In the Likely Event
Rebecca Yarros
CHAPTER ONE
NATHANIEL
Kabul, Afghanistan
August 2021
This was not the Maldives.
I closed my eyes and tipped my head back toward the blistering afternoon sun. With the breeze, I could almost pretend the moisture racing down my neck, soaking into my collar, was water from a recent swim instead of my own sweat. Almost.
Instead, I stood on the tarmac in Kabul, wondering how the hell my boots weren’t melting into the concrete at this temperature. Maybe missing my trip was karma paying me back for going without her.
“You’re supposed to be on leave,” a familiar voice said from my right.
“Shhh. I am. See?” I opened one eye just enough to glimpse Torres standing beside me, his thick brow shaded by his multicam cap.
“See what? You standing on the flight line with your head thrown back like you’re in a Coppertone commercial?”
The corners of my mouth quirked upward. “It’s not the flight line. It’s a little bungalow over the water in the Maldives. Can’t you hear the waves?”
The rhythmic beat of distant rotors filled the air.
“I hear you losing your mind,” he muttered. “Looks like they’re here.”
Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and searched the horizon for an aircraft on final approach, spotting the plane within seconds.
Here we go again. As much as I used to love the action that came with my job, I had to admit that it was getting old. Peace sounded so much better than constant war.
“How the hell did you let yourself get roped into this, anyway? I thought Jenkins was on this assignment,” Torres asked.
“Jenkins went down with some kind of virus last night, and I didn’t want to ask Ward to skip his leave. He has kids.” I shifted the shoulder strap of my rifle as the C-130 touched down on the runway. “Now I’m on babysitting duty for Senator Lauren’s aide.”
“Well, I’m with you, like always.”
“I appreciate that.”
My best friend hadn’t left my side since Special Forces selection. Hell, even before that.
“Hopefully by next week, Jenkins will be on the mend and I’ll be on my way to the Maldives before the actual senators get here.” I could almost taste those fruity umbrella drinks right now—oh wait, that was the metallic tang of jet fuel. Right.
“You know, most guys I know use their leave time to go home and see their families.” Torres looked back at the rest of the team as they strode our way, straightening their patchless ACUs, like it was possible to unfuck their uniforms after four months in country.
“Well, most guys don’t have my family.” I shrugged. Mom had been gone for five years, and the only reason I’d willingly see my father would be to bury him.
The rest of the team reached us, falling into a line as we faced the aircraft. Graham took the spot on my other side. “Want me driving?”
“Yep,” I answered. I’d already selected the guys I wanted with me until Jenkins got back. Parker and Elston were waiting at the embassy.
“Is everyone here?” Major Webb asked as he reached us, scratching his chin.
“Holy shit! I can’t remember the last time I saw your actual face.” Graham grinned at our commander, his bright smile contrasting with his deep-brown skin.
Webb muttered something about politicians as the plane taxied to the directions of the air traffic controllers.
There were certain perks to being the elite of Special Forces. The informal camaraderie and not having to shave were definitely two of them. Getting screwed out of leave to play security detail to the advance party of some legislators wasn’t. I’d spent an hour this morning familiarizing myself with Greg Newcastle’s file. My assignment was the thirty-three-year-old deputy chief of staff to Senator Lauren, and he had the polished look of a guy who’d gone straight from Harvard Law to the Hill. The group of them were coming on what they called a “fact-finding” mission so they could report back on how the US withdrawal was going. I somehow doubted they were going to be happy with what they found.
“Just to refresh . . . ,” Webb said, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket and glancing at the designated security team leads. “Maroon, your team has Baker out of Congressman Garcia’s office,” he began, using our designated for-public-use names for this mission. “Gold, you’re on Turner from Congressman Murphy. White, you’re on Holt out of Senator Liu’s office. Green, you’re responsible for Astor out of Senator Lauren’s office—”
“I was given Greg Newcastle’s file,” I interrupted.
Webb glanced down at the paper. “Looks like they made a change last minute. You have Astor now. Mission is still the same. That’s the office focusing on the southern provinces. The one working on bringing the girls’ chess team to the States.”
Astor. My stomach jumped into my throat. There was no way. None.
“Relax,” Torres whispered. “It’s a common last name.”
Right. Besides, the last time I’d heard from her, she was working at some firm in New York, but that was three years ago.
The rain had soaked through my coat—
I clamped down on my reckless thoughts as the plane parked in front of us, guided by the ground crew. Heat radiated off the tarmac in shimmering waves, distorting my vision as the rear door lowered and the pilots powered down the engines.
Uniformed airmen descended from the C-130 first, leading a group of civilians I assumed were the congressional aides and, in one case, helping one of the suits off the ramp.
My brows lifted. The guy can’t get off the ramp by himself and thought it would be a good idea to come tour Afghanistan?
“Are you serious?” Kellman—or Sergeant White for this mission—scoffed. “Please tell me that’s not my guy.”
“Here we go,” Torres muttered at my side.
I blew out a long breath as I counted to ten, hoping patience would miraculously appear by the time I reached zero. It didn’t. This was a waste of our time.
The airmen were all smiles as they walked toward us, obscuring their followers from view. Of course they were happy. They were here to drop off the suits. I highly doubted they’d still be all grins if they were the ones who had to escort clueless, self-important civilians to a bunch of FOBs like they were tourist destinations and not active combat zones.
Major Webb moved forward, and the airmen guided the politicians to the front of their little herd. There were six in all—
My heart. Fucking. Stopped.
I slow-blinked once, then twice as the heat shimmer dissipated with a gust of wind. There was no mistaking that honey-gold hair or that million-dollar smile. I would have bet my life there were deep-brown eyes framed by thick lashes behind those oversize sunglasses. My hands flexed, like they could still feel the curves of her body all these years later.
It was her.