Gabriella recognized the flash of the pink t-shirt. She was the little girl Gabriella had processed yesterday.
Now, Ana was kicking, her tiny legs flailing uselessly against the grip of a man twice her size, his hand clamped brutally over her mouth.
Reaction overrode logic. Gabriella didn’t think about her lack of training. She didn’t think about protocol. She just ran.
“Hey!” she yelled, sprinting across the muddy ground. “Stop!”
The men froze for a split second. The one holding Ana shoved the girl toward the open van door, barking something in Spanish that Gabriella couldn’t understand, while the other turned toward her. He raised a hand, and she saw the dull glint of a pistol.
She didn’t stop. She crashed into him, using her momentum to drive her shoulder into his chest. They hit the dirt hard. She scrambled for his wrist, trying to keep the gun pointed away, but he was strong, smelling of stale tobacco and sweat.
The driver yelled something sharp and urgent from the van.
The man beneath her bucked, throwing her off balance. Before she could recover, a boot connected hard with her ribs. The air whooshed painfully from her lungs.
Gabriella gasped and rolled onto her knees, her hand instinctively darting to her belt for her radio.
Her fingers closed on nothing but empty fabric.
Her stomach plunged deeper as she scanned the ground. Her radio was no longer at her side. A few feet ahead, it lay on the muddy dirt, knocked loose and likely kicked off during the struggle.
She cursed under her breath.
A heavy blow crashed against the back of her head. The world lurched sideways, sparks bursting behind her eyes. Her body went limp and she crumpled into the mud as the metallic tang of copper filled her mouth.
Through the relentless ringing in her ears, she caught a muffled whimper and Ana’s voice, which was quickly smothered.
Suddenly, a rough voice hissed in heavily accented Spanish, sharp and urgent, slicing through the fog in her mind. She did not catch the words, but the threat was crystal clear.
Before she could gather her senses, rough hands clawed at her arms, jerking her upright with brutal force. Her legs buckled beneath her like jelly, struggling to keep her upright in the chaos. Panic surged, raw and wild, clawing its way past the veil robbing her breath. She tried to scream, but a coarse cloth slammed hard over her mouth and nose, pressing down with cruel finality. The world spun again as the suffocating weight stole her voice and stole her breath.
The last thing she saw before darkness swallowed her was the distant flicker of camp lights—fading, receding—as the van doors slammed shut, trapping them inside with the monsters.
SIXTEEN
PICASSO
Picasso sank onto his bunk inside the cramped tent, the day’s exhaustion hitting him like a physical blow. He pried off his boots, wincing as his feet finally escaped the crushing pressure of stiff leather and grime. Stretching out, he closed his eyes, desperate for even a moment’s respite—just five minutes to steel himself for whatever fresh hell tomorrow would bring.
Outside, the camp hummed with a low, dull rhythm: the shuffle of boots in the mud, hushed conversations, the occasional ragged cough. For a heartbeat, the chaos felt distant, replaced by the simple, overwhelming need to breathe.
Then, the radio crackled, shattering the peace.
“Chief, we’ve got a fence breach on the north perimeter. Sector four, near the latrines. It’s fresh.”
Picasso’s eyes snapped open. The fatigue didn’t vanish, but he shoved it into a box and locked the lid. He swung his legs off the bunk. “Copy. Secure the area. I’m inbound.”
He sat on the edge of the mattress, the coarse wool blanket scratching against his skin as he jammed his swollen feet back into his boots. He yanked the laces tight—no wasted motion, every knot a product of muscle memory honed by years inthe field. The familiar snap of the leather strapping against his calves grounded him.
He grabbed his tactical vest from the floor. The weight of the Kevlar and ammunition pouches felt reassuring, a heavy embrace he couldn’t afford to leave behind. He slipped on his comms headset, the earpiece sealing out the ambient camp noise, and adjusted the mic.
His sidearm, holstered and checked, completed the transformation. The man who had been seconds away from sleep was gone. In his place stood a weapon, calibrated and ready.
Picasso moved swiftly through the camp, boots thudding softly against the wet earth. The cool night air did nothing to ease the tension coiling in his gut. Near the latrines, the security team waited, their faces stark and angular under the harsh glow of the perimeter lights.
He approached, his voice low. “SitRep.”
Falcon stepped forward, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the wire. “Fence is cut. Clean slice, large enough for a person. We found tracks leading out.”
