She was deployed to Asheville, but her work had taken her deep into the surrounding counties, to isolated communities now cut off by mudslides and washed-out bridges. One day blurred into the next. She’d spent the last twenty-four hours mapping evacuation routes for a pocket of residents trapped up a particularly unstable ridge, her feet squelching in ankle-deep mud, her breath fogging in the frigid air. The sheer scale of the logistical nightmare eclipsed Mexico in its insidious spread. There, it was the immediacy of the threat. Here, it was thecreeping, relentless despair of watching an entire way of life slowly, irrevocably swallowed by the land itself.
By night, the closest thing she had to a bed was a cot in the corner of a high school gymnasium, repurposed into a central command and relief center. The air hung thick with the smell of wet wool, damp humanity, and institutional cleaner. The hum of generators was a constant, irritating drone, punctuated by the static of radios, the cries of infants, and the hushed, weary conversations of volunteers. Privacy was a luxury she hadn’t known in months.
She was running on fumes, her body a raw and aching vessel. The fire that usually fueled her, the unshakeable conviction that she could bridge the gap between chaos and order, was sputtering and fading. She found herself missing the focused intensity of Mexico, even the cartels. At least then the enemy was clear and defined. Here, the enemy was nature itself, cold and indifferent and unstoppable. The endless, aching vulnerability of people trapped by its force weighed heavily on her heart, wearing down her resolve with every passing moment.
The memory of Picasso, that solid, unyielding presence, felt like a distant dream. Each near-miss, each terse text, had chipped away at the fragile connection they’d forged. She pictured him in his structured world, his routines, his predictable rhythm. It was a universe away from her own, a chaotic, improvised dance on the edge of the next disaster.
One night, curled on her cot, listening to the relentless drumming of rain on the gym roof, the silence finally broke her. She needed to hear a voice that wasn’t asking for supplies or reporting a new mudslide. She neededhisvoice.
She pulled out her phone, the screen a pale ghost in the gloom. With a trembling finger, she found his contact and dialed. The call connected, but it was just a faint buzz, a watery whisper of a signal that kept cutting in and out.
“Picasso?” she whispered, her voice raw with exhaustion and a desperate longing she hadn’t realized she still possessed. “Are you there?”
A crackle. A burst of static. Then, a fragment, almost lost to the noise. “…Gabriella?”
“Yeah,” she managed, tears pricking her eyes. “It’s me. I… I just…” She swallowed, fighting the tremor in her voice. “I don’t think this is working, Picasso,” she admitted, the words tumbling out, heavy with defeat. “This… this life. Our lives. We live on different planets.”
The connection frayed. A final, desperate crackle. She heard him try to respond, a low rumble of his voice, but the sound was swallowed by the storm.
Then, just silence.
The call dropped. The screen went dark.
She stared at the dead phone, the words hanging in the frigid air of the gym.Different planets.The finality of it chilled her more than the damp mountain air. She squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear escaping to trace a cold path down her mud-smudged cheek. The universe had spoken. And it had cut them off.
TWENTY-NINE
PICASSO
The gym was Picasso’s sanctuary, a brutal temple where he could purge the noise from his head. Tonight, it wasn’t enough. The heavy bag hung from its chain, a silent, unmoving adversary, but it felt like the world. And the world was losing.
He drove a jab, then a cross, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. Each impact was a desperate attempt to silence the echo of her voice, cutting out.“We live on different planets.”The words had been followed by dead air, a finality that felt like a physical wound. He had wanted to call back, to reach her again, but his phone would not connect. Wherever Gabriella was, the signal was not getting through. Days stretched on in frustrating silence. For once, he was not on an operation halfway across the globe but was right here, tangled in his own battles. The radio silence from her side had been absolute ever since.
He’d known it was coming. He’d seen the signs, felt the slow, agonizing stretch of their delicate tether until it snapped. But knowing didn’t lessen the burn, the raw, furious frustration that clawed at him from the inside. He hit the bag again, a savage uppercut that made the chain groan. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring the outlines of the room, turning the familiar space intoa hazy, formless void. It didn’t matter. He could fight blind. He could fight anything.
The creak of the door registered first, soft but definite, but Picasso ignored it, his rhythm unbroken. One by one, the rest of the team slipped inside: Reef, Falcon, Hurricane, and Grizzly, their presence filling the room like an unspoken charge.
Reef was the first to speak, voice deceptively casual as always. “Nice work, Chief. That bag had it coming.”
Picasso did not respond, only wiped the sweat from his face, eyes fixed on the gaping tear in the canvas, a jagged wound spilling fine white sand onto the floor.
Falcon leaned against the doorframe, tablet in hand. “You know, the National Guard is completely overwhelmed in North Carolina. Peggy’s rain just will not stop, mudslides, flash floods. They’re begging for specialized support: swift-water rescue, vertical extraction, high-angle ops. Basic mountaineering stuff.”
Hurricane, standing near Grizzly, added quietly, “Terrain is brutal. Dense forests, steep ridges. Perfect for cold weather and high altitude refresher training.”
Grizzly glanced at Picasso, nodding once. “They want us to run a joint SAR exercise. Real-world conditions, tactical stress. Good for training, great for them.”
Picasso kept his back to them, drying his hair with a towel, but he caught the undercurrent in their words. He knew where this was going. The news had been impossible to ignore during brief meal breaks. The Blue Ridge was turning into a mess, and Gabriella was probably buried in it.
Reef stepped forward, voice low but clear. “Commander Bennett wants a unit to handle the refresher training. Somewhere with ‘unique, real-world stress test environments.’ Dense forest, swift water, vertical climbs.”
Falcon’s usually sharp eyes were serious. “It’s manageable. We get our training hours, help out where it counts. Two birds, one stone.”
Picasso finally turned to face them, meeting each gaze. He saw more than strategy and tactics. They wanted to pull him back from the edge. From himself.
He nodded once, subtle but full of meaning. “Get the brief ready. I’ll take it to the Commander.”
Hurricane cracked a brief smile. “About time, Chief.”
