“Reef, if I find Cheeto dust on my tactical map, you’re running laps until you puke orange,” Picasso warned.
“Copy that, Chief. Cleanliness is godliness.” Reef threw a mock salute, eyes dancing with mischief.
Picasso rolled his eyes but let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
He walked up the ramp, his boots ringing on the metal. He scanned the cargo hold quickly. The Humvees were chained down, pallets of their personal gear secured. It was tight. Efficient. Atlantic Team standard.
Except for the empty seat.
His eyes lingered on the webbing of the jump seat next to Grizzly. It was Hurricane’s spot.
Grizzly caught the look. He set the heavy bags down with a thud and moved to stand beside Picasso. The big man’s voice was low, meant only for them.
“I packed his backup kit,” Grizzly rumbled. “Just in case.”
Picasso nodded. Tristan “Hurricane” Wright was currently in a hospital waiting room in Richmond, by his mother’s side as they awaited news on his father’s fight against cancer. The doctors had found his father’s blood count dangerously low, a side effect of the chemotherapy his dad was on. Yet, even in battles like this, the team didn’t leave men behind, not even metaphorically.
“Good,” Picasso said quietly. “If he makes the flight down to meet us, I don’t want him scrambling for gear.”
“He’ll make it,” Falcon said, stepping up on the other side. The vanity was gone, replaced by a fierce, quiet loyalty. “Tristan’s stubborn. He’ll get his dad squared away and be wheels down in El Paso before we even unpack.”
“Let’s hope,” Picasso said. He checked his watch. “We’re wheels up in twenty. Get settled.”
As the team moved to stow their personal rucks, Picasso walked back down the ramp to the tarmac for one last breath of fresh air before the recycled staleness of the cabin took over.
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket—the updated mission roster. His thumb traced the line underLogistics Coordinator.
G. O’Reilly.
He didn’t know the guy. He hadn’t met him. But he knew the type. NGOs and relief coordinators were usually well-meaning, loud, and allergic to chain of command. They saw the worldin tragic colors and urgent pleas; he saw it in grids, threat assessments, and extraction routes.
Oil and water.
“You got that look, Chief,” Reef called out from the top of the ramp, hanging off the hydraulic strut like a jungle gym.
Picasso looked up, blinking away his thoughts. “What look?”
“The ‘I smell a headache’ look. It’s usually right between your eyebrows.” Reef pointed to his own forehead. “Is it the Civilian coordinator?”
Picasso shoved the paper back into his pocket. “Just another variable, Reef. One that’s going to need careful management.”
Grizzly chuckled from inside the dark plane. “Sounds like he’s gonna love you, Boss.”
“I don’t need him to love me,” Picasso muttered, turning his back on the ocean and walking up the ramp into the belly of the beast. “I just need him to follow orders.”
The ramp whined as it began to close, sealing them in. The hydraulic hiss was replaced by the deafening, bone-rattling roar of the four turboprop engines spooling up.
Picasso took his seat, the vibration traveling up through his boots. He strapped in, the familiar routine settling his nerves. Across from him, Reef had already pulled a sleep mask over his eyes, and Grizzly was opening a book that looked tiny in his massive hands.
Picasso didn’t sleep. Not on deployment flights.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, weather-beaten Moleskine notebook and a charcoal pencil. He flipped past pages of tactical diagrams and supply lists until he found a blank sheet.
His hand hovered for a second, then touched the paper.
He didn’t draw the C-130. He didn’t draw the mission. His hand moved in quick, sharp strokes, sketching the curve of abreaking wave, the jagged edge of a cliff face. It was automatic, a way to bleed off the excess static in his brain.
“Working on a masterpiece, Picasso?” Falcon asked, shouting over the engine roar, leaning forward to peek.
