Picasso’s eyes softened briefly. “I’m asking you to trust us enough to make those decisions with support. We’ve got yourback, and every pair of eyes on those kids and adults has to be sharp. This is a team effort.”
Thoughtful silence followed as the balance between urgency and caution hung in the air. Beneath it all was a shared commitment: to move faster, smarter, and safer.
Her determination didn’t waver, but Picasso saw the inner conflict warring within her. “I can handle myself. I won’t let fear paralyze me.”
Now it was his turn to hold her gaze, firm and unyielding. “That’s exactly why you need to think this through. Your instinct to jump in is admirable, but you’re part of a larger team, and lives depend on our strategy, including yours.”
The tension crackled as the team absorbed his words. Gabriella opened her mouth to argue, but the weight of his gaze made her pause. She felt the familiar itch of rebellion but couldn’t deny his concern was rooted in experience.
“Remember the last mission?” Picasso continued, tone softening. “You charged into the fray. We almost lost you. This time, we need to be smarter.”
Gabriella’s fists clenched. “I won’t sit back and watch children suffer while we plan. It’s not just a mission to me—it’s personal.”
FIFTEEN
GABRIELLA
Sleep was elusive. The cot in her makeshift office/quarters felt like a slab of concrete beneath her, and every time Gabriella closed her eyes, the darkness behind her eyelids swarmed with the faces of the people they hadn’t processed yet.
She kicked off the thin wool blanket and sat up, rubbing the grit from her eyes. The humidity was oppressive, a heavy, wet blanket that clung to her skin even at three in the morning. She grabbed her boots, lacing them up by feel in the dark, and slipped out of the tent.
The camp was a sprawling labyrinth of tents, tarps, and misery. It was quiet, but not silent. A constant, mechanical drone from the generators thrummed through the air, drowning out most softer sounds. Beneath that relentless hum, the faint murmur of thousands of people breathing, shifting, coughing barely registered. Occasionally, sharper noises broke through—the piercing cry of a baby somewhere in Sector Four, or a dog’s bark echoing in the distance.
Gabriella started walking. She told herself she was just going to check the inventory logs at the main supply depot again, but her feet knew better. They took her toward the edges of thecamp, where the relief efforts met the dark uncertainty of the outside world.
As the aid coordinator, her job was logistics: food, water, medicine. But unofficially, she felt responsible for every soul inside the fence. She knew the cartels were circling the relief centers like sharks, waiting for a gap in the system, a missing manifest, a forgotten child. She walked toward the northern vehicle entry, checking the locks on the storage containers as she went.
Near the motor pool, she spotted a single silhouette sitting on the hood of a parked Humvee. The glow of a red-lens flashlight illuminated a map spread out on his knees.
Picasso.
He looked up as she approached, the red light casting sharp shadows across his face. He was alone, the rest of his team likely catching a few hours of sleep before the dawn rotation.
“Inventory issues?” Picasso asked quietly, his voice low so as not to carry in the stillness.
“Something like that,” Gabriella lied softly, crossing her arms against the damp chill. “Can’t turn my brain off. Figured I’d double-check the water delivery schedule.”
He studied her for a moment, seeing right through the excuse. “You’re pushing too hard, O’Reilly. You’ve been coordinating intakes for sixteen hours straight. You need to crash.”
“I’ll rest when I know our headcount matches the bed count.” She leaned against the side of the Humvee, looking out toward the perimeter fence. “It feels… porous tonight. Too many blind spots.”
“That’s why we have the perimeter watch. My guys are out there.”
“I know,” she sighed, the frustration bubbling up. Her temper had been on a hair-trigger all week. “But your guyscan’t see everything. While we’re filing paperwork and checking manifests, people are still slipping through the cracks.”
Picasso folded the map, sliding off the tailgate to stand next to her. The proximity was sudden, warm. “And running yourself into the ground won’t plug those cracks. It just makes you liable to miss something real.”
“The system isn’t working fast enough.” She turned away, shielding him from the exhaustion clouding her eyes, an exhaustion born not just of endless work but also of sleepless nights and the constant gnaw of fear. She’d been on many missions, but this was different. This was the first time she truly felt danger closing in, with real bullets flying around them. She hated that he was right, but hated even more that his being right did nothing to stop the bad things from happening.
“Go back to your tent, Gabriella,” he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate. “Get two hours. That’s an order.”
She almost smiled at the attempt to command her, but instead just nodded. “Fine. Two hours.”
She walked away from the motor pool, planning to circle back to her quarters. As she passed the family sector, where the most vulnerable gathered close for safety, something tugged at her attention.
Near the latrines, tucked into a shadowy corner between two large aid tents, she saw movement that set her on edge. It wasn’t the slow, hesitant shuffle of a refugee seeking relief. Instead, it was quick, urgent in a way that didn’t belong here.
Gabriella narrowed her eyes, her heart pounding hard beneath her ribs. A white van sat idling just outside a gap in the fence, a breach that definitely hadn’t been there when she used the latrine earlier. Two men, one carrying a small bundle slung over his shoulder, strode toward the white van. Gabriella’s heart skipped as she heard a faint whimper, the unmistakable sound of a child in distress. Her breath caught, and she instinctivelyquickened her pace, eyes locked on the men disappearing toward the idling vehicle.
