Gabriella looked closely at him: the tight jaw, the constant tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes scanned even a safe bar. It was not just training; it was a shield forged from past trauma.
Chad threw his dart. It flew wide, bouncing harmlessly off the wall near the exit sign. Laughter erupted as his friends peeled off his blindfold and patted him on the back. The moment vanished into the bar’s noise.
Picasso remained silent, his eyes fixed on the melting ice in his glass. A sadness lingered in his gaze, hinting at painful memories just beyond her grasp. It was clear this was more than simple mission caution. Inside him, there was a deeper fear.
Wolf leaned close. “He’s right, you know. Some consequences stick. They change you.” His voice dropped just for Gabriella and Picasso. “More than you’d think.”
Gabriella watched the ice melt as the bar’s noise drifted away. She leaned in, voice low. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience, Picasso. And not just a botched mission.”
Picasso did not meet her gaze right away. His thumb traced the rim of his glass, a rare nervous tic. When he finally looked up, his eyes were sharp and unflinching.
“Experience is just a polite word for the mistakes you survived,” he said flatly. “That kid thinks he’s invincible because nothing’s broken yet. I prefer to keep the breakage to a minimum especially when I’m the one responsible for holding it all together.”
“Is that what I am to you?” Gabriella asked softly, a challenge in her tone. “Someone you have to glue back together if I crack?”
For a moment Picasso’s unyielding facade wavered. A twitch of his mouth, no smile but something close. “You’re not the glassO’Reilly. You’re the one throwing the dart blindfolded. I’m just the wall making sure it doesn’t come bouncing back and hit you.”
Gabriella sat back, the metaphor settling more heavily than she expected. It was not an insult; it was his confession.
The band shifted into a slower moodier tune. The tension in Gabriella’s shoulders eased, replaced by something quieter but no less real. Picasso was not difficult by choice. He was haunted. His caution was his way of making sure no one else would suffer the way he had.
She picked up her glass, the clink of ice a soft punctuation in the noise. “Well then,” she said gently, “looks like we’ll have to be extra careful on Route Alpha tomorrow huh?”
The guys began to drift toward different corners of the bar when Picasso’s loud whistle cut through the din grabbing everyone’s attention.
“Remember,” his voice rang out. “PT at 0500. Plan accordingly.”
Wolf stepped up, grinning. “To sweeten the pot, a contest between Atlantic and Pacific teams. Winner takes bragging rights. Let’s see which coast brings the heat.”
Friendly shouts erupted from around the room.
“Atlantic’s gonna crush you!” Falcon called.
“Pacific’s faster and stronger. No contest!” Mozart shot back.
Cookie chimed in with a grin “Better bring your A-game. El Paso’s heating up!”
Laughter and good-natured jeers filled the air as the rival teams rallied, the spark of competition lighting up the night.
SIX
PICASSO
The digital clock on the dashboard flipped to 1100 hours. Right on schedule.
Picasso smiled to himself, reflecting on the early morning PT competition between the two teams. The night before at the bar had set the stage, and this friendly contest perfectly fulfilled the purpose he and Wolf had planned: to unite the two groups as one. The guys had bantered and let loose, getting to know each other, and the morning’s challenge had strengthened their camaraderie and built a foundation of trust between them.
Unfortunately, Gabriella O’Reilly was sitting beside him now, a tightly coiled spring of restless energy barely contained. He didn’t need to look to feel the impatience radiating from her like trapped heat pressing against the armored walls of the Humvee. But when his gaze finally flicked toward her, he noticed the subtle things. A few flyaway strands of her bright red hair had escaped the tight braid wound down her back, softening the harshness of her otherwise severe style. Her skin glowed with a natural warmth. It was clear she wasn’t wearing any makeup, yet there was an undeniable radiance in her ivory complexion that drew his eyes.
Her fingernails tapped against her tablet in a steady rhythm, painted a deep, seductive shade of forest green that somehow complemented the fiery hue of her hair. Each tap was like a pulse of urgency, matching the quick, shallow breaths she tried to mask beneath a composed exterior.
Normally, he filtered out distractions with ease, but Gabriella was different. She got under his skin in subtle ways, pulling at his attention despite himself. She was a challenge, a quiet spark in the midst of the mission’s chaos, that he could not afford to ignore no matter how hard he fought to keep his focus.
Picasso’s voice cut through the radio crackle, steady and precise. “All units, check in. Status green. Rolling in thirty seconds. Maintain fifty-meter intervals.”
Voices answered back, confirmation registering across the net.
Picasso turned his attention back to Gabriella, who was drumming an anxious rhythm against her thigh.
