Chapter 8 Picasso
EIGHT
PICASSO
The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder that still clung to the air was an unwelcome reminder of the violence that had shattered their advance.
The convoy had pulled to a tight defensive perimeter, engines idling, vehicles spaced out carefully.
Picasso’s face was grim and set as he moved through his team, overseeing damage assessments.
Falcon and Hurricane circled the lead Humvee, searching for fresh bullet impacts.
Grizzly supervised the replacement of two flat tires on the third supply truck.
Reef used this pause to check comms and to re-secure loose cargo on the damaged vehicles.
Picasso noticed Gabriella kneeling beside the civilian driver, her focus intense.
He could sense the rapid beat of her heart beneath her steady hands, a silent reminder of the pressure they were under.
The man’s broad shoulders were slick with sweat, a bloodied bandage wrapped tightly around his forearm marking a grazing shrapnel wound.
Gabriella’s movements were precise as she checked his pulse, her training taking over.
Nearby, a younger driver sat pale, nursing a shallow cut across his cheek. Both shaken, but alive.
Picasso joined Wolf and Abe near the overturned flatbed, rolling a handful of spent casings slowly in his palm. “This wasn’t some random attack,” he said. “They hit the front and back of our convoy at the same time, trying to trap us. It’s a classic ambush.”
Wolf glanced around the empty landscape. “Yeah, these weren’t just opportunists. They knew our route and how we were set up. Someone planned this.”
Picasso unfolded the crumpled satellite printout slowly, his brow furrowing as he traced the lines with his finger.
He muttered under his breath, “Means they’re watching.
” His eyes darted across the map, searching for connections, piecing fragments together in his mind.
His fingers tapped the map deliberately.
“Commander Bennett’s intel warned of increased cartel activity, but this.
..” He paused, jaw tightening. “This is more than that. They’re deliberately targeting and trying to block our movements. ”
He spread a larger tactical map across the Humvee’s hood and traced a red line.
“Our current route winds through chokepoints and cartel strongholds further south. After today, proceeding would be reckless, like walking into a meat grinder. I propose a detour. It adds a few hours, but it keeps us on higher, open ground and steers clear of the worst active zones. We’ll bypass the main cartel corridor. ”
Gabriella sat beside one of the injured drivers, her tablet forgotten in her lap as her hands worked methodically to provide medical aid. Picasso noticed the tightness in her jaw and the restless tapping of her fingers against her knee as she silently fought rising pressure.
When she heard the alternative route would add five hours, her chest tightened and her breath hitched.
Slowly, she straightened, clutching the tablet like a lifeline.
“Longer!? Really, Picasso?” Her voice sharpened with disbelief and frustration.
“Have you seen those poor souls? Heard the crack of gunfire? We lost precious minutes dodging that ambush, and now you want to add more? People are dying, children starving. Every second we waste snuffs out a life. This isn’t a leisurely stroll; it’s a full-on sprint against hell itself. ”
She slammed a finger on the original route displayed on the tablet, her eyes burning with urgency. “That’s the only way to those hellholes! Injured folks are waiting for our help! The window’s slamming shut faster than you think!”
But then, almost imperceptibly, her gaze dropped back to the pale, wounded drivers around them.
Her lips pressed together tightly, the fierce edge in her voice softening with a flicker of doubt.
The dangerous roads ahead, the weight of the decision, it tugged at her, reminding her of the harsh reality she couldn’t ignore.
Even with the fire inside, she was caught between the desperate need to reach those waiting for help and the heavy risk of pushing too fast.
Picasso caught the blaze igniting in her eyes, the fury that earned her the nickname Firecracker, that had accidentally slipped out when he first met her.
Her Irish temper flared, sharp and unstoppable, a force of nature that both challenged and drove him.
He took a breath, steadying himself against the storm she unleashed.
Picasso met her blazing eyes without flinching. “And what good are supplies if they never make it, O’Reilly? What good is burning courage if your relief teams don’t stand to see the dawn? My job is to get us through with skin intact. Your headlong rush forgets the teeth of today’s threat.”
Her voice rose, crackling with fierce conviction. “My speed’s for those suffering in the dark! We’re not letting fear take the reins—not while there’s breath left in us.”
Around them, the teams were quiet but attentive. Picasso caught glimpses of their eyes flicking between him and Gabriella, following the volley of words like seasoned gamblers reading a high-stakes hand. A few exchanged subtle smirks.
Reef’s gaze lingered on Gabriella with a mix of respect and worry.
Falcon shifted slightly, eyes narrowing as if silently placing his bet on which leader would bend first. Benny tapped his fingers restlessly on the rifle’s stock, his body tense with the impatience of a man eager for action but stuck observing the calculated give-and-take.
