Wolf chuckled darkly. “You know that’s not what I asked. I saw you two tonight. You’re walking a fine line, man.”
“I know.”
“Caroline…” Wolf poked the fire with a stick. “She changed everything for me. Made me slower in the morning maybe. But she made me fight harder to get home at night. Just…don’t shut the door on it because you’re scared of the variables. Some variables are worth the risk.”
Picasso didn’t answer. He looked toward Gabriella’s tent, where a faint light still glowed through the canvas. He thought about the number folded in his pocket, ready to give to her tomorrow.
“We’ll see,” Picasso said, standing up. “We’ll see.”
TWENTY-FIVE
PICASSO
The handover played out like a symphony of organized chaos, one Picasso had directed more times than he could count. But this time, the familiar melody grated against nerves already worn thin.
At 0800, the relief column rolled through the main gate of the San Pedro compound: A massive convoy of fresh NGOs, structural engineers, and a new security detail made up of private contractors and Mexican Marines. They looked too clean. Their uniforms were crisp, boots black and polished, faces unlined by sleepless nights and the dust that had become a second skin to Picasso’s team.
Near the command tent, Picasso stood with his arms crossed, watching the transition. Beside him, Wolf was briefing the incoming security lead, a thick-necked former Ranger who nodded often but didn’t seem to scan the horizon as thoroughly as Picasso wished.
“The perimeter is static, but the threat isn’t,” Wolf said, pointing to the map. “Cartel activity has pushed back to the foothills, but they’re watching. You blink, they move.”
“We’ve got thermal coverage and drones,” the newcomer said dismissively. “We’ll be fine.”
Picasso’s jaw tightened. He wanted to grab the man by his pristine vest and remind him drones don’t read desperation, and thermals don’t detect a man willing to burn down a building for distraction. But he stayed silent. It wasn’t his show anymore. The clock had struck; his watch was done.
Across the compound, near the medical tents, he spotted Gabriella.
She moved with her familiar, determined limp, clipboard clutched to her chest like armor. With her was a woman in a blue UN vest, the new lead caseworker for the camp. Between them walked Ana, her small hand gripping Gabriella’s tightly, white knuckles betraying a fierce attachment.
Picasso felt a sharp pang in his chest. He stepped forward, boots crunching on gravel, drawn to see this moment through.
Gabriella stopped as he neared, offering him a weary smile. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, but she stood tall.
“This is Maria,” Gabriella said, nodding toward the woman. “She’s taking over the family support and case management. I just finished explaining to her about Ana and the kidnapping. How Ana’s been clinging to me ever since.”
Maria nodded formally at Picasso, clearly a bit intimidated by the dust-caked operator, yet Picasso’s focus was on the little girl. He knelt down, ignoring the protest of his knees, coming level with Ana.
“You be brave, okay?” he said softly.
Picasso’s gaze softened as Ana looked up at him, then at Gabriella. His English was foreign to her, but the warmth in his tone was unmistakable. For a brief moment, she released Gabriella’s hand and reached out to gently pat the tactical patch on Picasso’s shoulder, offering a shy smile.
“Gracias,” she whispered.
That small gesture hit Picasso unexpectedly. Suddenly, a vivid image flashed through his mind. He saw a little girl in hisarms just like Ana, but with Gabriella’s fiery red hair and striking green eyes. The weight of her warmth and the softness of her skin felt so real it took him aback. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away.
With a single sharp nod, he stood and slipped his sunglasses over his eyes to mask the crack that had just appeared in his armor.
“We roll in twenty, O’Reilly,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. “Don’t get left behind.”
He shook off the moment and turned his attention forward. The time for reflection was over.
The drive to the airfield was a blur of brown dust and silence. The adrenaline that had sustained them for days was finally crashing, leaving behind a heavy, leaden exhaustion.
On the tarmac, the C-130 Hercules waited, its rear ramp yawning open like a hungry mouth. The engines churned with a deafening whine that swallowed all conversation.
The team loaded their gear with mechanical efficiency. Rucks were tossed, weapons cases secured. The Atlantic and Pacific teams moved as one organism, eager to be airborne, eager for a shower that wasn’t a bucket of cold water.
Gabriella stood near the ramp, her small bag over her shoulder. She looked out of place among the heavily armed men, a splash of color in a world of coyote tan and olive drab. She was looking at the horizon, at the dust cloud that marked San Pedro, like she was leaving a piece of her soul behind.
