His jaw clenched. Of all the times for Anders to saddle him with a damn journalist.
She didn't flinch under his stare. Most people did. Most people took one look at Ghost's face and found somewhere else to be. Rachel just held his gaze, steady and assessing, like she was reading him the same way he was reading her.
Sweat beaded along her collarbone. Sunlight caught strands of brown hair escaping from where she'd tied it back. Her hazel eyes stayed locked on his, sharp and unflinching, catching details he didn't want her to catch.
Ghost's pulse kicked. His body was noticing the curve of her neck, the way her vest sat against her frame, the fact that she was looking at him like she wasn't impressed.
Nobody looked at him like that.
He stepped closer. "You follow my rules. You do exactly what I say. No wandering off. No second-guessing my orders. Clear?"
Rachel matched his energy. "You don't have to like me, Lieutenant, but I'm not leaving."
Ghost closed the distance. One more step. Close enough now that he could see the pulse beating at the base of her throat. Close enough that the heat between them wasn't just the Afghan sun.
"You're not part of this team. You're not trained for what we do. Out there, one mistake puts people in the ground."
Her chin lifted. "Then I won't be the one who makes it."
Their eyes locked. Ghost's breath stayed controlled, but his heart rate didn't. He recognized the feeling crawling up his spine, the same adrenaline rush he got before a mission, that edge-of-danger awareness that made his senses sharpen.
Dangerous. She was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with the job.
He jerked his head toward the barracks. "Let's go. You need to meet the team."
She fell into step beside him without hesitation. Ghost kept his stride normal, not adjusting for her shorter legs. If she couldn't keep up, that wasn't his problem.
Except she did keep up. Matched his pace without complaint, without asking him to slow down.
Ghost's awareness sharpened in ways that had nothing to do with tactical assessment. Her breathing was steady and controlled. He smelled her shampoo or soap, something clean cutting through the diesel and dust. Could feel her presence beside him like a heat signature.
His hands flexed. This was a problem. He didn't need distractions, and Rachel Parker was already proving to be exactly that.
The barracks loomed ahead. Inside, his team was waiting. They'd take one look at her and know Ghost was off his game. They always knew.
He pushed the door open harder than necessary and stepped inside.
6
F.O.B. Kilo
The door slammed against the wall. Ghost stepped into the barracks, Rachel behind him.
The team looked up. The air smelled like gun oil and sweat. Torch sat on his bunk cleaning his rifle. Rogue had his boots off, working at a blister on his heel. Brick leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Reaper stood near the window, knife in hand, attention shifting to the doorway.
Every set of eyes landed on Rachel.
The room went still.
Ghost's jaw was still tight from the meeting with Anders, from the ambush, from Bear nearly dying because someone leaked theirop. Now he had to babysit a journalist while trying to figure out who the hell had sold them out.
"This is Rachel Parker," he said, voice flat. "Embedded photojournalist. She's here to observe and report. She answers to the chain of command."
He didn't try to hide his opinion of the situation. The word photojournalist hung in the air like a curse.
Torch spoke first. "Tell me this is a joke." His voice carried that rough edge Ghost recognized from too many bad days. "Thought we were running ops, not press junkets."
Rogue leaned against the wall and dragged a hand down his face. The motion was slow, almost theatrical, but the irritation behind it was real. “What’s next?” he muttered. “Souvenir stands? Group photos?”
