Grizzly exhaled, tension easing just a fraction. “Let’s get to work.”
Commander Bennett’s office was sparse, efficient. She listened, impassive, as Picasso laid out the proposed training op. He stuck to the facts: operational necessity, terrain assessment, skill degradation in extended temperate deployments. He’d practiced the speech in his head a dozen times.
She let him finish, then leaned back in her chair, her gaze sharp, intelligent, cutting through his rehearsed composure. “A mountaineering refresher, Senior Chief? Fascinating. And the fact that this ‘real-world stress test’ happens to coincide with the location of a certain humanitarian aid coordinator, currently running logistics in the hardest-hit zones, is purely coincidental, I presume?”
Picasso held her gaze. He didn’t lie. “Ma’am, my team needs the training. And if our unique skill set can assist in a domestic crisis, it is our duty to offer it.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. She understood. She always did. Not just the mission, but the men who carried it out. She tapped a pen rhythmically on her desk. “Alright, Waverly. Consider your training op approved. You deploy at 0600. Code name: ‘Alpine Angel.’ And for God’s sake, man,” she added, her voice softening just a fraction, “pack warm. I hear it’s a miserable cold rain there.”
Picasso felt a sharp jolt. Alpine Angel. He could almost see the smirk on Falcon’s face, the way the others had smiled when they brought the plan to him. He had suspected something was up from the start, but now it was clear—they had out-played him. Maneuvered through the system, not just for their benefit, but for his as well.
He left her office, the weight in his chest infinitesimally lighter. The cage hadn’t broken him. His team had just blown a new escape route. And for the first time in weeks, he felt a spark, not of anger or frustration, but of a fierce, desperate hope. Maybe, just maybe, the planets weren’t so far apart after all.
THIRTY
GABRIELLA
Gabriella surveyed the small airfield, a scene of organized desperation. The rain-slicked tarmac gleamed dully beneath a sky the color of old dishwater, heavy with thick, swirling fog that pressed low, blurring the distant peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Civilian helicopters sat grounded like enormous, defeated insects, their rotors still and useless. The air was alive with the frustrated murmurs of dispatchers, the crackle of two-way radios, and the persistent, chilling drip of water leaking from worn tents.
She stood beside a rapidly shrinking stack of supplies: only a few boxes of MREs, some bottled water, and a solitary pallet of blankets wrapped tightly in plastic remained. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, her face streaked with mud and exhaustion. She had just finished a fruitless argument with a pilot whose instruments showed zero visibility. Insulin. Heaters. A small, isolated community was stranded, their lifeline severed by a washed-out bridge and a sky that refused to clear. Every passing minute felt like a betrayal.
“We need more than just hope, people!” she yelled into her headset, her voice raw. “We need a miracle!”
As if in answer, a new sound cut through the sodden air. Not the familiar whir of a civilian chopper, but a deeper, more resonant thrum that vibrated through the soggy ground, a sound of heavy machinery, of purposeful intent. Heads turned, faces etched with a mix of curiosity and weary annoyance.
Through the swirling mist, two dark shapes materialized, growing rapidly larger. Twin military Seahawks, powerful and predatory, descended from the low ceiling, their rotor wash tearing at the fog, sending rain and loose debris scattering. They settled onto the tarmac with a final, roaring shudder, their engines idling, a promise of raw power held barely in check.
Before anyone could move, the ramp of the lead helicopter hissed open, releasing a cloud of mist and exhaust that quickly mingled with the thick fog. Gabriella squinted against the damp air, her heart skipping a beat, a strange, disbelieving hope blooming inside her. It wasn’t just supplies being delivered. It was a team. And they looked like something out of a dream.
Five men stepped out, their black shirts clinging to heavily muscled frames, tactical pants hugging powerful legs. Sharp, disciplined movements contrasted with the chaotic scramble everywhere else on the airfield. Coiled ropes slung over broad shoulders, carabiners chiming softly with every step. They didn’t look like deliverers of aid: they looked like operators, every inch ready for a dangerous mission.
Gabriella couldn’t help but steal a glance, taking in the strong lines of necks, the ease of their confident stride. She swallowed hard, suddenly feeling heat rise to her cheeks. Damn, they were serious, and damn, they were hot.
And then she saw him.
Picasso.
He stepped out of the fog, his face grim, eyes sharp and scanning the chaos with an almost inhuman focus. Rain beaded on his short-cropped hair, his jaw clenched like he was bracingfor battle. Then his gaze caught hers across the muddy expanse, unwavering and direct. It was like a laser, cutting through the swirling mist, her fatigue, and the wall she’d painstakingly built around herself. He didn’t smile. He rarely did. Then, just for a heartbeat, his lips curved almost reluctantly. It was slight but undeniable, a spark of warmth that shattered the quiet intensity in his eyes and stole her breath away.
Each step he took toward her echoed in the mist, purposeful, unhesitating. He didn’t glance at the frantic aid workers or the curious eyes trailing him. Just her. Only her.
Gabriella’s heart thudded erratically, disbelief mingling with an almost primal relief. She had spoken the words on the phone, words she thought final: different planets. Now here he was, a force of nature, storming through the mud, utterly out of place yet exactly where he needed to be.
“I… I thought we were on different planets?” Her voice barely rose above a whisper, fragile against the distant thunder of idling rotors.
He stopped before her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, the sharp scent of mountain rain mingling with something uniquely him. His eyes held hers: steady, unreadable, and a fortress behind which some truths lingered.
“I decided to switch planets,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated deep inside her.
Before she could fully process his words, a familiar, boisterous shout cut through the air. Reef, already shedding his heavy pack, a wide, triumphant grin splitting his face, strode over. “Hey Firecracker! Heard you needed us?”
Nearby, Falcon, Grizzly, Hurricane, and the helicopter pilots and copilots efficiently unloaded supplies and equipment from the second chopper. The organized effort hummed with purpose amidst the fog.
Picasso nodded toward the busy tarmac. “Where do you need this, Firecracker?”
THIRTY-ONE
PICASSO
