“Any eyes on the target?”
“Just tracks,” Abe said, pointing toward the breach. “But a refugee passing by said they saw men with a white van idling right outside the wire.”
Before Picasso could respond, Dude, a towering mountain of muscle, strode up. His expression was grave.
“Chief,” Dude said, his voice clipped. “We got more intel. Another refugee claims they saw two men wrestle a body into that van. It took off fast, heading east.”
The air seemed to leave the group. The implication hung heavy between them.
Picasso’s jaw tightened until it ached. “Lock down the camp. No one in or out. Get me a headcount immediately. Call Gabriella, tell her I need to know exactly who is missing.”
He waited, the silence stretching thin as the radio operator keyed the mic.
Seconds later, the operator’s voice crackled from behind the latrine.
The blood drained from Picasso’s face as he turned toward the sound.
“Chief,” the voice came back shortly, static clinging to the words. “Gabriella isn’t answering. We checked her tent. It’s empty.”
Picasso ignored the operator’s words for a moment and bent down to pick up the radio. The camp noise faded into a dull roar in his ears. He cursed under his breath, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. They had spoken just hours ago. He had ordered her to get some shut-eye—to go to her tent and rest.
Now, she was gone.
SEVENTEEN
GABRIELLA
Consciousness returned in jagged, painful fragments.
First came the smell: a nauseating mix of gasoline, stale sweat, and the sharp metallic tang of dried blood. Then the vibration, a relentless rattle shuddering up through her spine.
She was lying on something hard and ridged. Metal floor. Every bump drove the grooves into her hip. She tried to move her hands, but they were pinned behind her back. Plastic bit deep into her skin.
Zip ties.
Picasso.
His name flashed through her mind like a flare, followed immediately by the memory of the boot to her ribs, the blow to the back of her head, the white van.
She forced her eyes open.
Darkness. Not complete. There were thin, stuttering ribbons of light cutting through the gloom every few seconds as they passed under streetlamps. The faint glow seeped in at the edges of the rear doors.
They were moving. Fast.
She shifted, and pain exploded in her skull. She groaned, but the sound died against the strip of duct tape sealing her mouth. Every breath tasted like glue and copper.
From the cab, men argued over the roar of the engine. Rapid-fire Spanish, hard, flat, and completely unintelligible. She strained to catch anything, a familiar word, a name, but it was just a wall of noise. The language barrier felt like another restraint: blind, bound, and deaf to their plans.
A small sound cut through the drone of tires.
A tiny, hitching, wet gasp.
Gabriella rolled onto one shoulder, ignoring the nausea, and drew her knees up awkwardly. Her leg bumped something soft.
“¿A dónde vamos? ¿Dónde está mi mamá?” a small voice whispered, shaking.
Ana.
