“Chief,” Falcon said softly from the back seat, voice low. “You’re tapping a groove in that tablet.”
Picasso froze mid-drum and realized he’d been drumming again, the same restless rhythm he’d worn into the map back at the tent. He forced himself to stop.
A low growl slipped from his throat.
Falcon smirked but softened his tone. “She’ll be okay. We’re going to find her.”
The Humvee jolted over a pothole, shaking everyone inside. Ahead, the GPS marker inched closer to the target.
Tex’s voice came back, a little clearer. “Alright, boys, this is my last good look for a bit. Concrete plant’s showin’ one big warm hunk. That’s your van or somethin’ like it, parked just inside a partially collapsed bay door on the north side. I’m seein’ at least four, maybe five smaller heat sources movin’ slow near it. Two more further out in the yard, near what used to be a conveyor tower. Could be sentries. Could be nothin’. But my money says you got company.”
“Copy all,” Picasso replied. “Mark those likely sentry positions on the grid and push it to our tablets.”
“You got it. After this pass, I’m blind on that plant for at least twenty. Terrain’s gonna eat my angle.”
“Twenty minutes is enough,” Picasso said.
It had to be.
He forced his breathing to slow. Fear wanted to claw up his throat, morph into rage, into something reckless. He wrestled it back down. He couldn’t afford distraction. Not now.
And still, every time his mind slid sideways, it found her.
Distraction.
She had been a variable from the start. A bright, chaotic force that didn’t fit neatly into his boxes. He’d told himself that made her dangerous to the mission.
Now he wasn’t sure if that was the whole truth—or just the part that made it easier to keep her at arm’s length.
“Three minutes out,” the driver said quietly.
He exhaled slowly. “Wolf?”
“Pacific One, green,” Wolf answered. “We have eyes on the access road to your north and east. If anything moves fast, we’ll see it.”
The net went quiet again.
From the back of the Humvee, Dude leaned forward, resting a forearm on the seatback between Picasso and Grizzly. In the dim red glow, his face looked carved from stone, but his eyes stayed clear.
“You’re runnin’ hot, Chief,” Dude rumbled.
Picasso didn’t meet his gaze. “Focus on the objective.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Dude paused. “Objective includes her.”
Picasso’s fingers tightened on his rifle. “And the kids.”
“And the kids,” Dude agreed. “But you’re not exactly compartmentalizin’ like usual.”
Picasso shot him a sideways look. “You got a point, or just in the mood to analyze my psyche on the way to a hostage rescue?”
Dude huffed something close to a laugh. “Got a story, if you’ll shut up long enough to listen.”
“We’re about to roll into a hostile site,” Picasso reminded him.
“Exactly,” Dude said. “Which is why you gotta have your head right before we hit the line.”
Picasso bit back a retort and jerked his chin once. “Make it quick.”
