Chapter 5 Gabriella
FIVE
GAbrIELLA
The bass thrummed against Gabriella’s chest the moment she stepped inside “The Bar.” It was less a name and more a statement, etched in neon above the entrance.
Inside, it was a glorious assault on the senses after the tomb-like silence of the conference room.
The air was thick with the scent of stale beer, fried food, and something vaguely floral that might have been a cleaning product or a particularly enthusiastic patron’s perfume.
A live band, barely visible behind a haze of colored lights, pounded out a bluesy rock anthem.
The room was packed with a mix of locals, some off-duty military, and a smattering of tourists.
Laughter mingled with the music, and the clinking of glasses provided a percussive counterpoint.
It was loud, messy, and exactly what Gabriella needed.
Gabriella spotted the teams tucked into a quieter corner, their table deliberately chosen.
Wolf was already there, leaning against the sturdy brick wall with a beer in hand.
He didn’t look like a predator now, more like a tired but satisfied shepherd, although Gabriella could see his eyes drifting toward the entrance, always alert.
Picasso sat across from him, also with his back to the wall, a half-empty glass of water in front of him.
From where she stood, his gaze seemed to sweep the room methodically, as if he was mentally mapping every exit and choke point.
His expression was as unreadable as always, but she suspected he was quietly assessing the crowd, searching for anything out of place.
Around them, both teams were settling in, sliding into similarly watchful postures, ordering pitchers and baskets of wings even as their trained eyes scanned the room, silently evaluating any potential threat.
Reef caught her eye and gestured to an empty seat next to him.
As she made her way over, Gabriella couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift in the bar’s female population.
Heads turned, whispers carried on the bass-heavy air, and a few particularly bold women were already making their way towards the table, eyes bright with interest. These men, even in civvies, exuded an undeniable aura, a blend of disciplined strength and quiet confidence that was a magnet in any social setting.
The term “SEAL bunnies” might have been a dismissive one, but it was accurate for the determined flock that often descended on operators.
Reef, with a pretty brunette already comfortably settled on his lap, grinned.
“Glad you could make it, O’Reilly,” he said, shifting just enough to create a space for Gabriella to slide in next to him without disturbing the woman.
He chuckled, a flash of effortless charm in his eyes.
“Hey Gabriella, meet Misty…or Marla… I’m not quite sure which. ”
A smirk played on Falcon’s lips. “Picasso was about to start diagramming the optimal beer distribution routes, and he’s already mapped out the shortest path to the restrooms.”
Gabriella chuckled, sliding into the seat, momentarily feeling like a shield against the burgeoning interest from the bar’s single population. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Anyone seen a menu?”
Benny leaned across the table and casually shortened her name. “Just get the sampler platter, Gabs. And order another pitcher of whatever’s on tap. You’ve earned it; surviving this crew deserves at least that.”
Cookie grinned, sliding an arm across the back of a chair to fend off a particularly persistent blonde. “So, how’s it going with Picasso? Like trying to move a mountain or more like arguing with a brick wall?”
Gabriella blinked, caught off guard by the new phrase. She shrugged, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Honestly? It’s like trying to teach a stone statue to dance. No cracks yet, but I’m still chipping away. Maybe one day I’ll get a reaction—if not, at least I’m keeping things interesting.”
Benny laughed, a deep rumble. “You definitely made that statue twitch. It’s progress. Maybe even got him to blink once, don’t ask what kind of victory that is.”
Reef grinned like he’d just scored a touchdown. “I say shifting his stance before the hour was out is a win. You basically made him recalibrate his GPS.”
Falcon raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Barely. He altered the timeline, not the foundation. Picasso’s like a mountain peak, solid and unmoving. You just triggered a controlled rockslide.”
Hurricane, rocking a faded band tee, lifted his glass. “Glad I didn’t bet on this one. I’d have lost my shirt.”
Wolf raised his beer with quiet intent. “Sometimes breaking a deadlock takes more than force. It takes patience, a steady hand, and maybe a cold beer to remind us why we’re here.”
Gabriella glanced at Picasso, who looked completely unaware of a woman trying desperately to make eye contact from the next table. Instead, his gaze was laser-focused on a rowdy group clustered near the dartboard as one of them took an overly ambitious shot.
His jaw was tight, eyes sharp, and for a brief second, hefted with that familiar, unspoken weight, the silent burden of someone used to carrying too much.
The table buzzed with activity. Benny was loudly ordering another pitcher and a fresh basket of wings like he was stocking a football halftime snack bar.
