“No,” he said softly, scanning the rooftops. “But there are safer ways.”
“Sometimes safe feels like failure,” she muttered.
Picasso met her gaze. “Sometimes survival is the only chance left.”
She nodded, eyes glistening. “And sometimes hope is all you’ve got.”
He keyed the radio. “Approaching bottleneck at the toll plaza. Pacific team, watch our six. The ambush would be here.”
“Copy,” Cookie replied.
Gabriella’s glare hadn’t softened, but she was listening now.
Picasso knew the only thing standing between her compassion and a bullet was his paranoia. And he had no intention of letting it slip.
SEVEN
GABRIELLA
The desert highway stretched endlessly, a harsh ribbon of cracked asphalt melting under the unrelenting sun. Hours bled into one another, the landscape a barren sweep of sun-bleached scrub and jagged silhouettes on the horizon. South of Chihuahua, the road narrowed, the surrounding desert pressing in like a tightening noose around the traveler’s chest.
Gabriella sat rigid in the passenger seat, her eyes darting between the endless supply manifests blinking on her tablet and the stubborn march of the clock. Each minute dragged like a weight, a chainmail wrapped tight around her resolve, muffling the ache settling deeper in her chest. Her mind understood that they had to get the supplies to the relief center fast and intact, but her heart throbbed painfully for the refugees they passed along the way, their desperation etched into every worn face and every outstretched hand they did not reach for.
She could feel Picasso beside her, solid, unyielding, armored like the Humvee itself, a constant reminder of his paranoia and the danger they traversed. Yet underneath that steel exterior, she sensed the tension coiled beneath his calm. His jaw clenched tighter with every bump and every swerve, and she caught the way his eyes flicked toward her, searching and weighing. Shehated that he did not stop, hated that he refused to break protocol, though she knew why. Still, the silent retreat pressed hard against her ribs, a quiet fury simmering beneath the surface. They were moving forward, yes, but leaving so many behind, and that hurt more than she wanted to admit.
They should be saving lives, not crawling through this sun-bleached purgatory. Yet here they were, prisoners of the desert, trapped in a thought that both haunted and consumed them.
Then, the world outside shifted.
Ahead, a rickety flatbed truck lay overturned, spilling a tangle of tires and wooden pallets across their lane, a makeshift roadblock.
“Roadblock ahead,” came Picasso’s calm, clipped transmission over the comms. Yet she caught a hint of urgency in how he gathered himself like a coiled spring. “All units, slow to five miles per hour. Prepare to bypass. Falcon, eyes on the bluffs. Grizzly, right flank.”
Gabriella’s stomach churned as layers of unease unfurled. The setup was too neat, too stage-managed. “Picasso, what’s….” The question hung in the air, but before it could find a conclusion, the air shattered.
Crack—crack—crack.
“Contact!” Picasso barked, his command cutting sharply through the chaos.
Gunfire erupted, shattering the heavy silence and rattling the Humvee’s armored shell. Gabriella jerked instinctively, dropping low into her seat as if making herself smaller could somehow shield her better. Her hands gripped the edges of the seat so tightly her knuckles turned white, fingers trembling despite herself. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs, breath caught and ragged, stuck in her throat. A cold wave of panic prickled down her spine, rooting her in place even as her eyes darted frantically, searching for some sense of controlin the chaos. Though she knew the Humvee’s armor offered protection, the primal urge to hide claimed her fully, her shoulders hunched, head bowed, trying to make herself as small as possible amid the storm of noise and terror.
“Right side!” Falcon’s calm voice broke through the din, but Gabriella couldn’t focus on anything but the anxiety tightening in her gut.
“Driver, hard left! Get us clear of that roadblock!” Picasso commanded, his mind racing through the maps lodged in his head, each tactical thought infused with the urgency to protect, to lead.
Gabriella’s fingers clenched the door handle so hard her nails bit into her palm, the rough metal pressing back beneath her grip as the Humvee vibrated violently with every shot fired. The sharp crack and staccato rattle of gunfire slammed against nearby walls, sending dust and grit swirling in the stale air. The acrid burn of gunpowder mixed with the thick scent of smoke, stinging her nostrils and coating her throat. Her lungs tightened, each breath shallow and rapid.
Her eyes flicked to Picasso and caught the faintest shift in his gaze—not just the usual steely command but a flicker of something softer, a silent promise that cut through the chaos, anchoring her amidst the storm.
“Falcon, suppressive fire! Grizzly, smoke on the right! Reef, breach prep! Wolf, cover rear!” Picasso’s voice sliced through the noise, like a beacon in the dark.
“On it!” Falcon’s clipped reply was almost immediate, accompanied by the sharp report of his weapon blazing into the night.
“Smoke’s live!” Grizzly growled, his voice blending with the hiss and pop of the smoke grenades.
“Breach ready,” Reef confirmed, sounding calm despite the tension wrapping tight around them.
Wolf’s calm counterpoint grounded the rear. “Rear secured. Moving with you.”