Wolf stepped between them, calm and relaxed.
“Gabriella, it’s not fear taking the reins here, just sound tactical sense.
Picasso’s call is solid. This ambush wasn’t a warning shot, it was a test. They’ll come back better prepared if we don’t change it up.
” He shifted to Picasso. “Does this detour fix your main worry?”
“Yes,” Picasso said. “Slower but safer. Improves the odds.”
Wolf’s gaze swept over them both. “Goal isn’t just to push aid through. It’s to get it done right. Protect convoy, supplies, and people. That route gives us the best shot.”
Gabriella’s jaw clenched tightly, her thoughts guarded behind a wall of stubborn resolve.
He saw the fire still burning fierce in her eyes, unyielding and raw, but the cold logic of the situation slowly settled in.
After a tense pause, she finally spoke with reluctant acceptance.
“Alright,” she said, “but I want live ETAs. We can’t waste minutes.
” He could tell she hated the fact that they needed the escorts, that relying on them felt like a concession, but she swallowed her pride for the sake of the mission.
In that quiet surrender, Picasso caught a flicker of something deeper—trust, or maybe just the hard reality they both faced.
Picasso gave a curt nod. “Understood.”
Wolf pulled out his sat phone. “This just changed the fight,” he muttered under his breath. “We need eyes on the ground. I’m calling Tex.”
Without hesitation, he dialed the number.
Picasso’s eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t expected Wolf to know Tex well enough to call him directly—and certainly not on a sat phone.
Picasso had heard the legends: Tex, a Navy SEAL medically retired after losing a leg on a mission, now their indispensable cyber wizard.
Behind a screen, Tex was their eyes and ears, able to pull intel from places no one else could reach.
Despite the stories, Picasso had never spoken to him personally.
A crisp click snapped through the speaker, followed by a slow, unmistakable drawl cutting clear through the static.
“Well now, trouble already, Wolf? Heard ’bout that detour y’all took. Smart move, I gotta say. East of you, near those old silver mines, it’s gettin’ mighty crowded.”
Wolf blinked in surprise, though he shouldn’t have been. Tex was always two steps ahead, with ears everywhere—like he was plugged straight into the matrix.
Picasso stared at Wolf, stunned, forgetting they were on speaker. “How the hell did he know that?”
Tex’s booming laugh came back. “You’ll learn, young ’un.”
“We just caught a coordinated hit,” Wolf said. “Need real-time eyes on Federal Highway 45 through the canyon stretch. And anything you see on the cartel around the silver mines. I want everything you’ve got, Tex.”
“Got six satellites queued and crossing my private lines already, Wolf. Couple of unconventional sources making calls down south too. Fastest route’s that highway, but I’d keep a hawk’s eye on the dry riverbed north of the abandoned ranch.
That area’s showing heat signatures that ain’t cattle grazing.
” Tex paused before adding firmly, “Caroline’s safe at the house. Don’t worry about that.”
Wolf exhaled softly, tension slipping from his shoulders. “I still owe you, Tex,” he said with a chuckle.
Picasso gave Wolf a questioning glance.
Through the speaker, Tex growled, “Need more roses? You boys just keep doin’ yours. I’ll have that riverbed rundown for you in five. And tell that Picasso fella sometimes the longest way ’round is the shortest way home, especially when you’re hauling precious cargo like that.”
Wolf laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, I sent Tex roses once as a thank-you. Next thing I knew, he flooded me with them for days. The man hates anything more than a quick, one-time thank you.”
Wolf ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket. A faint flicker of relief crossed his eyes. Tex was already pushing intel their way before they even had a chance to ask.
Before they could look at the route again, Picasso’s SAT phone rang. He looked at it, slightly confused, then answered, “Waverly?”
“Just making sure you have my number, Picasso. Use it as you need it! Make sure Wolf tells you the story about Caroline saving his ass!” Tex laughed before hanging up.
Picasso lowered the phone, the weight of the call still lingering in the air.
He glanced over and saw Gabriella already moving—pacing away with tight shoulders and determined eyes.
She was focused, all fire. She pushed hard, cutting through red tape without hesitation.
Necessary, yes. Unpredictable by design.
In his ordered world, she was both a risk and a resource, a wildcard that could win or lose the game. He needed her passion, but it had to be contained. Controlled.
Pressure mounted not just from the cartel but from the clock. Every minute counted. Victims. Mission. Team. The cartel set the pace, and that validated his caution. Wolf’s call to Tex drove the point home. Every advantage mattered.