Cookie expertly fended off a particularly persistent admirer with a mix of good-natured smiles and firm, well-timed quips.
Meanwhile, Hurricane and Reef were locked in a surprisingly passionate debate over the merits of different energy drinks, each swearing theirs was the elixir of champions.
The live music and the general chatter of the bar swallowed their conversations, creating a lively din that was comfortable and distracting all at once.
Picasso barely flinched as a lanky kid fueled by too much bravado and maybe one too many beers climbed onto a wobbly chair and called out, “Okay, who dares me to hit the top corner blindfolded?” His friends groaned with protests quickly drowned out by cheers. “C’mon, Chad! You chicken?”
Picasso’s grip tightened on his glass, knuckles going white.
His usually sharp eyes looked haunted and distant.
Gabriella, about to dive back into the lively banter, caught the faint tremor in his hand and the sudden, complete withdrawal in his gaze.
She had seen that look before in people carrying heavy burdens in survivors’ eyes.
A fleeting mask of pain quickly replaced by his usual stoicism.
He cleared his throat, barely above a whisper so soft only Gabriella and Wolf could hear. “That’s a foolish dare.”
Wolf watching the scene with quiet understanding glanced from Picasso to the reckless kid and nodded ever so slightly. The others oblivious in their revelry never noticed.
Gabriella, always one to push, offered a gentle nudge. “It’s just kids being kids, Picasso. Blowing off steam.”
“Steam leads to recklessness,” Picasso said, voice flat, eyes still trained on the dart players as Chad dramatically tied his blindfold.
“Recklessness leads to consequences.” He breathed slowly, surveying the bar as if measuring every potential risk.
His words hung in the air, dimming their table’s energy for a beat.
This was not a tactical briefing or strategy talk. This was personal.
Gabriella looked closely at him: the tight jaw, the constant tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes scanned even a safe bar. It was not just training; it was a shield forged from past trauma.
Chad threw his dart. It flew wide, bouncing harmlessly off the wall near the exit sign. Laughter erupted as his friends peeled off his blindfold and patted him on the back. The moment vanished into the bar’s noise.
Picasso remained silent, his eyes fixed on the melting ice in his glass. A sadness lingered in his gaze, hinting at painful memories just beyond her grasp. It was clear this was more than simple mission caution. Inside him, there was a deeper fear.
Wolf leaned close. “He’s right, you know. Some consequences stick. They change you.” His voice dropped just for Gabriella and Picasso. “More than you’d think.”
Gabriella watched the ice melt as the bar’s noise drifted away. She leaned in, voice low. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience, Picasso. And not just a botched mission.”
Picasso did not meet her gaze right away. His thumb traced the rim of his glass, a rare nervous tic. When he finally looked up, his eyes were sharp and unflinching.
“Experience is just a polite word for the mistakes you survived,” he said flatly. “That kid thinks he’s invincible because nothing’s broken yet. I prefer to keep the breakage to a minimum especially when I’m the one responsible for holding it all together.”
“Is that what I am to you?” Gabriella asked softly, a challenge in her tone. “Someone you have to glue back together if I crack?”
For a moment Picasso’s unyielding facade wavered. A twitch of his mouth, no smile but something close. “You’re not the glass O’Reilly. You’re the one throwing the dart blindfolded. I’m just the wall making sure it doesn’t come bouncing back and hit you.”
Gabriella sat back, the metaphor settling more heavily than she expected. It was not an insult; it was his confession.
The band shifted into a slower moodier tune. The tension in Gabriella’s shoulders eased, replaced by something quieter but no less real. Picasso was not difficult by choice. He was haunted. His caution was his way of making sure no one else would suffer the way he had.
She picked up her glass, the clink of ice a soft punctuation in the noise. “Well then,” she said gently, “looks like we’ll have to be extra careful on Route Alpha tomorrow huh?”
The guys began to drift toward different corners of the bar when Picasso’s loud whistle cut through the din grabbing everyone’s attention.
“Remember,” his voice rang out. “PT at 0500. Plan accordingly.”
Wolf stepped up, grinning. “To sweeten the pot, a contest between Atlantic and Pacific teams. Winner takes bragging rights. Let’s see which coast brings the heat.”
Friendly shouts erupted from around the room.
“Atlantic’s gonna crush you!” Falcon called.
“Pacific’s faster and stronger. No contest!” Mozart shot back.
Cookie chimed in with a grin “Better bring your A-game. El Paso’s heating up!”
Laughter and good-natured jeers filled the air as the rival teams rallied, the spark of competition lighting up the night.