25. Picasso
TWENTY-FIVE
PICASSO
The handover played out like a symphony of organized chaos, one Picasso had directed more times than he could count. But this time, the familiar melody grated against nerves already worn thin.
Near the command tent, Picasso stood with his arms crossed, watching the transition. Beside him, Wolf was briefing the incoming security lead, a thick-necked former Ranger who nodded often but didn’t seem to scan the horizon as thoroughly as Picasso wished.
“The perimeter is static, but the threat isn’t,” Wolf said, pointing to the map. “Cartel activity has pushed back to the foothills, but they’re watching. You blink, they move.”
“We’ve got thermal coverage and drones,” the newcomer said dismissively. “We’ll be fine.”
Picasso’s jaw tightened. He wanted to grab the man by his pristine vest and remind him drones don’t read desperation, and thermals don’t detect a man willing to burn down a building for distraction. But he stayed silent. It wasn’t his show anymore. The clock had struck; his watch was done.
Across the compound, near the medical tents, he spotted Gabriella.
She moved with her familiar, determined limp, clipboard clutched to her chest like armor. With her was a woman in a blue UN vest, the new lead caseworker for the camp. Between them walked Ana, her small hand gripping Gabriella’s tightly, white knuckles betraying a fierce attachment.
Picasso felt a sharp pang in his chest. He stepped forward, boots crunching on gravel, drawn to see this moment through.
Gabriella stopped as he neared, offering him a weary smile. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, but she stood tall.
“This is Maria,” Gabriella said, nodding toward the woman. “She’s taking over the family support and case management. I just finished explaining to her about Ana and the kidnapping. How Ana’s been clinging to me ever since.”
Maria nodded formally at Picasso, clearly a bit intimidated by the dust-caked operator, yet Picasso’s focus was on the little girl. He knelt down, ignoring the protest of his knees, coming level with Ana.
“You be brave, okay?” he said softly.
Picasso’s gaze softened as Ana looked up at him, then at Gabriella. His English was foreign to her, but the warmth in his tone was unmistakable. For a brief moment, she released Gabriella’s hand and reached out to gently pat the tactical patch on Picasso’s shoulder, offering a shy smile.
“Gracias,” she whispered.
That small gesture hit Picasso unexpectedly.
Suddenly, a vivid image flashed through his mind.
He saw a little girl in his arms just like Ana, but with Gabriella’s fiery red hair and striking green eyes.
The weight of her warmth and the softness of her skin felt so real it took him aback.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away.
With a single sharp nod, he stood and slipped his sunglasses over his eyes to mask the crack that had just appeared in his armor.
“We roll in twenty, O’Reilly,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. “Don’t get left behind.”
He shook off the moment and turned his attention forward. The time for reflection was over.
The drive to the airfield was a blur of brown dust and silence. The adrenaline that had sustained them for days was finally crashing, leaving behind a heavy, leaden exhaustion.
On the tarmac, the C-130 Hercules waited, its rear ramp yawning open like a hungry mouth. The engines churned with a deafening whine that swallowed all conversation.
The team loaded their gear with mechanical efficiency. Rucks were tossed, weapons cases secured. The Atlantic and Pacific teams moved as one organism, eager to be airborne, eager for a shower that wasn’t a bucket of cold water.
Gabriella stood near the ramp, her small bag over her shoulder. She looked out of place among the heavily armed men, a splash of color in a world of coyote tan and olive drab. She was looking at the horizon, at the dust cloud that marked San Pedro, like she was leaving a piece of her soul behind.
Picasso moved to her side. The prop wash whipped her hair across her face, and she brushed it back, looking up at him.
They stood in the shadow of the plane’s wing, surrounded by the noise, surrounded by his men. This wasn’t the tent. There could be no touching, no whispered confessions, no promises sealed with a kiss. There was only the mission, and the end of it.
“You did good work back there,” Picasso said, his voice raised to be heard over the turbines.
“We did good work,” she corrected, her eyes searching his face, looking for the man who had held her hand in the dark.
From his pocket he produced a small, folded scrap of paper. It was a page torn from his waterproof notebook. On it, he had written a number. Just a number. No name.
He held it out.
She looked at it, then at him, her breath hitching.
“I don’t usually do this,” he said, the admission costing him. “But I want to know you made it home safe.”
Gabriella took the paper, her fingers brushing his palm—a spark of electricity that jumped even through the exhaustion. She folded it tightly into her palm. “I’ll call.”
“You better.”
“All aboard! let’s go, let’s go!” the loadmaster shouted, waving them in.
Picasso stepped back, the professional mask sliding fully into place. “After you, ma’am.”
She climbed the ramp, and he followed, taking his seat opposite her.
As the ramp closed, sealing out the Mexican sun and plunging them into the dim red gloom of the cargo hold, Picasso leaned his head back against the webbing.
He watched her across the aisle. She had already pulled her knees to her chest, eyes closed, the paper still clenched in her fist.
He realized with a terrifying clarity that leaving the war zone was supposed to mean safety. But as the plane lurched into the sky, he felt like he was leaving the only place that made sense anymore.
Hours later, the wheels touched down in El Paso. The transition from the operational world to the civilian one was always jarring, like walking out of a movie theater into blinding daylight.
They unloaded on the military side of the airfield. A shuttle bus waited to take the civilian contractors and aid coordinators to the commercial terminal, while Picasso’s team would transfer to a military flight back to Norfolk and Wolf’s team to Coronado.
They were standing on the tarmac, gear piled around them, the heat of the Texas asphalt radiating through their boots. Picasso was about to walk over to her, to steal one last moment before the shuttle left, when a sharp chime echoed from Gabriella’s pocket.
She pulled out her satellite phone.
Picasso watched her face change. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity. Her brow furrowed as she read the text. Then, her shoulders slumped, just a fraction.
She looked up, finding Picasso in the crowd. She didn’t come closer; she just held up the phone, a gesture of helpless resignation.
He walked over, ignoring the waiting transport. “What is it?”
“Florida,” she said, her voice hollow. “CAT five hurricane aimed at Central Florida. They need logistics coordination on the ground immediately.”
“You haven’t slept in three days,” Picasso said, anger flaring, not at her, but at the world that kept demanding pieces of her. “Tell them you need twenty-four hours.”
“I can’t,” she said simply. “I’m the closest asset that is free right now. My flight to D.C. is canceled. They’ve got me a flight to Tampa.”
She looked down at the phone, then back at him. The fire he admired so much was there, but it was dim, struggling for oxygen.
“I have to go,” she whispered.
Picasso wanted to grab her arm. He wanted to order her to stand down. He wanted to take her to a hotel, order room service, and sleep for a week. But he knew that duty wasn’t a coat you could just take off. He wore the same chains she did.
“Go,” he said, his voice rough. “Do the job.”
“I’ll call you,” she said, backing away toward the shuttle. “When I get a signal. When I stop moving.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
She turned and climbed onto the bus. She didn’t look back.
Watching the bus pull away and merge into airport traffic. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“She’s a warrior, Chief,” Falcon said quietly. “She goes where the fight is.”
“Yeah,” Picasso murmured, turning back to his team, to his gear, to the empty, quiet life waiting for him in Virginia. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”