Chapter 4
FOUR
GAbrIELLA
Gabriella stepped into the conference room, and the silence hit her harder than the heat outside.
The air was thick, pressurized, clinging to the room like a second skin.
Maps were spread across the mahogany table: a chaotic patchwork of red zones, supply lines, and strategic choke points.
On the wall monitor, grainy drone footage flickered on a loop: collapsed apartment blocks, shattered highways, and dust clouds that hung heavy and brown over the devastation.
The silent, shattered city on the screen cried out for help. The room around them, by contrast, felt like a tomb.
She caught her breath, the memories flooding back: the floodwaters rising in her coastal hometown, the frantic hours spent helping neighbors escape, and the helplessness as homes were swallowed in mud and debris.
That was the moment she vowed to dedicate her life to swift aid, to making sure no one waited too long.
Picasso was already there, bent over the main map like a surgeon examining a terminal patient. He traced a route with a black pen, his movements precise, almost robotic. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, dissected every topographic detail.
“Primary route is unstable,” he said without looking up. His voice was clipped, a low baritone devoid of the panic Gabriella felt clawing at her throat. “If we proceed without securing every inch, we risk the entire convoy. We need to account for every variable before we start engines.”
A familiar, hot surge of impatience spiked in Gabriella’s chest. She pushed off the wall, the movement sharp.
“Look, Senior Chief Waverly, supplies don’t wait for perfect scenarios.
I’ve seen what happens when aid arrives too late.
Protocols are necessary, sure, but we adapt on the move.
Over-planning is going to cost us the only thing we don’t have time. ”
He stopped writing. Slowly, he looked up, shooting her a pointed glare. The frustration radiating from him was cold and controlled. Beneath it lay something sharper, something she couldn’t quite decipher.
“Call me Picasso,” he said quietly. “We don’t use ranks on missions because we don’t want the enemy to know who’s who.
” His eyes darkened. “And what you’re suggesting is reckless.
This is about lives—lives we have to protect from the disaster, but also from what’s waiting for us in that cartel territory. ”
Gabriella’s jaw clenched. “The only enemy I see is the clock. Your obsession with caution keeps us frozen while people starve and bleed out.”
Picasso’s gaze grew colder. “The enemy is not just the clock, Gabriella. It includes the cartel patrols, the unstable ground, and the aftershocks. Charging in blindly through their territory is how you get yourself and everyone else killed.”
She shoved off the wall and stormed toward the table like a storm breaking loose.
“The lives waiting on those MREs, water, and medical kits do not care about your perfect plan or cartel bullets. They just want us to get there now.” She stopped a breath away from him, eyes blazing, and spat out his name like venom.
“Picasso, you’re sending them straight to their graves. ”
Wolf stood positioned between them, leaning back against a file cabinet, arms crossed.
As another SEAL Team Leader, he held the same rank as Picasso, but Command had tagged Picasso as the operational lead for this mess.
Wolf watched the exchange with the relaxed alertness of a predator in high grass.
Gabriella felt his quiet assessment, but her focus remained locked on Picasso.
His meticulousness felt like a personal affront to her urgency.
The air between her and the mission lead seemed to tighten, humming with a coil of irritation and something else was there as well, a strange, static electricity that made the hair on her arms stand up.
It was deeply annoying. Every precise barb from Picasso was met with an equally sharp retort from her, their frustrations barely masking the complicated undercurrents.
She hated that he was calm. She hated that his calm made her feel chaotic.
She started to pace, the nearly empty energy drink bottle in her hand rattling a nervous rhythm.
The clock on the wall was mocking her. Thirty-six hours to load up, finalize plans, and mobilize.
Thirty-six hours. To her, that was a death sentence.
Every second wasted in this sterile, air-conditioned box, staring at lines on paper, felt like blood on her hands.
The planners might need their diagrams, but Gabriella saw only a countdown she had no patience for.
