The Humvee jolted violently as bullets slammed against its armored hull, each metallic ping reverberating through Gabriella’s bones. Sweat burned trails down her temple, mingling with the grit that clung to her skin like a second layer. Her heart thundered recklessly, smashing against her chest like a wild drum. Time fractured around her; some moments stretched endlessly, while others rushed by in a blur. Every nerve screamed alive, every breath a sharp reminder of the raw, terrifying reality unfolding around her.
Gabriella clenched the edge of the seat, knuckles white as she forced her eyes to lock onto the windshield ahead, willing herself to find a fragment of calm within the turbulence. The relentless rattle of the machine gun became a strange kind of heartbeat, marking time in the chaos, a grim anchor she desperately needed. The acrid taste of smoke, thick with burning sulfur and desperation, coated the air in suffocating layers.
Her breathing was ragged but steadying, settling into the rhythm carved into her mind through endless drills and secondhand briefings, her mantra of survival. The adrenaline pulsing through her veins ignited a fierce fire, sharpening her senses and fueling her resolve. Despite her determined exterior, a small doubt nagged at the edge of her mind. Was she really prepared for this: not just the threat from enemy fire, but the challenge of keeping her footing when everything inside felt uncertain and raw?
As Reef vaulted out, a shadow amid the dust and gunfire, Gabriella’s heart skipped a beat. The team moved with terrifying precision, unshaken by the sudden storm around them. She struggled to unclench her fingers, peeling back the layers of self-doubt that had settled over her. When her eyes met Picasso’s again, she caught that same maelstrom reflected there, not fearbut a restless intensity and steely determination sharpened by years of battle.
There was something in the way he held himself, a steadiness that sparked a grudging admiration deep inside her. They seemed to draw strength from each other, two halves trying to make something whole. Amid the chaos, she sensed a quiet tension pulling between them, unspoken yet palpable. It unsettled her as much as the gunfire echoing around them. She wasn’t ready to admit it yet, but the walls she had built were starting to tremble.
Watching Reef and the others jump into action outside the safety of the Humvee, Gabriella couldn’t suppress her anxiety. “Is it really safe for them to be out there?”
“Well, staying in here isn’t an option,” Picasso replied. He glanced at her before looking back outside. “We have to get out there to protect the convoy and assess any damage. I trust my team and their training. We train for this all the time.”
Gabriella snorted, a mix of frustration and fear bubbling to the surface. “Training doesn’t stop bullets, Picasso!”
Uncharacteristically, Picasso reached over and laid his hand on Gabriella’s arm, reassuring her. “I understand. You’re not alone in this. But we can’t let fear dictate our actions.”
Shaking her head, Gabriella responded, “You’re always calm. I don’t think you even feel fear.”
Picasso chuckled softly, but there was a flicker in his eyes she hadn’t seen before, a quiet tension beneath the surface. “Trust me, I do,” he said, voice low. “I just keep it locked away behind protocols and strategy. But right now, we face this together.”
EIGHT
PICASSO
The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder that still clung to the air was an unwelcome reminder of the violence that had shattered their advance. The convoy had pulled to a tight defensive perimeter, engines idling, vehicles spaced out carefully. Picasso’s face was grim and set as he moved through his team, overseeing damage assessments. Falcon and Hurricane circled the lead Humvee, searching for fresh bullet impacts. Grizzly supervised the replacement of two flat tires on the third supply truck. Reef used this pause to check comms and to re-secure loose cargo on the damaged vehicles.
Picasso noticed Gabriella kneeling beside the civilian driver, her focus intense. He could sense the rapid beat of her heart beneath her steady hands, a silent reminder of the pressure they were under. The man’s broad shoulders were slick with sweat, a bloodied bandage wrapped tightly around his forearm marking a grazing shrapnel wound. Gabriella’s movements were precise as she checked his pulse, her training taking over. Nearby, a younger driver sat pale, nursing a shallow cut across his cheek. Both shaken, but alive.
