Chapter 10 Picasso
TEN
PICASSO
The air was thick with the scent of diesel and dust, a symphony of creaking metal and hushed voices.
Moonlight, sharp and unforgiving, silvered the skeletal remains of a collapsed building that served as their temporary, secure encampment.
Picasso crouched over a tactical tablet, his eyes scanning live surveillance feeds and shifting intelligence reports.
Every flicker on the screen, every update from informants was a piece of the puzzle, a calculated risk in an endless game of cat and mouse.
The day had stretched into an agonizing twenty-eight hours on the road, followed by coordinating security sweeps and assessing potential threats.
Exhaustion gnawed at him, a dull ache burning behind his eyes, but he couldn’t afford to look away.
“We need more power routed to the medical tent, Picasso. We just got a report of acute respiratory distress in four children,” Gabriella’s voice cut through the night, tired but insistent as ever. She appeared beside him, a ghost of her usual vibrant self, dark circles shadowing pale skin.
A few feet away, Hurricane worked on the comms array, head cocked as he listened.
Picasso didn’t look up immediately. “The auxiliary generator is already maxed. Half of its power goes to the comms arrays and perimeter sensors. The rest keeps the repair crew working on Log Three’s engine block damage and any systems affected by it.
We can’t afford another breakdown.” He tapped the manifest. “And draining more fuel for a… luxury isn’t an option. ”
“Luxury?” Gabriella snapped, the word slicing through the stale air. “These kids are gasping for air. A nebulizer isn’t a luxury; it’s the difference between life and death. The convoy won’t move if half the medical team spends the night bagging kids by hand.”
Picasso met Gabriella’s gaze, his exhaustion weighing down every word.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration tightening his jaw.
“The convoy won’t move if Log Three is dead in the water.
We’re sitting ducks for every cartel hit squad between here and the capital if we don’t keep this perimeter tight. ”
He took a steadying breath, fighting to keep the weariness from breaking through his disciplined exterior.
“I know the medical situation is critical, but right now, our mission is clear: hold this ground, keep the perimeter secure, and get that truck fixed as fast as possible. This place is temporary; we have to be ready to move as soon as Log Three is roadworthy.”
His voice softened a fraction, exhaustion bleeding through. “I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m about to throw my own rule book out the window. But losing focus isn’t an option. We stick to the plan, work as a unit. Fix what we can protect. Protect what we can fix. Nothing else comes before that.”
The weight of the argument hung heavy in the stale air. Both of them were bone-weary, frayed at the edges.
“Coffee?” Picasso asked, surprising even himself as he reached into his pack and pulled out a second mug. The first sat steaming beside the small propane burner, the rich aroma filling the air. He poured the hot brew and held out the mug to her.
Gabriella stared at the mug, then at him, her shoulders sagging slightly. “Please.”
They moved to a patch of concrete away from the busiest repairs. The noise of wrenches and whispered orders faded to a manageable hum. For once, the silence between them wasn’t hostile.
A moment later, Reef jogged over, tablet in hand, his usual swagger replaced by a serious frown.
“Chief, Grizzly’s mostly re-aligned the steering, but Log Three has some stress fractures in the chassis we missed in the dark.
We might be looking at a longer welding job than planned.
” His eyes flicked to Gabriella, then Picasso, silently asking if now was the right moment.
“How long?” Picasso asked, not breaking his gaze from Gabriella as he processed the update.
“Two to three hours minimum, Chief. Could be daylight before she’s road-ready,” Reef said, clearly uncomfortable interrupting the moment.
Picasso nodded barely perceptibly. “Understood. Keep me updated. Reef, make sure the welding team has what they need. Priority.”
“Will do,” Reef said, jogging back to the repair crew.
“It’s worse than the projections, isn’t it?” Gabriella murmured, cradling the warm mug. Her voice had lost its usual combativeness. “The sheer scale… these towns, they’re gone. We haven’t even reached the worst yet.”
Picasso took a slow sip. “The initial intel was always conservative. They want to avoid panic. But yes. The infrastructure is shattered. Every mile confirms it.”
He watched her profile in the dim light.
She absorbed the information not as data points, but as human lives suffering, something he couldn’t afford to dwell on if the convoy was to keep moving.
He had long seen her empathy as a potential weakness, a distraction from his ruthless focus on the mission.
Now, he recognized it as an essential bridge to the people they were trying to save, something his clinical approach could never provide.
She felt it deeply, whereas he only calculated it.
He noticed the exhaustion etched in the lines around her mouth and the slight tremor in her hands. The weight of the mission pressed on her just as it did on him. She wasn’t just driven, she was burning with genuine pain for the victims. He had underestimated the depth of that.
“Commander Bennett’s last update,” Picasso said, lowering his voice. “There’s increased cartel activity targeting convoys moving south from the border with medical supplies. They call it the ‘Suchil Valley gauntlet’ for a reason. They hit hard and fast.”
Gabriella stiffened, eyes widening. “The Suchil Valley—the main road convergence before the final ascent.”
“Exactly,” Picasso said, watching her process the chilling news.
He saw the flicker of fear, quickly replaced by renewed resolve.
Her drive was desperate, not reckless. A sharp wave of concern washed over him—not for the mission asset she represented, but for Gabriella O’Reilly, the woman who fought for nebulizers like they were her own children.
He needed her more than he’d admit. Her fire, her connection to the human side, her relentless push—it was the counterweight to his grim calculation. A necessary, if inconvenient, balance. He just had to keep her safe while she did it. And that was a burden he was only beginning to understand.
Near the repair area, Falcon watched them. His large frame was still as he rumbled quietly to Wolf, who was checking a map under a tactical light. “Well, I’ll be. Chief just gave her coffee.”
Wolf glanced up, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Truce?”
Falcon shook his head, smirking. “I respect the hell outta Picasso, but a truce? Please. More like a ‘let’s not stab each other in the back today’ kind of deal.
But hey, miracles do happen.” He glanced back at the figures sipping coffee under the moonlight.
“Maybe the Chief’s finally realizing that sometimes you gotta feel something.
Although knowing him, he’s probably just running the feelings through a spreadsheet. ”