The little girl was curled in the corner, her thin arms crushing a tattered doll against her chest. Her pink T-shirt once so bright back at the camp, was now streaked with dirt. Tears had carved clean tracks down her cheeks.
There were others.
Three more children were pressed together beside her, barely more than shadows. A boy who couldn’t be older than seven. Two younger girls clinging to each other so tightly they shook as one.
Gabriella’s heart clenched. She wanted to sayIt’s okay. I’ve got you. I won’t let them take you.But the tape held, and even if she could force words past it, English would mean nothing to them.
So she did the one thing she could.
She inched closer, the zip ties biting into her wrists, until her shoulder touched Ana’s. The girl flinched at the contact, breath stuttering, then went stock-still.
Gabriella shifted her head and caught Ana’s eyes in the low, flickering light. She forced calm into her gaze, pushing panic far beneath the surface. Then, with slow deliberation, she nodded once.
I see you.
She drew in a long breath through her nose, exaggerated it so the girl could hear. In… She held it a beat. Out… a slow, controlled exhale through her nose. Again. In. Out.
Then she tipped her chin toward Ana’s chest and repeated the breath.
Ana stared at her, confusion warring with terror. Her little shoulders trembled. Then, tentatively, she mimicked Gabriella: sniffing in, the inhale shaky, and blowing it out in a ragged exhale.
Gabriella nodded, bumping her temple gently against the girl’s. Good. That’s it.
The other children were watching now, their eyes wide, glistening pools in the dark. Gabriella shifted her focus, meeting each gaze in turn, giving them the same small nod.
We are together.
They inched closer, drawn like magnets to her solid warmth in the freezing metal box. Ana leaned her head cautiously against Gabriella’s shoulder. One of the younger girls pressed into her side, fingers bunching in Gabriella’s shirt.
Pain throbbed behind Gabriella’s eyes. She shut them briefly, resting her cheek on Ana’s tangled hair, and forced her own heart to slow. She counted silently with the rhythm of the road. One bump. Two. Three. Breathe.
She couldn’t promise safety. She couldn’t tell them the SEALs were coming, couldn’t describe satellite feeds or Tex or layered grids of search zones.
But she could be an anchor in the dark.
I’m still here, Picasso, she thought, projecting the words into the roar of the engine. I’ve got the kids.
Now come find us.
EIGHTEEN
PICASSO
The command tent buzzed with a tense, unfocused energy, more pressure cooker than organized chaos. Maps spooled across folding tables, held down by radios, ammo magazines, and half-empty mugs of burnt coffee. The air was thick with sweat, diesel, and fear no one wanted to name.
Picasso stood at the head of the central table, shoulders rigid, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. His fingers tapped a relentless rhythm against the scarred plywood, right over the border between two sectors on the map.
“Put Tex on,” he said.
Wolf was already there, tablet in one hand, sat phone on speaker in the center of the table. “You’re live, brother. We’ve got a white van and multiple kids missing. What do you see?”
Tex’s voice crackled through the speaker, rough and steady. “Got your coordinates, Wolf. Pulled recent sat passes and I’m runnin’ thermal sweeps now. Problem is, that city’s a kicked anthill. Mudslides, rubble, half the roads gone. Lotta places to tuck a van outta sight.”
Grainy images appeared on Wolf’s tablet: blocks of collapsed buildings, streets swallowed by debris, and blacked-out industrial zones.
Picasso leaned in, scanning. “Too much dead space,” he muttered. “If they pulled into a buried alley or under a half-collapsed overpass, they’re ghosts.”
Behind him, voices cut through the static.
