Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
PICASSO
Picasso sank onto his bunk inside the cramped tent, the day’s exhaustion hitting him like a physical blow.
He pried off his boots, wincing as his feet finally escaped the crushing pressure of stiff leather and grime.
Stretching out, he closed his eyes, desperate for even a moment’s respite—just five minutes to steel himself for whatever fresh hell tomorrow would bring.
Outside, the camp hummed with a low, dull rhythm: the shuffle of boots in the mud, hushed conversations, the occasional ragged cough. For a heartbeat, the chaos felt distant, replaced by the simple, overwhelming need to breathe.
Then, the radio crackled, shattering the peace.
“Chief, we’ve got a fence breach on the north perimeter. Sector four, near the latrines. It’s fresh.”
Picasso’s eyes snapped open. The fatigue didn’t vanish, but he shoved it into a box and locked the lid. He swung his legs off the bunk. “Copy. Secure the area. I’m inbound.”
He sat on the edge of the mattress, the coarse wool blanket scratching against his skin as he jammed his swollen feet back into his boots.
He yanked the laces tight—no wasted motion, every knot a product of muscle memory honed by years in the field.
The familiar snap of the leather strapping against his calves grounded him.
He grabbed his tactical vest from the floor. The weight of the Kevlar and ammunition pouches felt reassuring, a heavy embrace he couldn’t afford to leave behind. He slipped on his comms headset, the earpiece sealing out the ambient camp noise, and adjusted the mic.
His sidearm, holstered and checked, completed the transformation. The man who had been seconds away from sleep was gone. In his place stood a weapon, calibrated and ready.
Picasso moved swiftly through the camp, boots thudding softly against the wet earth. The cool night air did nothing to ease the tension coiling in his gut. Near the latrines, the security team waited, their faces stark and angular under the harsh glow of the perimeter lights.
He approached, his voice low. “SitRep.”
Falcon stepped forward, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the wire. “Fence is cut. Clean slice, large enough for a person. We found tracks leading out.”
“Any eyes on the target?”
“Just tracks,” Abe said, pointing toward the breach. “But a refugee passing by said they saw men with a white van idling right outside the wire.”
Before Picasso could respond, Dude, a towering mountain of muscle, strode up. His expression was grave.
“Chief,” Dude said, his voice clipped. “We got more intel. Another refugee claims they saw two men wrestle a body into that van. It took off fast, heading east.”
The air seemed to leave the group. The implication hung heavy between them.
Picasso’s jaw tightened until it ached. “Lock down the camp. No one in or out. Get me a headcount immediately. Call Gabriella, tell her I need to know exactly who is missing.”
He waited, the silence stretching thin as the radio operator keyed the mic.
Seconds later, the operator’s voice crackled from behind the latrine.
The blood drained from Picasso’s face as he turned toward the sound.
“Chief,” the voice came back shortly, static clinging to the words. “Gabriella isn’t answering. We checked her tent. It’s empty.”
Picasso ignored the operator’s words for a moment and bent down to pick up the radio.
The camp noise faded into a dull roar in his ears.
He cursed under his breath, a cold knot tightening in his stomach.
They had spoken just hours ago. He had ordered her to get some shut-eye—to go to her tent and rest.
Now, she was gone.