Chapter 3
THREE
PICASSO
The transport’s ramp lowered with a hydraulic whine, and the dry desert air hit them like a physical blow.
El Paso sprawled beneath a relentless sun, framed by rugged mountains that looked nothing like the soft dunes of the coast. Here, the dust didn’t just sit on the ground; it danced with every footfall, coating boots in seconds.
Picasso led his team down the ramp, squinting against the glare. “From ocean spray to desert dust.”
Behind him, Falcon adjusted his shades. “At least the waves won’t try to drown us here.”
“Ever hear of a haboob?” Reef muttered, brushing sand from his sleeve before it even had time to settle. “Sand finds a way.”
Waiting for them on the tarmac was a crew that mirrored their own: calm, confident, and standing easy in the heat. At their center was Matthew “Wolf” Steele, tall and lean, with a quiet stillness that spoke louder than any shout.
Wolf stepped forward, offering a hand. “Picasso. Good to meet face to face.”
“Wolf, right?” Picasso’s handshake was tight. “Heard your team’s solid.”
“We do the job.” Wolf’s voice was deep, a mild grumble tempered by determination. “When it’s time to move, we move. Until then, we conserve energy.”
Picasso nodded. He liked that. Quiet confidence over showmanship.
Wolf gestured to the men behind him. “Pacific Team. Abe, Cookie, Dude, Mozart, Benny.”
Falcon smirked at the guy named Mozart. “Mozart, huh? You play?”
Mozart chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, nothing cool like that. Came from a wild night after boot camp. Something to do with a bar, some karaoke, and me somehow earning it.
Picasso caught the exchange and couldn’t help but allow a faint twitch of a smile to cross his lips. Moments like these, filled with banter, held their morale together and reminded them all that they were more than just soldiers. They were a true unit.
He reciprocated the introductions, surveying the familiar faces with ease.
“Atlantic Team. Falcon, Reef, Grizzly.” His voice remained steady, yet it held the gravity of unspoken memories.
The absence of Hurricane was creating a noticeable void that everyone could feel, like the missing pulse of a heartbeat.
Grizzly’s low rumble cut through quietly. “Any word from ‘Cane, boss? How’s his old man?”
Picasso nodded. “I got a text from Tristan when we landed. He’s catching a commercial flight and asked where to meet up. His dad’s stable, and his mom has things under control now.”
“He should be with us in a couple of hours. Until then, we work.”
The team moved steadily across the tarmac, their footsteps muted but purposeful. Talk had slowed, replaced by a sense of relief and anticipation: a quiet confidence that came from knowing Tristan would soon be with them.
Years of shared missions and relentless training had sharpened their instincts. They covered each other’s blind spots without hesitation, trusting one another implicitly, more than anyone else in the world. That bond held them steady, holding the chaos at bay.
Reef wiped sweat from his brow as they approached the warehouse. “Man, this dry heat’s brutal. Reminds me of Iraq, but back home, nothing compares to the ocean. The waves, the salt air, that’s where you feel alive.”
Wolf nodded, shading his eyes. “Yeah, Iraq had the dust storms, but the heat’s about the same here. Only difference is you don’t have to watch out for roadside bombs in El Paso.”
Picasso smirked. “In Africa, the heat’s just as relentless, but the bugs’ll eat you alive. Here, it’s just the sun drilling down on us all day.”
Grizzly chuckled. “Give me the ocean any day over this desert furnace. Salt air might sting, but it beats this dry oven hands-down.”
Reef’s eyes lit up. “Exactly. The ocean’s a beast, sure. Unpredictable. But when you catch that perfect wave? Nothing else compares. Out here, it’s just flat, hot, boring sand.”
Wolf laughed. “You’ll take your ocean any day, and I’ll take my desert. Just means we’re all tough enough to handle whatever’s thrown at us.”
Picasso shook his head, smirking. “Talk is cheap. Let’s see who’s standing strong when this mission’s done.”
He caught the glance Wolf threw toward his phone. Picasso knew that look—the way a man checks for a message from someone waiting on the other end. Word was Wolf had met someone recently, a civilian named Caroline.
Distractions.
Picasso kept his eyes fixed ahead. Relationships were a luxury civilians could afford. For men like them, they were liabilities. The loud bar crowds, the barrack bunnies, the women drawn to the uniform but not the empty nights that came with it, and Picasso had no patience for the noise.
