Grizzly’s voice broke the quiet, rough but sincere. “If they need us, maybe we visit their place on our next day off. Yard work, repairs, whatever.”
Reef looked up, determination hardening his jaw. “Yeah. Tristan’s been carrying a lot. We should all pitch in. Show him he’s not alone.”
Picasso felt the familiar burn behind his eyes but kept his expression steady. “Good call. I’ll check in with ‘Cane and plan a time to meet at his dad’s house. For now, let’s get cleaned up and get to the briefing.”
As the men began moving, Picasso allowed himself a brief moment to appreciate the bond between them, a silent pact forged in sweat, hardship, and something deeper than duty. They weren’t just a team. They were family.
Forty minutes later, the raw, elemental world of the beach felt like a different planet.
Picasso walked down the sterile, brightly lit corridor of the base, the silence humming in his ears. He had scrubbed salt from his skin and replaced damp gear with crisp fabric. The transition sharpened his focus. The physical endurance test was done; now came the strategic precision.
They filed into the conference room. Picasso took his seat, his eyes automatically sweeping the table. Habit.
He noted the steady postures, the focused expressions. But his mind, irritatingly wired for perfection, caught the flaws. A crease on Falcon’s right sleeve. A faint bulge in Grizzly’s cargo pocket that shouldn’t be there. A rim of sand still clinging to the sole of Reef’s boot.
Picasso suppressed a sigh. He’d let it slide for now, but tomorrow, the locker room inspection would be tighter. Perfection wasn’t a goal; it was the standard that kept them alive.
The door swung open. Commander Rachel Bennett didn’t just walk in; she immediately drew every eye in the room. The whole team snapped to attention, standing tall and rigid. Bennett was a legend. She was the first female SEAL, the first to rise through the ranks to lead a squadron, yet still humble enough to know every operator’s name and every detail of their family history. She didn’t just command the room; she owned it.
“At ease,” she snapped, her voice cutting the silence.
Shoulders relaxed. Bennett walked to the head of the table, her stern expression softening just enough to reveal a faint smile. She reached into her pocket and tossed a handful of Tootsie Rolls onto the sleek table, her trademark vice. With that, the men felt permission to lighten up as the atmosphere eased.
Laptops clicked open. Picasso’s eyes locked onto the giant monitor on the wall.
It displayed a sprawling aerial shot of Mexico City. But it wasn’t the city he knew. Buildings collapsed into rubble. Streets were severed. Dust hung over the image like a shroud.
The caption at the bottom read:Aftermath - 8.1 Magnitude.
TWO
PICASSO
0400 hours didn’t exist on a normal clock. It was a time that belonged exclusively to bakers, insomniacs, and operators.
The tarmac at the Naval Amphibious Base was bathed in the harsh, artificial hum of halogen floodlights. The air was heavy with the smell of jet fuel and the salty tang of the nearby Atlantic, a scent that usually brought Picasso peace. Today, it just smelled like work.
Before them, the C-130 Hercules sat like a gaping whale, its rear ramp lowered, waiting to swallow their gear, their vehicles, and their lives for the next few weeks.
“Careful with that crate, Reef! That’s got the comms array. You drop it, you explain to Command why we’re using smoke signals in Mexico.”
Picasso didn’t have to look up from his clipboard to know who was shouting.
Falcon stood by the loading ramp, looking annoyingly put-together for four in the morning. His gear was squared away, his sunglasses were already perched on his head despite the pitch-black sky, and he was currently supervising Reef, who was treating a hundred-pound hardened case like a beach ball.
“Relax, Falcon,” Reef chirped, effortlessly hoisting the case onto the rolling track of the cargo bay. The kid had the energy of a golden retriever that had just found a bag of espresso beans. “I got soft hands. Surgical precision.”
“You have hands covered in Cheeto dust,” Falcon countered, wiping a smudge off the crate with a grimace. “Don’t think I didn’t see you raiding the vending machine at 0330.”
“Fuel for the machine, brother. Fuel for the machine.” Reef grinned, flashing white teeth in the gloom. He slapped the side of the metal fuselage. “Besides, I’m pumped. Road trip!”
A deep, tectonic rumble came from the shadows of the cargo hold. “It’s a disaster relief mission, Reef. Not spring break in Cabo.”
Grizzly stepped into the light, making his heavy body armor look like a flannel shirt. He carried two duffel bags, one in each hand, each easily weighing eighty pounds. He lifted them as if filled with feathers.
Unfazed, Reef grinned. “Why can’t it be both? Save the world, eat tacos, catch a tan. Multitasking.”
Picasso finally stepped forward, snapping the clipboard shut. The sharp sound cut through their chatter instantly. The shift was subtle but immediate. Postures straightened and smiles dimmed just a fraction. The pack acknowledged their alpha.
