“Just us,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, already slipping away.
Her eyes closed and she surrendered to the darkness, finally safe in the eye of the storm.
THIRTY-FOUR
PICASSO
The morning sun hit the ridge line with a brilliance that felt almost apologetic, as if the sky was trying to make amends for the brutality of the last three days. The air was crisp, scrubbed clean by the storm, and smelled of wet pine and drying mud.
Picasso stood on the porch of the lodge, his gear already staged by the trail. Down the valley, the familiar, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of rotor blades echoed off the canyon walls. It was a sound that usually triggered a Pavlovian response in him: mission done, time to extract, debrief, and reset. But today, the urge to move was tempered by a strange, quiet stillness in his chest.
Before heading out, Picasso gathered the team for a brief word. “Over the last day and a half, you all did exceptional work. In addition to rescuing Martha and Elias, we brought four other families and several pets to safety through relentless rain and flooding. For a training mission, that’s no small accomplishment. You should be proud of what we achieved together.”
A few chuckles rippled through the group. Hurricane smirked and said, “Exceptional work? Someone’s been taking their morning coffee with extra sugar.”
Reef shook his head, grinning. “Yeah, Picasso, don’t let it get to your head. Next thing we know, you’ll be handing out gold stars.”
Gabriella shot them a look and quipped, “Hey, don’t complain, this is the nicest pep talk you’ll get without push-ups.”
Picasso just smiled, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, save the sarcasm. But seriously, good job, team. Let’s get moving.”
“They made good time,” Gabriella said, stepping up beside him with two mugs of coffee. She looked tired, her hair still damp from a quick wash in the sink, but her eyes were clear.
“Airspace cleared up at 0600,” Picasso replied, taking the mug. His fingers brushed hers, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “We load everyone up. We fly back to the staging area at the airfield, hand off the civilians, then we spin up for Norfolk.”
The two Seahawks crested the tree line, banking sharply before settling into the small clearing fifty yards away. The rotor wash flattened the tall grass, sending a spray of water droplets glittering into the sunlight.
The extraction was efficient. His team moved with the practiced ease of men who had done this a thousand times. Reef and Hurricane went inside to assist Elias and Martha, guiding the elderly couple out into the light and onto the lead bird.
The flight back to the staging area was short, a blur of green canopy passing beneath them. Picasso spent the flight watching Gabriella across the cargo hold. She sat next to Martha, holding the older woman’s hand, shouting reassurance over the engine noise. She was back in her element: caring, coordinating, and protecting.
When the wheels touched down at the forward operating base, the same muddy airfield where they had arrived days ago, the chaos of the relief effort rushed to meet them. Volunteersran forward with wheelchairs and blankets; fuel trucks rumbled nearby.
They unloaded near the medical tent. Martha looked frail but steady, clutching her husband’s arm. Elias moved stiffly, his back bent by age and the ordeal, but his chin was up.
Before the medics could whisk them away, the group paused in the muddy center of the staging area.
“I don’t know how to thank you boys,” Martha said, her voice wavering as she looked at the towering figures clad in tactical gear. She turned her gaze to Gabriella. “And you, dear. You were an angel in that dark house.”
“You don’t need to thank us, Martha,” Gabriella said, taking the woman’s hand. “Just get warm and get some rest.”
Picasso reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper, a page torn from his field notebook. He slipped it quietly into Elias’s hand.
“My personal cell,” Picasso said softly, his voice steady. “And Gabriella’s. If the insurance companies give you trouble or you need help rebuilding, call me. Don’t hesitate.”
Elias looked down at the paper, his weathered hands trembling slightly. He met Picasso’s eyes, man to man. “You’re a good man, son. You lead a good unit.”
Picasso exchanged a meaningful glance with his team. Despite being ragged, muddy, and bone-weary from the relentless fight and storm, they instinctively straightened their posture and fell silent. The surrounding noise: the distant clang of gear, the murmurs of tired voices, even the persistent drip of rain from the eaves, all faded into the background. In that pause, an unspoken reverence for Elias settled deeply among them, casting a solemn weight over the moment.
Reef, his hands slick with mud and trembling slightly from fatigue, rested them at his side, lifting his chin in silent honor. Falcon’s usual sharp eyes softened, darkened with emotion as hesubtly adjusted the brim of his wet hat, a small gesture of respect passed between warriors.
Picasso’s heart tightened. This was more than protocol; it was an acknowledgment born of shared sacrifice and unyielding grit. Here, in the flickering firelight and oppressive stillness, the line between generations thinned.
“Team,” Picasso said quietly, his voice carrying the undeniable authority of a leader honoring one of their own. “At ease.”
The subtle shift in posture relaxed the muscles of exhaustion but not the unbroken bond of loyalty. Elias blinked, his weary eyes brightened for a moment. Slowly, he lifted a trembling hand in salute—a fragile yet proud return that spoke volumes. Time seemed to still as his gesture bridged past and present.
Hurricane broke the spell with a soft question, “Ready to go home, sir?”
