Hello.”
He stepped in front of her. “You’re new to the camp?”
“Yes, sir.” She frowned, her gaze running over his civilian clothing. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.” She held out her hand. “Specialist Anderson.”
“William Toland.” He reached out and shook her hand. “No, we haven’t met. I’d remember a woman and her dog.”
Kinsley’s hand automatically dropped to Agar’s head. “Sergeant Agar is a Military Working Dog.”
“I assumed he was.” The man reached out as if to pet the dog.
Agar’s lips pulled back in a snarl and he growled low in his chest.
Toland snatched back his hand. “Not very friendly?”
Kinsley