Chapter 22 Picasso
TWENTY-TWO
PICASSO
The roar of the second quake subsided, replaced by a fresh, chilling silence.
Dust, thick and acrid, choked the air, clinging to everything like a shroud.
The old concrete plant groaned around them, a symphony of creaking metal and shifting debris.
Picasso braced against the dashboard, his NVGs cutting through the swirling grit, scanning the plant’s silhouette.
His heart hammered a desperate rhythm against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of guilt and fear for Gabriella, layered over the chilling memory of a boy in murky pond water.
Not again. Not like this. He had been wrong—wrong about everything. His protocols, his rules, his rigid control, they hadn’t kept her safe. They had simply left her exposed. Dude’s words echoed sharply: She’s built from the same stuff.
“Status check!” Picasso barked into his mic, voice tight, cutting through the silence. “Any further collapses? Reports from Wolf?”
“Clear on our end, Chief,” Falcon replied crisp and steady from the perimeter. “Wolf’s team is holding cordon a few miles back, maintaining blocking positions and reporting localized damage. No structural failure to the outer perimeter.”
Picasso’s eyes scanned the crumbling factory, noting new fissures, dust plumes drifting lazily upward.
This tremor was nothing compared to the main quake that had leveled Mexico City, but it was enough to unsettle these unstable structures.
A stronger one could hit at any time, and the thought was a gnawing counterpoint to every decision he made, the backbone of his caution.
A faint whimper. A small cough. Picasso snapped his head toward the source. It came from the shadowed wreckage to their left, a jagged opening where a section of wall had peeled away during the quake, revealing a dusty maw.
Then, movement flickered through the dust.
“Movement!” Grizzly rumbled, raising his weapon, but Picasso’s hand shot up, breath caught in his throat as he peered through his night vision.
Pink T-shirt.
First came Gabriella, pushing a final piece of crumbling concrete aside with a grimace. Disheveled, her fiery hair streaked with dust and grime, her cargo pants torn and stained, she limped on one leg, eyes sharp and fierce as she scanned the team.
Clutching her hand was Ana, her small face streaked with tears. Close behind followed two smaller girls holding a young boy’s hand. Their faces were pale, safe under Gabriella’s watchful presence.
A collective gasp rose in the Humvee.
“O’Reilly!” Picasso’s voice shattered the tense silence, a ragged mix of relief and disbelief.
“Medic!” Dude barked over comms, his voice both authoritative and edged with shock. “Secure the children! Eyes on those ruins, the hostiles might be still out there!”
Reef was already out and running forward, whooping, half-laughing in relief. “No way! I knew it! You’re a legend, Gabs!”
Falcon’s usual smirk vanished, replaced by a rare look of awe. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured, shifting his gaze between Gabriella and Picasso. “The Firecracker burns bright.”
Grizzly moved with purpose, pulling a blanket from a supply kit. “You alright, ma’am? Kids okay?” His gruff voice softened as he crouched beside her.
Hurricane quickly led Gabriella to a rock to sit on and busily checked her swollen ankle, ensuring the children were unhurt. Their small faces were pale and their bodies trembling with fear, but they appeared unhurt. Ana clung to Gabriella’s hand and buried her face in her chest.
Dude, silent for a moment, caught Picasso’s eye and nodded sharply, a quiet affirmation in his gaze. Force multiplier. The words struck Picasso like a physical blow, dissolving his lingering doubts.
Gabriella looked up as Picasso approached, her jaw set tight.
“The children are safe,” she said, voice hoarse but firm, a tremor of defiance beneath her words.
She tightened her grip on Ana’s small hand.
“We got out of the room while the captors were asleep. We were searching the corridors, trying to find a way out of the building when the earthquake hit.”
She glanced down at her swollen ankle for a moment before meeting Picasso’s eyes again. “We had already gotten clear of the room when the quake struck. I dropped down over the kids, wrapping myself around them to protect them from falling debris. The dust gave us a chance to slip away.
Her gaze flickered with frustration. “Plans don’t always hold, Picasso. Sometimes you have to move with whatever you’ve got.”
Picasso said nothing, his eyes memorizing the scene: dust-streaked hair, the grimace etched into her face as she limped, the fierce protectiveness radiating from her. None of his meticulous plans had accounted for this. Her emergence, bruised but unbroken, orchestrating an escape amid chaos.
His anger and guilt softened and were replaced by fierce admiration.
Her recklessness was not chaotic but brutal and instinctive precision he had failed to fully understand.
A hint of a smirk tugged at his lips as he said softly, “Copy that, Firecracker,” the tension finally draining from his voice.
Reef and Falcon reported back from the depths of the ruined plant. The collapsed walls had done what gunfire had not. Two cartel men lay dead beneath the rubble; a grim finality sealed in cold stone.
With Gabriella and the children secured, the team loaded the injured into two waiting Humvees. Engines rumbled as tires crunched over shattered concrete, and the vehicles pulled away from the plant toward the refugee camp.
Seated in the passenger seat beside Dude, Picasso stared out at the barren landscape flashing past. Relief tangled with frustration. How close had he come to losing Gabriella?
Dude’s perspective lingered in his mind. SEAL life and a relationship were not mutually exclusive.
Could it be true? Could he have both, a relationship with the right woman, someone steady and fierce who understood the cost without asking him to give up everything?
And was Gabriella that woman?
The question settled quietly beneath the rhythmic drone of the engine. Could he lock away his feelings like he did everything else? Or was he risking everything by following his heart?