The simple words were met with a faint, grateful nod.
As the medics took the couple toward the triage tent, the SEALs turned back toward the helicopters. The pilots were already signaling; refueling was done, and they were cleared for the return leg to Norfolk.
“Alright, boys,” Falcon said, adjusting the straps of his ruck. “Norfolk by dinner. Showers, real food, and a bed that doesn’t smell like wet dog. Let’s move.”
“Dollar says Reef sleeps the whole way,” Grizzly rumbled.
“You’re on,” Reef grinned, climbing up the ramp of the lead bird.
Picasso stood at the bottom of the ramp. He watched his men load in: Grizzly, Hurricane, Reef, and Falcon. They were his responsibility, his family. They settled into the webbing seats, buckling in, expecting him to follow.
Picasso didn’t move. He turned to look at Gabriella. She was standing a few yards away near a stack of crates, watching himwith a guarded expression, her arms crossed against the wind. She looked resigned, bracing herself for the departure.
He looked back at the helicopter. Inside, Falcon frowned, leaning forward. “Chief? You coming?”
Picasso shook his head. He reached into his vest and pulled out his headset, tossing it to Falcon.
“Change of plans,” Picasso shouted over the turbine whine. “I’m off the manifest.”
Confusion rippled through the cabin. “What?” Grizzly rumbled, leaning over Falcon. “What’s the play, Boss?”
“I notified Commander Bennett last night via Sat-link,” Picasso said, a small, reckless grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got a week of leave burned into the books.”
He pointed across the staging area to the designated parking zone, where a mud-splattered, rented 4x4 truck sat waiting—the same vehicle they had driven up here days ago.
Then he jerked his thumb toward Gabriella.
“And I’ve got a passenger.”
Falcon’s jaw dropped, and then a slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. He looked at Gabriella, then back at Picasso, and gave a sharp, approving nod.
“Copy that, Chief,” Falcon yelled. “We’ll hold down the fort. Don’t hurry back.”
“Get out of here,” Picasso waved them off.
The ramp whined and began to lift. Through the narrowing gap, Picasso saw Reef pumping his fist in the air and Hurricane shaking his head with a grin. The helicopter lifted, nose dipping as it gathered speed, and then banked away toward the coast.
Picasso turned around.
Gabriella was staring at him, her mouth slightly open, her green eyes wide with shock. She looked from the empty sky back to him.
“You…” she started, then stopped. “You’re not on the flight? You’re driving back? That’s a seven-hour drive.”
“Eight, with traffic,” Picasso corrected, walking over to her. He stopped in front of her, enjoying the fact that for the first time in weeks, there was no countdown, no imminent threat, no radio chatter in his ear.
“You have leave?” she asked, skepticism warring with hope in her voice. “You actually asked for leave?”
“I did.” He reached out, his hand cupping the side of her neck, his thumb brushing her jawline. “I told you, Gabriella. No more different planets. I’m done with the distance.”
She leaned into his touch, her eyes searching his. “A week?”
“A week,” he confirmed. “To start. And I figured you could use a ride home to Virginia. Unless you want to wait for a commercial flight?”
She looked at the chaos of the airfield, at the sturdy 4x4 waiting in the lot, and finally back at him. A radiant, unguarded smile broke across her face, hitting him harder than the storm ever could.
She interlaced her fingers with his.
“No,” she said softly. “I think a road trip sounds perfect.”
