Finally, the tremors faded. Silence rushed in, heavy and unnatural.
Gabriella blinked through the swirling dust. The youngest child clung tightly to her neck, sobbing quietly, while the boy’s wide eyes locked onto hers, filled with raw concern.
Her ankle throbbed fiercely, sending hot, deep pain rippling through every small movement. A shallow cut near the twisted rebar trickled blood, darkening the dust around her foot. The bleeding was minor, but not nearly as sharp as the ache radiating through her leg.
She clenched her jaw and forced herself to breathe slowly, steady—in, out, repeated, swallowing the fear clawing at her throat.
Carefully, she flexed her injured foot, testing the grip of the twisted rebar and the heavy rubble pinning it tight. Inch by inch, she worked to ease her ankle free, mindful of the merciless pulse of pain with every millimeter of movement.
Once loose, she pulled her shirt from her shoulders and wrapped the fabric snugly around her swollen, bleeding ankle, creating a makeshift bandage to support the injury and stem the worst of the throbbing.
“We move,” she whispered firmly, nodding toward the darkened path ahead.
TWENTY-TWO
PICASSO
The roar of the second quake subsided, replaced by a fresh, chilling silence. Dust, thick and acrid, choked the air, clinging to everything like a shroud. The old concrete plant groaned around them, a symphony of creaking metal and shifting debris. Picasso braced against the dashboard, his NVGs cutting through the swirling grit, scanning the plant’s silhouette. His heart hammered a desperate rhythm against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of guilt and fear for Gabriella, layered over the chilling memory of a boy in murky pond water.
Not again. Not like this. He had been wrong—wrong about everything. His protocols, his rules, his rigid control, they hadn’t kept her safe. They had simply left her exposed.Dude’s words echoed sharply: She’s built from the same stuff.
“Status check!” Picasso barked into his mic, voice tight, cutting through the silence. “Any further collapses? Reports from Wolf?”
“Clear on our end, Chief,” Falcon replied crisp and steady from the perimeter. “Wolf’s team is holding cordon a few miles back, maintaining blocking positions and reporting localized damage. No structural failure to the outer perimeter.”
Picasso’s eyes scanned the crumbling factory, noting new fissures, dust plumes drifting lazily upward. This tremor was nothing compared to the main quake that had leveled Mexico City, but it was enough to unsettle these unstable structures. A stronger one could hit at any time, and the thought was a gnawing counterpoint to every decision he made, the backbone of his caution.
A faint whimper. A small cough. Picasso snapped his head toward the source. It came from the shadowed wreckage to their left, a jagged opening where a section of wall had peeled away during the quake, revealing a dusty maw.
Then, movement flickered through the dust.
“Movement!” Grizzly rumbled, raising his weapon, but Picasso’s hand shot up, breath caught in his throat as he peered through his night vision.
Pink T-shirt.
First came Gabriella, pushing a final piece of crumbling concrete aside with a grimace. Disheveled, her fiery hair streaked with dust and grime, her cargo pants torn and stained, she limped on one leg, eyes sharp and fierce as she scanned the team.
Clutching her hand was Ana, her small face streaked with tears. Close behind followed two smaller girls holding a young boy’s hand. Their faces were pale, safe under Gabriella’s watchful presence.
A collective gasp rose in the Humvee.
“O’Reilly!” Picasso’s voice shattered the tense silence, a ragged mix of relief and disbelief.
“Medic!” Dude barked over comms, his voice both authoritative and edged with shock. “Secure the children! Eyes on those ruins, the hostiles might be still out there!”
Reef was already out and running forward, whooping, half-laughing in relief. “No way! I knew it! You’re a legend, Gabs!”
Falcon’s usual smirk vanished, replaced by a rare look of awe. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured, shifting his gaze between Gabriella and Picasso. “The Firecracker burns bright.”
Grizzly moved with purpose, pulling a blanket from a supply kit. “You alright, ma’am? Kids okay?” His gruff voice softened as he crouched beside her.
Hurricane quickly led Gabriella to a rock to sit on and busily checked her swollen ankle, ensuring the children were unhurt. Their small faces were pale and their bodies trembling with fear, but they appeared unhurt. Ana clung to Gabriella’s hand and buried her face in her chest.
Dude, silent for a moment, caught Picasso’s eye and nodded sharply, a quiet affirmation in his gaze.Force multiplier. The words struck Picasso like a physical blow, dissolving his lingering doubts.
Gabriella looked up as Picasso approached, her jaw set tight. “The children are safe,” she said, voice hoarse but firm, a tremor of defiance beneath her words. She tightened her grip on Ana’s small hand. “We got out of the room while the captors were asleep. We were searching the corridors, trying to find a way out of the building when the earthquake hit.”
She glanced down at her swollen ankle for a moment before meeting Picasso’s eyes again. “We had already gotten clear of the room when the quake struck. I dropped down over the kids, wrapping myself around them to protect them from falling debris. The dust gave us a chance to slip away.