Supplies needed to be en route, people were counting on them.
Those wheels should have started turning yesterday.
She caught the gaze of the other operators around the table: four from Picasso’s team and five from Wolf’s.
They were silent, tense, thick with anticipation.
These were men trained to read micro-expressions and threat levels, and right now, their eyes darted between her and Picasso like spectators at a particularly intense tennis match.
They took mental notes, gauging the shift in air pressure each time she snapped and Picasso iced her out.
Reef, who had been silently tracking every change in Gabriella’s pacing, leaned slightly toward Falcon. “Dollar says she cracks him. He concedes the timeline before the hour’s out.”
Falcon barely shifted his gaze from Picasso. “You’re dreaming. Picasso doesn’t crack. He causes structural failure in others.”
From Wolf’s team, Benny chuckled softly, his voice like grinding gravel. “I don’t know, man. She’s got momentum. I’ll back Reef on that. Easy money.”
Cookie, sitting beside Benny, smirked and leaned in. “You two are idiots. The man is a statue. I’ll take that action. Picasso holds the line until she walks out.”
Reef grinned and turned to the man standing quietly beside him. “Hurricane, you want in on this?”
Tristan “Hurricane” Wright, looking tired but alert, shook his head. He had barely dropped his bags before walking into this buzzsaw. “Not betting against the boss five minutes after walking in the door. I value my ass.”
“Smart man,” Cookie said, tapping the table as if passing a token dollar. “You got a taker from the Pacific, son. You’re on.”
Falcon shook his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he watched his teammates prepare to lose their money again.
She saw a few of Wolf’s guys exchange a subtle look, maybe amusement, maybe concern, while Picasso’s team remained stoic, though she swore one of them was trying not to smirk at her audacity.
They understood strategy, sure, but beneath the discipline, she saw the same internal gears grinding against the wait.
For her, delay was the real enemy, and she sensed at least half the room wanted to move just as badly as she did.
“We’ve got thirty-six hours before the official rollout,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, steady command that sliced through the room’s hum.
Her eyes flickered over the team, settling briefly on Picasso’s rigid profile.
“I want to be on the road before then. Every hour we sit here is an hour lost for those who need help. Plans are important, yes, but so is momentum.”
“Momentum without a comprehensive security assessment is negligence, O’Reilly,” Picasso cut in.
His voice was as sharp and precise as a scalpel.
He didn’t raise it, but the chilling authority of the man in charge froze the room.
“You risk not only your team but the very supplies you’re so desperate to deliver.
What good are relief efforts if they’re intercepted and burned on the highway? ”
Gabriella’s jaw tightened until her teeth ached. She lived and breathed risk. But there was a difference between calculated risk and paralysis.
“And what good are perfect plans if the people they’re meant to save are already dead?” She gestured wildly at the monitor, at the ghost-like dust settling over the ruins. “Every minute we argue here, that dust settles on more graves.”
With a heavy sigh, Wolf finally pushed off the cabinet. His movements were deliberate, showing no arrogance and no overt command; just the quiet authority of a man who knew when to step in and when to stay back. He didn’t raise his voice; his presence alone was enough to slice through the tension.
“I’m not here to take sides,” he said evenly, eyes flicking from Gabriella to Picasso. “But this deadlock is a risk none of us can afford. Let’s get on the same page now.”
“Both of you are right,” Wolf said, his voice gravelly, looking from his peer to Gabriella.
“O’Reilly, your urgency is valid. Picasso, your caution keeps us alive.
We need to find the balance.” He turned to the group.
“What intel do we have on alternate routes? Benny, you’ve been tracking recon drones—any updates? ”
Benny nodded, stepping forward. “We identified a secondary path around the collapsed bridge. It’s rough terrain but less exposed. Could cut down transit time if cleared.”
Cookie, analyzing satellite images on a tablet, added, “The detour avoids major choke points, but it’s longer by fifteen kilometers. Could stretch supply lines thin unless we adjust convoy size.”
