Picasso moved to her side. The prop wash whipped her hair across her face, and she brushed it back, looking up at him.
They stood in the shadow of the plane’s wing, surrounded by the noise, surrounded by his men. This wasn’t the tent. There could be no touching, no whispered confessions, no promises sealed with a kiss. There was only the mission, and the end of it.
“You did good work back there,” Picasso said, his voice raised to be heard over the turbines.
“We did good work,” she corrected, her eyes searching his face, looking for the man who had held her hand in the dark.
From his pocket he produced a small, folded scrap of paper. It was a page torn from his waterproof notebook. On it, he had written a number. Just a number. No name.
He held it out.
She looked at it, then at him, her breath hitching.
“I don’t usually do this,” he said, the admission costing him. “But I want to know you made it home safe.”
Gabriella took the paper, her fingers brushing his palm—a spark of electricity that jumped even through the exhaustion. She folded it tightly into her palm. “I’ll call.”
“You better.”
“All aboard! let’s go, let’s go!” the loadmaster shouted, waving them in.
Picasso stepped back, the professional mask sliding fully into place. “After you, ma’am.”
She climbed the ramp, and he followed, taking his seat opposite her. As the ramp closed, sealing out the Mexican sun and plunging them into the dim red gloom of the cargo hold, Picasso leaned his head back against the webbing. He watched her across the aisle. She had already pulled her knees to her chest, eyes closed, the paper still clenched in her fist.
He realized with a terrifying clarity that leaving the war zone was supposed to mean safety. But as the plane lurched into the sky, he felt like he was leaving the only place that made sense anymore.
Hours later, the wheels touched down in El Paso. The transition from the operational world to the civilian one was always jarring, like walking out of a movie theater into blinding daylight.
They unloaded on the military side of the airfield. A shuttle bus waited to take the civilian contractors and aid coordinators to the commercial terminal, while Picasso’s team would transfer to a military flight back to Norfolk and Wolf’s team to Coronado.
They were standing on the tarmac, gear piled around them, the heat of the Texas asphalt radiating through their boots. Picasso was about to walk over to her, to steal one last moment before the shuttle left, when a sharp chime echoed from Gabriella’s pocket.
She pulled out her satellite phone.
Picasso watched her face change. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity. Her brow furrowed as she read the text. Then, her shoulders slumped, just a fraction.
She looked up, finding Picasso in the crowd. She didn’t come closer; she just held up the phone, a gesture of helpless resignation.
He walked over, ignoring the waiting transport. “What is it?”
“Florida,” she said, her voice hollow. “CAT five hurricane aimed at Central Florida. They need logistics coordination on the ground immediately.”
“You haven’t slept in three days,” Picasso said, anger flaring, not at her, but at the world that kept demanding pieces of her. “Tell them you need twenty-four hours.”
“I can’t,” she said simply. “I’m the closest asset that is free right now. My flight to D.C. is canceled. They’ve got me a flight to Tampa.”
She looked down at the phone, then back at him. The fire he admired so much was there, but it was dim, struggling for oxygen.
“I have to go,” she whispered.
Picasso wanted to grab her arm. He wanted to order her to stand down. He wanted to take her to a hotel, order roomservice, and sleep for a week. But he knew that duty wasn’t a coat you could just take off. He wore the same chains she did.
“Go,” he said, his voice rough. “Do the job.”
“I’ll call you,” she said, backing away toward the shuttle. “When I get a signal. When I stop moving.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
