Picasso shifted the notebook slightly, shielding it. “Just thinking.”
“You know, you should really draw up a new team patch,” Falcon yelled, tapping his own shoulder. “That ink on your chest is legendary. We need branding like that.”
“We don’t need a brand, Falcon,” Picasso shouted back, his charcoal still moving. “We make our own mark.” The graphite whispered against the paper, smoother than his thoughts.
He finished the line of the wave, shading it dark and heavy. He reminded himself of the mission parameters, the protocols, the precise order of operations. He was a wave, relentless and powerful, but controlled. That’s what was needed. That’s whathewas.
He snapped the notebook shut and shoved it back into his pocket as the plane lurched forward. He hated things he couldn’t control, but as his fingers brushed the spine of the sketchbook, he reminded himself that sometimes you had to draw the line before you could hold it.
THREE
PICASSO
The transport’s ramp lowered with a hydraulic whine, and the dry desert air hit them like a physical blow. El Paso sprawled beneath a relentless sun, framed by rugged mountains that looked nothing like the soft dunes of the coast. Here, the dust didn’t just sit on the ground; it danced with every footfall, coating boots in seconds.
Picasso led his team down the ramp, squinting against the glare. “From ocean spray to desert dust.”
Behind him, Falcon adjusted his shades. “At least the waves won’t try to drown us here.”
“Ever hear of a haboob?” Reef muttered, brushing sand from his sleeve before it even had time to settle. “Sand finds a way.”
Waiting for them on the tarmac was a crew that mirrored their own: calm, confident, and standing easy in the heat. At their center was Matthew “Wolf” Steele, tall and lean, with a quiet stillness that spoke louder than any shout.
Wolf stepped forward, offering a hand. “Picasso. Good to meet face to face.”
“Wolf, right?” Picasso’s handshake was tight. “Heard your team’s solid.”
“We do the job.” Wolf’s voice was deep, a mild grumble tempered by determination. “When it’s time to move, we move. Until then, we conserve energy.”
Picasso nodded. He liked that. Quiet confidence over showmanship.
Wolf gestured to the men behind him. “Pacific Team. Abe, Cookie, Dude, Mozart, Benny.”
Falcon smirked at the guy named Mozart. “Mozart, huh? You play?”
Mozart chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, nothing cool like that. Came from a wild night after boot camp. Something to do with a bar, some karaoke, and me somehow earning it.
Picasso caught the exchange and couldn’t help but allow a faint twitch of a smile to cross his lips. Moments like these, filled with banter, held their morale together and reminded them all that they were more than just soldiers. They were a true unit.
He reciprocated the introductions, surveying the familiar faces with ease. “Atlantic Team. Falcon, Reef, Grizzly.” His voice remained steady, yet it held the gravity of unspoken memories. The absence of Hurricane was creating a noticeable void that everyone could feel, like the missing pulse of a heartbeat.
Grizzly’s low rumble cut through quietly. “Any word from ‘Cane, boss? How’s his old man?”
Picasso nodded. “I got a text from Tristan when we landed. He’s catching a commercial flight and asked where to meet up. His dad’s stable, and his mom has things under control now.”
“He should be with us in a couple of hours. Until then, we work.”
The team moved steadily across the tarmac, their footsteps muted but purposeful. Talk had slowed, replaced by a sense of relief and anticipation: a quiet confidence that came from knowing Tristan would soon be with them.
Years of shared missions and relentless training had sharpened their instincts. They covered each other’s blind spots without hesitation, trusting one another implicitly, more than anyone else in the world. That bond held them steady, holding the chaos at bay.
Reef wiped sweat from his brow as they approached the warehouse. “Man, this dry heat’s brutal. Reminds me of Iraq, but back home, nothing compares to the ocean. The waves, the salt air, that’s where you feel alive.”
Wolf nodded, shading his eyes. “Yeah, Iraq had the dust storms, but the heat’s about the same here. Only difference is you don’t have to watch out for roadside bombs in El Paso.”
Picasso smirked. “In Africa, the heat’s just as relentless, but the bugs’ll eat you alive. Here, it’s just the sun drilling down on us all day.”
Grizzly chuckled. “Give me the ocean any day over this desert furnace. Salt air might sting, but it beats this dry oven hands-down.”