Picasso joined Wolf and Abe near the overturned flatbed, rolling a handful of spent casings slowly in his palm. “Thiswasn’t some random attack,” he said. “They hit the front and back of our convoy at the same time, trying to trap us. It’s a classic ambush.”
Wolf glanced around the empty landscape. “Yeah, these weren’t just opportunists. They knew our route and how we were set up. Someone planned this.”
Picasso unfolded the crumpled satellite printout slowly, his brow furrowing as he traced the lines with his finger. He muttered under his breath, “Means they’re watching.” His eyes darted across the map, searching for connections, piecing fragments together in his mind. His fingers tapped the map deliberately. “Commander Bennett’s intel warned of increased cartel activity, but this...” He paused, jaw tightening. “This is more than that. They’re deliberately targeting and trying to block our movements.”
He spread a larger tactical map across the Humvee’s hood and traced a red line. “Our current route winds through chokepoints and cartel strongholds further south. After today, proceeding would be reckless, like walking into a meat grinder. I propose a detour. It adds a few hours, but it keeps us on higher, open ground and steers clear of the worst active zones. We’ll bypass the main cartel corridor.”
Gabriella sat beside one of the injured drivers, her tablet forgotten in her lap as her hands worked methodically to provide medical aid. Picasso noticed the tightness in her jaw and the restless tapping of her fingers against her knee as she silently fought rising pressure.
When she heard the alternative route would add five hours, her chest tightened and her breath hitched. Slowly, she straightened, clutching the tablet like a lifeline. “Longer!? Really, Picasso?” Her voice sharpened with disbelief and frustration. “Have you seen those poor souls? Heard the crack of gunfire? We lost precious minutes dodging that ambush, andnow you want to add more? People are dying, children starving. Every second we waste snuffs out a life. This isn’t a leisurely stroll; it’s a full-on sprint against hell itself.”
She slammed a finger on the original route displayed on the tablet, her eyes burning with urgency. “That’s the only way to those hellholes! Injured folks are waiting for our help! The window’s slamming shut faster than you think!”
But then, almost imperceptibly, her gaze dropped back to the pale, wounded drivers around them. Her lips pressed together tightly, the fierce edge in her voice softening with a flicker of doubt. The dangerous roads ahead, the weight of the decision, it tugged at her, reminding her of the harsh reality she couldn’t ignore. Even with the fire inside, she was caught between the desperate need to reach those waiting for help and the heavy risk of pushing too fast.
Picasso caught the blaze igniting in her eyes, the fury that earned her the nickname Firecracker, that had accidentally slipped out when he first met her. Her Irish temper flared, sharp and unstoppable, a force of nature that both challenged and drove him. He took a breath, steadying himself against the storm she unleashed.
Picasso met her blazing eyes without flinching. “And what good are supplies if they never make it, O’Reilly? What good is burning courage if your relief teams don’t stand to see the dawn? My job is to get us through with skin intact. Your headlong rush forgets the teeth of today’s threat.”
Her voice rose, crackling with fierce conviction. “My speed’s for those suffering in the dark! We’re not letting fear take the reins—not while there’s breath left in us.”
Around them, the teams were quiet but attentive. Picasso caught glimpses of their eyes flicking between him and Gabriella, following the volley of words like seasoned gamblers reading a high-stakes hand. A few exchanged subtle smirks.
Reef’s gaze lingered on Gabriella with a mix of respect and worry. Falcon shifted slightly, eyes narrowing as if silently placing his bet on which leader would bend first. Benny tapped his fingers restlessly on the rifle’s stock, his body tense with the impatience of a man eager for action but stuck observing the calculated give-and-take.
Wolf stepped between them, calm and relaxed. “Gabriella, it’s not fear taking the reins here, just sound tactical sense. Picasso’s call is solid. This ambush wasn’t a warning shot, it was a test. They’ll come back better prepared if we don’t change it up.” He shifted to Picasso. “Does this detour fix your main worry?”
“Yes,” Picasso said. “Slower but safer. Improves the odds.”
