Bombshell - Men of Sanctuary Series, Book Three by Danica St. Como Page B

between her feet, nearly tripping her at every other step.
    She walked past Kamaka’s rustic lair without incident. In stand-down mode, once he zonked out, he usually slept like the dead.
    It had been a long time since Keko’d enjoyed the outdoors for its own sake. A light breeze swirled under and through the tree canopy, the leaf colors having only recently begun to turn. The morning brought a refreshing chill to the air. The light wind carried so many scents—from fresh and clean to heavy and earthy, sometimes almost exotic. Neither her sneakers nor the cat’s soft paws interrupted the sounds of nature all around them. Bird song, crow caws, squirrel chatter, all continued unabated. Keko felt comfortable in her skin, blended with the surroundings .
    No wonder Lorelei doesn’t want to return to D.C., and Adam and Lucian are so content here. Sanctuary, indeed. Such a perfect place to raise their children . The ideal playground for children also proved to be the ideal location for men to train for the brutal realities of combat in its infinite forms. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She wondered, for the briefest moment, at the cosmic injustice of bringing even the smallest touch of mankind’s violence to such a haven of peace and tranquility.
    Such thoughts had niggled at her since her father’s sudden, cruel death. Yes, he built explosive devices, for a myriad of reasons. Yet, how many people had he ultimately saved by deconstructing similar devices? How many lives had he spared?
    How many families around the world had been left whole, untouched by senseless tragedy on their own turf, because of her dad? He had the ability, then taught her the skills needed to disassemble bombs meant for nothing other than death and destruction, whose sole purpose was to commit more and more acts of terror.
    Without any sense of false modesty, Keko knew she was proficient at her craft.
    Side by side with the big boys, she worked on, worked with, built, and dismantled explosive devices. She’d been called out to crime scenes. To scenes of terrorist bomb threats, both real and imagined. She could handle firearms and ordnance with the best, was proficient in the arts of self-defense.
    If truth be told, her favorite assignments were building de-constructions.
    Bringing down huge structures in the space of a building’s own footprint, or laying down a structure exactly where it needed to go, never ceased to thrill and amaze her.
    And she’d proven brilliant at calculating the numbers and placements of the explosive charges. Even the veteran powder monkeys were impressed, and learned to trust her judgment.
    Keko had never been on a battlefield, never ducked live ammo during a firefight on foreign soil, but she’d been well trained, knew the drills. Knew how to take care of herself.
    Fully aware that he could not dissuade his headstrong daughter from following in his footsteps, John Larsson did the best he could—he taught her how to stay alive.
    Lorelei’s words stayed with her. Did Lorelei have it right? Am I an adrenaline junkie, too? Is that my problem? Do I need the constant challenge of fear and excitement to keep me centered? Do I need to be jacked up to feel alive? Is that why I can’t survive a serious relationship? What mortal man could compete with a locker full of explosives? Regardless of the situation, I know my crew will never let me down: no man left behind. No woman, in my case.
    Abandonment is not an option. Most people can’t say the same about romantic entanglements.
    In Keko’s experience, many military lifers, law enforcement officers, firefighters, search and rescue personnel, professionals who lived on the edge, became addicted to the intensity of their professions. They needed that spark of danger, the threat of peril, to keep the juices flowing, to keep them feeling vital, necessary, alive. She was sure that extended obsession, at such high levels, accounted for the number of infidelities, divorces, broken