29. Picasso
TWENTY-NINE
PICASSO
The gym was Picasso’s sanctuary, a brutal temple where he could purge the noise from his head. Tonight, it wasn’t enough. The heavy bag hung from its chain, a silent, unmoving adversary, but it felt like the world. And the world was losing.
He drove a jab, then a cross, his breath hissing through clenched teeth.
Each impact was a desperate attempt to silence the echo of her voice, cutting out.
“We live on different planets.” The words had been followed by dead air, a finality that felt like a physical wound.
He had wanted to call back, to reach her again, but his phone would not connect.
Wherever Gabriella was, the signal was not getting through.
Days stretched on in frustrating silence.
For once, he was not on an operation halfway across the globe but was right here, tangled in his own battles.
The radio silence from her side had been absolute ever since.
He’d known it was coming. He’d seen the signs, felt the slow, agonizing stretch of their delicate tether until it snapped.
But knowing didn’t lessen the burn, the raw, furious frustration that clawed at him from the inside.
He hit the bag again, a savage uppercut that made the chain groan.
Sweat stung his eyes, blurring the outlines of the room, turning the familiar space into a hazy, formless void.
It didn’t matter. He could fight blind. He could fight anything.
The creak of the door registered first, soft but definite, but Picasso ignored it, his rhythm unbroken. One by one, the rest of the team slipped inside: Reef, Falcon, Hurricane, and Grizzly, their presence filling the room like an unspoken charge.
Reef was the first to speak, voice deceptively casual as always. “Nice work, Chief. That bag had it coming.”
Picasso did not respond, only wiped the sweat from his face, eyes fixed on the gaping tear in the canvas, a jagged wound spilling fine white sand onto the floor.
Falcon leaned against the doorframe, tablet in hand.
“You know, the National Guard is completely overwhelmed in North Carolina. Peggy’s rain just will not stop, mudslides, flash floods.
They’re begging for specialized support: swift-water rescue, vertical extraction, high-angle ops. Basic mountaineering stuff.”
Hurricane, standing near Grizzly, added quietly, “Terrain is brutal. Dense forests, steep ridges. Perfect for cold weather and high altitude refresher training.”
Grizzly glanced at Picasso, nodding once. “They want us to run a joint SAR exercise. Real-world conditions, tactical stress. Good for training, great for them.”
Picasso kept his back to them, drying his hair with a towel, but he caught the undercurrent in their words. He knew where this was going. The news had been impossible to ignore during brief meal breaks. The Blue Ridge was turning into a mess, and Gabriella was probably buried in it.
Reef stepped forward, voice low but clear. “Commander Bennett wants a unit to handle the refresher training. Somewhere with ‘unique, real-world stress test environments.’ Dense forest, swift water, vertical climbs.”
Falcon’s usually sharp eyes were serious. “It’s manageable. We get our training hours, help out where it counts. Two birds, one stone.”
Picasso finally turned to face them, meeting each gaze. He saw more than strategy and tactics. They wanted to pull him back from the edge. From himself.
He nodded once, subtle but full of meaning. “Get the brief ready. I’ll take it to the Commander.”
Hurricane cracked a brief smile. “About time, Chief.”
Grizzly exhaled, tension easing just a fraction. “Let’s get to work.”
Commander Bennett’s office was sparse, efficient. She listened, impassive, as Picasso laid out the proposed training op. He stuck to the facts: operational necessity, terrain assessment, skill degradation in extended temperate deployments. He’d practiced the speech in his head a dozen times.
She let him finish, then leaned back in her chair, her gaze sharp, intelligent, cutting through his rehearsed composure.
“A mountaineering refresher, Senior Chief? Fascinating. And the fact that this ‘real-world stress test’ happens to coincide with the location of a certain humanitarian aid coordinator, currently running logistics in the hardest-hit zones, is purely coincidental, I presume?”
Picasso held her gaze. He didn’t lie. “Ma’am, my team needs the training. And if our unique skill set can assist in a domestic crisis, it is our duty to offer it.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.
She understood. She always did. Not just the mission, but the men who carried it out.
She tapped a pen rhythmically on her desk.
“Alright, Waverly. Consider your training op approved. You deploy at 0600. Code name: ‘Alpine Angel.’ And for God’s sake, man,” she added, her voice softening just a fraction, “pack warm. I hear it’s a miserable cold rain there. ”
Picasso felt a sharp jolt. Alpine Angel.
He could almost see the smirk on Falcon’s face, the way the others had smiled when they brought the plan to him.
He had suspected something was up from the start, but now it was clear—they had out-played him.
Maneuvered through the system, not just for their benefit, but for his as well.
He left her office, the weight in his chest infinitesimally lighter.
The cage hadn’t broken him. His team had just blown a new escape route.
And for the first time in weeks, he felt a spark, not of anger or frustration, but of a fierce, desperate hope.
Maybe, just maybe, the planets weren’t so far apart after all.