Reef chimed in, “If we stagger the convoys and keep close comms, we might mitigate risk while moving faster.”
Wolf nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. Picasso, given this intel, what’s the earliest feasible window for a preliminary sweep, prioritizing critical security points?”
Picasso straightened, jaw tightening as he ran the numbers. “With current intel and the alternate route, a preliminary sweep could start by eleven hundred hours. We’d secure the first forty kilometers. Enough for an initial, light convoy to move in.”
Eleven hundred hours. 11:00 AM.
Nineteen hours from now. It felt like a lifetime, but it was better than the full thirty-six. Gabriella chewed on the inside of her cheek, tasting iron. It was a compromise, and compromises usually tasted like ash in her mouth. But Wolf had bridged the gap, and Picasso had made the call.
“Alright,” she conceded, though the word felt thick on her tongue.
“Picasso, you focus on securing Route Alpha. I’ll coordinate the supply manifest for the preliminary run and ensure our ground teams are prepped to roll the second you give the all-clear.
” She leaned over the table, intruding on his personal space just enough to make a point.
“I want to stay updated in real time as the sweep progresses. Every phase matters.”
Picasso gave her a curt nod, his eyes already flicking back to the map, as if her entire presence was merely a distraction he had successfully categorized and filed away.
He thinks I’m reckless, she fumed internally, watching him work. He thinks I’m a cowboy. But he was wrong. She cared so deeply about those lives that every delayed second felt like a physical wound. His meticulous process felt like a luxury they couldn’t afford.
She shot Wolf a quick glance. He offered a slight shrug and a nod: a silent communication that said, Take the win.
She spun on her heel, slamming the nearly empty energy drink bottle onto the side table with a loud clack. There was work to do, real work, involving sweat and movement, and she’d rather be doing it than watching dust settle on a map.
Just as the last echoes of the bottle’s impact faded, a powerful voice cut through the lingering tension, leaving no room for argument.
Dude, a large man whose quiet presence alone commanded the room, clapped his hands together sharply.
The sound was crisp and definitive, drawing every eye.
His left hand bore the marks of his trade, fingers scarred and calloused from years working with explosives, but the clap still carried an unmistakable authority.
“All right, everyone. Planning is done for now.” His gaze swept confidently across the group.
“Wolf and Picasso have greenlit it: we’re all heading to ‘The Bar’ down on Montana Avenue.
Seven PM sharp.” He paused to let it sink in, then added with a grin, “Supper, drinks, and we leave the mission talk right back here. This is about unwinding and getting to know the faces you’ll be trusting your lives with tomorrow.
And for anyone thinking of bailing,” he said, eyes twinkling with challenge, “I’m picking up the first round of wings, and I expect to see every single one of you there. ”
A collective sigh of relief rippled through the room. Even Picasso offered a faint, almost imperceptible nod, his usual reserve giving way to a moment of rare agreement. Gabriella, despite her pressing urgency to move forward, felt a genuine smile tug at the corners of her mouth.
Reef grinned, nudging Mozart. “Hey, no sneaking off to audition for karaoke, all right? We don’t need you butchering ‘Sweet Caroline’ before the mission.”
Mozart shot back with a sly smirk. “Relax, Reef. No promises. Just keep the wings coming and I’ll think about it.”
“And for those of you who’ve forgotten how to move your feet,” Gabriella cut in, playful challenge coloring her tone, “The Bar’s got a live band.
I expect to see every last one of you lighten up, get your groove on, and remember what it feels like not to be planning a war.
” She locked eyes with Picasso, the sharp edge of her earlier frustration softened by amusement.
“That includes you, Picasso. No mapping out the dance floor exits.”
A dimly lit bar, even one simply called ‘The Bar,’ and a commanding personality like Dude making sure no one skipped out, with Gabriella spearheading the promise of fun, just might be exactly what they all needed before the real work began.