27. Picasso
TWENTY-SEVEN
PICASSO
The box was supposed to be his anchor. The rigid schedule, the iron-clad rules, and the relentless physical demands built the solid walls of his world, holding back the chaos beyond.
But lately, that box had shifted. What was once a sanctuary now felt like a cage, its walls closing in, suffocating and unyielding.
He moved through his days in Norfolk on autopilot, starting with PT before dawn, then the range until his shoulders burned, followed by the sterile echo of briefing rooms. Each task was a desperate attempt to outrun the silence inside, an emptiness that screamed louder than any gunfire.
Between sets of bench presses, he checked his phone again. It was a habit born of fragile hope, a crack in his carefully constructed discipline.
He spotted her message three days after his own, blinking on the screen like a stubborn ghost.
“Tampa. Shelter duty. Missed you by a mile. Rain check?”
He whispered the words under his breath, almost tasting the distance in them. “Rain check,” he said to no one. Tampa. Not home. Not even close. Three days. Three days she hadn’t even seen his message. The window, the tiny sliver of opportunity, had slammed shut.
He didn’t reply. Instead, he slammed the phone into his locker, the metal clanging a dull thud that somehow echoed deeper inside.
His breath hitched, frustration sinking hard into his gut.
He spun on his heel and hit the obstacle course, pushing until his muscles screamed and sweat stung his eyes.
The agony was welcome. It drowned out the cruel whispers of missed chances and aching emptiness.
Two weeks later, Picasso and his SEAL team members were on the range, cycling through drills in practiced rhythm. The steady crack of rounds in the air was interrupted suddenly when all five of their phones buzzed simultaneously, the silent vibrations pulsing through their gear.
They exchanged quick glances as the message lit every screen: Commander requires your presence in the briefing room in thirty minutes.
The others immediately began securing their weapons and tightening gear, muscles already coiled for action. The five of them moved together, slipping into the familiar rhythm of mission prep. Their footsteps echoed through the barracks as they headed to the briefing room.
Inside, the commander’s voice was low and urgent, outlining the details: a high-priority, classified extraction halfway across the globe.
Threat assessments, insertion points, contingency plans, it was all rapid-fire information, but Picasso absorbed every word, his mind already running through the logistics.
Back in the armory, the team geared up. Kevlar plates snapped into place, helmets secured, comms systems checked. The quiet focus of warriors preparing for war settled over them like a second skin.
As Picasso reached into his pack to power down his phone and secure it in his locker, it buzzed sharply.
A text from Gabriella.
“I’ve got a 4-hour layover in Norfolk. You want to have dinner in the airport?”
His heart lurched—an uneven drumbeat hammering against his ribs.
Norfolk. Right here. Minutes away.
He could see her face, hear her voice, feel that spark again—the one that had lit between them in Mexico.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard, hesitation thick in the air. A thousand words screamed inside his head: “I’m sorry… I’m on a black site… I can’t… I wish…” But none of it was permissible. None of it was safe.
Finally, his fingers moved.
“Can’t. Duty.”
He hit send, the screen flashing confirmation like a verdict.
Cold and sterile. How painfully cold it sounded.
He slid the phone into his locker, feeling as if he’d just torn a piece of himself free.
He swallowed hard, fighting the sinking weight in his chest.
In the dark cargo hold of the C-17, strapped into the same jump seat where she had sat on their flight to Mexico, he stared at the red glow of the emergency lights. The last time he’d been here, his mind was fixed on their mission, the cartel, extraction points, and hostile zones.
Now, it was Gabriella, alone in an airport bar, likely disappointed, maybe believing he’d picked the job over her.
Because he had. Or maybe the job had picked him. It always did.
Two weeks later, he limped off the plane again. A split lip and bruised ribs testaments to the mission’s brutality. His body screamed for rest, for sleep, for oblivion.
But his truck turned north instead of toward base housing.
Fairfax. Her address.
He had glimpsed it in Mexico, buried deep in emergency contact forms he’d meant to forget. Now it was all he could think of.
He pulled up outside her building, a quiet red brick refuge tucked away from the road.
Just as he killed the engine, a dark sedan pulled away from the curb.
An Uber.
He watched the taillights vanish.
His thumb hovered over her buzzer.
He pressed.
No answer.
He pressed again, harder.
Silence, just the whisper of wind through leaves.
She was gone again.
Always moving, one step ahead or behind.
Back at the team room, tension was thick.
He caught Grizzly adjusting the collar of his jacket, the insignia slightly crooked and the edge of his sleeve rolled unevenly.
Picasso approached quietly. “Grizzly, your collar’s off, and that sleeve’s rolled too high.”
Grizzly’s hands froze mid-adjustment. “Just a quick fix, didn’t think—”
Picasso’s gaze sharpened, a rare edge slipping into his tone, though he kept his voice low. “This team depends on attention to detail. It’s the little things that can keep you alive.”
Grizzly blinked, clearly taken aback by the unexpected harshness. The room felt heavier, and he swallowed hard, straightening his jacket without another word.
Picasso took a step back, voice returning to its usual steady cadence. “Stay sharp.”
Reef exchanged a quick glance with Falcon.
“He’s losing it,” Reef whispered.
Falcon shook his head, eyes tracing Picasso’s rigid posture.
“No. He’s suffocating. That ‘force multiplier’ Dude talked about? It works both ways. Take it away and you’re dividing by zero.”
Picasso turned away from Grizzly, jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might crack a tooth.
Reef and Falcon exchanged a knowing look.
It was time.
He was breaking and they had to keep him from taking the team down with him.