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. Andtoo latewas 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 coveredbasic 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’thave 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.”