“Alright,” he cut in, his voice pulling the group back from distraction. “Let’s get inside. I want eyes on the intel before we deploy.”
As they stepped into the hangar, the dry heat instantly gave way to the hum of industrial air conditioning and razor-sharp focus. Voices overlapped, radios cracked, and personnel moved in tight, purposeful circles around a central command table.
Glowing monitors displayed maps of the disaster zone: red sectors marking danger, collapsed bridges, and supply routes choked with debris.
Picasso’s gaze settled on the woman at the center of the controlled chaos. She moved with calm authority, commanding the room without raising her voice. He noted the determined set of her jaw, the steady focus in her eyes. She was all woman: focused, capable, and unyielding.
G. O’Reilly.
Picasso’s brow furrowed. She was a five-foot whirlwind.
Her bright red hair was braided back, but loose strands escaped, framing a face far too expressive for a command center.
She wore practical cargo pants and a shirt patterned like an explosion of wildflowers, a stark contrast to the uniforms around her.
She didn’t walk. She darted around, barking orders, pointing at screens, laughing at a technician’s joke, then snapping back to business with equal speed.
To Picasso, she was a variable he hadn’t calculated.
Her sharp green eyes locked onto his. A sudden smile bloomed across her face.
“Good! You’re here.” She clapped her hands together once. “Time’s short. Let’s get the wheels moving.”
Picasso’s eyes narrowed. Being rushed was not his style. “Whoa. Hold on.”
Gabriella blinked and halted, her momentum stalling. “Hold on? Supply trucks are being loaded, and we’ve got to move before aftershocks make the pass unstable.”
“We need a plan,” Picasso said, voice crisp and commanding. “And a backup. We don’t just jump in trucks and hope for the best.”
Her chin lifted defiantly. “I have a plan. The plan is go.”
“That’s not a plan,” Picasso countered. “That’s a death wish. We don’t fly by the seat of our pants, Firecracker.”
The word slipped out sharp and condescending. Silence fell over the hangar like a sudden freeze.
Picasso’s stomach clenched instantly. The nickname hung heavy in the air between them. As their eyes met, he saw the flicker of surprise and disbelief reflected in Gabriella’s gaze, an unspoken moment of shock that mirrored his own.
From the corners of his vision, he caught the team’s reactions. Falcon’s brow furrowed in quiet concern. Grizzly’s mouth tightened, a silent question in his gaze. Even Reef stopped his usual banter, lips pressed into a thin line. No one spoke, but the gravity of the moment settled over them all.
Professional to the core, Picasso wasn’t that man right now. Not this time.
Her green eyes flared, the mischief gone and replaced by cold, striking Irish steel.
“My name is Gabriella,” she said quietly but firmly. “If you want to hide behind your maps, fine. Stay out of my way while I get this done.”
The tension thickened, like a distinct wall between them. Reckless. Impulsive. She was everything Picasso wasn’t, and she was in his way.
Before the stand-off could escalate, Wolf stepped smoothly between them, his calm acting like a buffer zone.
“All right,” Wolf said, voice low, trying not to attract attention. “Let’s gather at the table. Review the route, check the intel, and then we move. Together.”
It wasn’t a question.
Picasso broke eye contact with Gabriella and nodded to Wolf. “Fine.”
Gabriella let out a breathy huff and turned back to the table. “Guess I better get another energy drink.”
Picasso rolled his eyes discreetly and commented under his breath, low enough that only Falcon caught it. “Last thing she needs is more caffeine.”
As Picasso turned to study the glowing map, Falcon nudged Reef with his elbow. Reef, feigning interest in his boot, smoothly slipped a crisp dollar bill into Falcon’s palm.
“She totally won that round, dude,” Reef muttered just loud enough for Falcon.
Falcon smirked, tucking the bill away. “Just points. Standard one-spot. We wouldn’t want to encourage actual gambling, now would we?”
His gaze flickered subtly toward Wolf’s side of the table.
Abe caught the tail end of the exchange, narrowed his eyes, and leaned toward Mozart.
“Did I just witness a transaction?”
Mozart smirked subtly, watching the other team with newfound interest. “Looks like their scoreboard.”
Wolf gave a barely perceptible shake of his head and the faintest smile, as if saying, Just roll with it.